IWM Ch 2

Everyone has a single sentence that describes them.

The precious only son of three generations at “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam.”

That was the sentence that described Chiyoon.

“Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam”—its origins traced back to Chiyoon’s great-grandmother. She was born and raised during the Japanese occupation and lived through the Korean War. It’s said that she supported her family by selling food at the market to raise her posthumous child.

Back then, bossam wasn’t officially a menu item at her stall. The predecessor to the bossam restaurant began when her only son—Chiyoon’s paternal grandfather—married his wife, Chiyoon’s grandmother.

His grandmother was a resourceful and clever woman, but she couldn’t receive a proper higher education because she was overshadowed by her male siblings. Perhaps that became a lingering regret, as she poured all her energy into running the restaurant alongside her mother-in-law and husband.

With two intelligent women, both gifted with exceptional cooking skills, devoting their love to the business, it would have been harder for the restaurant not to succeed. In the process of streamlining the bustling restaurant’s menu, bossam ended up staying.

It was pure coincidence. At the time, Chiyoon’s grandfather’s best friend was in the pig farming business, and his grandmother’s cousin grew cabbages in Gangwon Province. Asking why it had to be bossam out of all possible menu items was now a pointless question.

From his great-grandmother to his grandmother, and now to Chiyoon’s mother, the Maeng family had preserved “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam” across three generations. Amid this chain of fate and chance, a gift—or perhaps a future calamity—named Maeng Chiyoon arrived in the Maeng family.

A fiery, bold woman and a gentle, kind-hearted man—his mother and father, opposites who complemented each other perfectly, gave birth to Chiyoon.

Chiyoon was a precious child, born late to a couple who desperately longed for a baby. His grandparents had eagerly awaited a grandchild, too. It was only natural that Chiyoon grew up showered with love from the entire family.

The men of the Maeng family all had warm, gentle eyes and a handsome, affable demeanor that made one swear the service industry was their calling. If they were animals, they’d be large, friendly dogs who loved and followed people.

Chiyoon, however, took entirely after his maternal side. His delicate, petite features exuded an adorable charm. The upward tilt of his cat-like eyes and the plump lips inherited from his mother added a dash of spice to his otherwise unassuming face.

As a toddler, he was called a doll; after starting daycare, a fairy; and from adolescence onward, an idol. Chiyoon had lived a life where being called pretty, sparkling nicknames by everyone—family included—was simply a given.

As he grew older, getting hit on and asked for his number by people of all genders, for all sorts of reasons, became routine—whether at the restaurant, a café, or just walking down the street. Being nicknamed “idol” wasn’t enough; he’d been scouted to debut as an actual idol more times than he could count on his fingers and toes.

Oddly, though, after a few exchanges, most people who approached him would back off, showing signs of disinterest or even distaste.

The reason was singular.

[You’re pretty, huh?]

[Yeah.]

[…Oh, not the type to play humble?]

[Why bother when it’s true?]

[Wow… And he’s even casual about it. Quite the fiery personality, huh? You’d have to tone that down a lot if you want to debut. I’m a casting manager at an agency—]

[And you?]

[Huh, what?]

[Who are you to talk down to me and judge me right off the bat? Did I ever beg you to let me debut or something? Funny, I don’t recall that.]

It was his pretty face paired with an unmatching audacity and personality. Every word out of his mouth was the kind that would get him canceled the moment he debuted. Countless casting agents had been rebuffed by Chiyoon’s razor-sharp tongue.

To say his temperament was solely the result of being spoiled as a precious only child wouldn’t be quite right. His self-love and confidence came from his mother, while his impulsive and eccentric streak was inherited from his father—but his catastrophic mouth was something he’d honed through school life.

[How the hell is that an omega? No pheromones or anything, just some recessive nobody. Shit, if he at least had a sweet vibe, I’d consider treating him like an omega.]

[What, you’ve got a grudge because he beat you up in class once? Your pride’s totally trashed, you lunatic.]

[Shit, are you insane? Beat me up? What beat-up? That twig barely lands a hit, mouthing off like that doesn’t even scratch me.]

