The cold in the half-ruined basement was so dense it seeped into the bones, making the air bitter and heavy. The damp walls gleamed with moisture, and the air hung thick with the scent of machine oil, dust, and unbearably fresh, sweet blood.
Ryon had taken a deep, jagged wound to his shoulder during the night skirmish and tried to hide it behind a cold, stubborn mask. The blood quickly soaked through his jumpsuit, but he refused to even breathe unevenly — until the tension drained the last of his strength.
Only when he lost balance and slid down the wall, leaving behind a dark, wet trail, did Jisong realize the extent of it. He found Ryon amid the puddles, where the reflections of light turned everything into a surreal picture of pain.
Jisong didn't waste a second. With a sharp motion, he tore off his own shirt, ripping it into wide, firm strips. His hands moved quickly but not confidently, and Ryon felt the heat of his fingers clashing with the icy chill of the room.
When Jisong finally exposed the wound, Ryon felt a surge of pain mixed with a bitter shame for his helplessness. Jisong pressed his palm against the bleeding flesh to stop the flow.
Ryon lay still, not resisting, his consciousness surrendering itself to the will of another's hands. The silence — without Min-Ki's voice — had turned into a space of absolute vulnerability, filled only with their uneven breathing.
The damaged suppressor had completely released Ryon's scent. It wasn't sharp or calling — it was unbearably fragile, soft, warm, smelling of salt and life.
Jisong breathed it in, and his Alpha instincts went still — not to dominate, but to protect. His pupils dilated, his breathing slowed, and heat spread through his body, ready to be given to the wounded Omega.
He pressed his palm against Ryon's bare chest — not directly over the wound, but lower, at the collarbone — to feel the rhythm of his breathing. The body beneath his fingers shuddered and arched slightly — a reaction more instinctive than conscious.
Ryon felt Jisong's strong, hot fingers move slowly, gently — as if they were caressing, not healing. While bandaging the shoulder, Jisong's fingers inevitably brushed against his neck, where the suppressor's mark had turned into a torn wound.
Ryon closed his eyes, his lips trembling — not from the pain of the injury, but from the flood of sensation that came with such tender care. His body responded with a low, uncontrollable tremor, and his breathing grew ragged and uneven.
He consciously allowed his scent to exist — and for the first time, the feeling of being an Omega did not bring shame, but a quiet, instinctive acceptance.
When the bandage was finally tightened — firm, but gentle — Jisong didn't fully pull away. He carefully sat Ryon up against the wall and lowered himself beside him, their thighs touching, sharing his warmth.
There was no passion in this silence — only absolute closeness. It felt as if Jisong shared not just the pain and the wound, but Ryon's vulnerability itself — cherishing it as something precious.
Ryon leaned his head against Jisong's shoulder and closed his eyes. The Alpha's hot, unending warmth was the only reality that mattered now.