[Who asked you? Oh, damn, your trash talk’s hilarious. The way you run your mouth, you’re not Maeng Chiyoon—you’re Punchiyoon. He’s beating that jerk with his words.]

Chiyoon was a recessive omega.

A recessive omega born to a beta couple—an unusual case. Apparently, it was a dormant trait in their genes that surfaced in their child.

To put it simply in terms of blood types, it was akin to an AO-type and a BO-type couple giving birth to an OO-type child.

There was one more peculiarity.

The doctor explained that Chiyoon’s pheromone particles were so fine that typical alphas or omegas wouldn’t be able to detect them. Either no one could smell them at all, or maybe one or two people on the entire planet could. For all intents and purposes, Chiyoon’s pheromones might as well have no scent.

Ever since the alpha and omega traits emerged, discrimination between dominant and recessive had always existed. The belief that such irrationality would naturally fade with time was naive. Society’s hierarchical biases were deeply ingrained, and the younger the generation, the more easily they absorbed it.

A recessive omega with pheromones so faint they were practically odorless—Chiyoon, who’d been called precious names all his life, was mocked throughout his school years as a “scentless flower.”

[Hey, don’t get cocky. His family’s loaded.]

[Loaded? So what? He’s still a bossam spoon. What’s with that name, Maeng-something?]

[Yeah, but it doesn’t even suit him. His face totally doesn’t match.]

Children, untainted as they are, can be purely cruel. The material used to insult Chiyoon was endless. Not just his traits, but his face, his body, his family, the bossam restaurant—everything about him became a tool to belittle him.

[Did your family buy a fake pedigree somewhere for a hundred bucks?]

[…Maeng Chiyoon?]

[I’m asking, buddy. What’s so great about your family name that you’re picking on someone else’s precious one? I’m curious.]

[…]

[My dad would cry. Someone’s out here dissing the Maeng name he passed down.]

[Hey, damn it, don’t you get a joke? Can’t ‘friends’ mess around a little like you said?]

[This bastard. You’re begging to die.]

And Chiyoon never once let it slide.

[You know what? If I hit you, it’s just attempted assault, but if you hit me, it’s full-on assault.]

[Damn, this guy’s bluffing hard! Ow! That hurts like hell…!]

[Gonna hit me? Go ahead, try it. Let’s get your record stained red, huh?!]

[Ow, shit, ow! Someone grab this crazy bastard!]

[Like you said, my family’s rich from selling bossam. Wanna take it to the school violence committee without a settlement? Let’s go!]

His small, skinny frame compared to his alpha and beta peers was fodder for mockery, but Chiyoon turned it into a weapon for retaliation.

He’d threaten his bullies with self-harm bluffs to catch them off guard, then whack them over the head with a mop handle. The kids who charged at him would flail in confusion at his cunning counterattacks.

As a result, Chiyoon’s parents—Jang Misin, the boss, and her husband Maeng Mokju—had to visit the school as often as they ate meals during his school years.

Chiyoon was always the minority in group fights and the victim in school violence cases. Yet he thrashed his assailants so thoroughly that even his parents were left gaping in shock.

The shrewd Misin used the overflowing money she couldn’t spend due to her busy schedule to either transfer the perpetrators or settle with them. Thanks to that, “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam” never suffered image damage from Chiyoon’s incidents, nor did the parents of the offending students cause a fuss.

After a few such episodes, Chiyoon gave up on making friends. He didn’t need them to begin with. Between the bustling household of his extended family and the restaurant teeming with customers, he never had time to feel lonely.

Besides hanging out with friends in groups, there were plenty of other fun things in the world.

[M-marriage? You think it makes sense for someone like me to marry the manager? This is ridiculous! Someone like me can’t stand beside the manager…! Sob…!]

[Oh my, Grandpa. I’d bet my Soomdabooks account they’ll be married within one episode.]

For reference, “Soomdabooks” was the name of Chiyoon’s favorite web novel and webtoon platform. His Soomdabooks library held a total of 8,470 pieces of content. Over half of his collection consisted of modern romance and BL, with melodramatic modern stories featuring marriage being his absolute favorites.

[Jeongmin-ssi, why would you say it like that? You’re my one and only love…! Without you, I…]

[Oh? Really? Grandpa thinks Jeongmin’s pretty great.]

[Oh, the omega role? No way, are they about to kiss?]

[Hey, Chiyoon-ah. If Jeongmin and Jihyun kiss, you gotta tell Grandma, got it, my boy?]

[Grandma, of course I will—oh my gosh, it’s happening now! Right now!]

Watching daily soap operas and weekend primetime melodramas with his grandparents was one of Chiyoon’s small hobbies.

Reading the monologues people posted on anonymous internet forums or SNS after consuming various content also made time fly by.

His parents worried about their son growing up as a content-obsessed loner at home, but whenever they brought up his wild school days, their nagging stopped cold. In that same vein, Chiyoon graduated high school without pursuing college entrance exams, despite his parents’ objections.

And so, at twenty-one years old, what was Chiyoon’s occupation? You could call him the errand boy and pretty unemployed face of “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam.”

It was now the twenty-first spring of Chiyoon’s life.

The weather was straight out of a movie. The sky was a blinding blue, and the clouds were as white as if plucked from an animation.

Chiyoon stood with an expressionless face, wearing pink rubber gloves and a bright red apron. When his cheek itched and he wiped it with the uncovered part of his forearm, kimchi seasoning smeared onto the pale, almost translucent crook of his elbow.

“Did you smear seasoning on there to eat later when you’re hungry? I know our kimchi’s good, but still.”

Even after wiping it off, red marks stubbornly clung to his fair face. He’d just finished making dozens of batches of kimchi, yet inside the plastic bag Misin had set down were dozens more heads of salted cabbage.

“Son, we’ve got important guests coming later, so we might run out of kimchi. You need to pick up the pace, okay?”

Squatting on a plastic bath chair in front of a red rubber basin filled with kimchi stuffing, Chiyoon spoke with grim determination.

“…I’ll do it.”

“Hey, Maeng Chiyoon. Are you listening to your mom? Why’s this kid not answering?”

“I’m gonna be independent!”

Maeng Chiyoon, who’d sacrificed his youth to make bossam kimchi all weekend, shouted. His thunderous voice startled pigeons into flapping away from the bushes in the outdoor garden.

Misin’s eyes widened as if she’d heard something unthinkable and snapped back.

“Independent? What independence! Out of nowhere! Are you crazy?”

“Yeah, I’m crazy! Mom! I’m gonna be independent!”

His cries for independence rang through Ulchogu like a March First Movement rally at Tapgol Park.

It was the first crisis to hit the third generation of “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam.”

🥂

I hate bossam, seriously. Chiyoon muttered to himself.

It wasn’t the dish itself he was disparaging. The target of his frustration was something else.

“It’s this damn bossam hotspot ‘Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam’ that I hate!”

To be clear, Chiyoon was a dutiful son and grandson to his family. He was a lovable young man who cherished his grandmother, grandfather, mother, and father.

Even though he’d been teased throughout his school years, he’d never felt ashamed of or looked down on the family business. “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam” was the crystallization of his family members’ blood, sweat, and tears, as well as the source of their livelihood, so that was only natural.

The problem lay elsewhere. From his great-grandmother to his grandmother, and down to his mother—through the mother-in-law of a mother-in-law to her daughter-in-law, “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam” had been passed down through generations. The issue was that by the third generation, it had hit insane levels of success.

Customers streamed in relentlessly—weekdays, weekends, lunch hours, dinner times, it didn’t matter. Counting the days without a waitlist was faster than counting the days with one. In reality, days without a waitlist were rare enough to count on one hand in a year.

Once it gained fame on SNS, the next step was even easier. They started supplying meal kits through food delivery apps and convenience stores. On those apps, the “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam” single-serving meal kit consistently ranked among the top popular items.

Self-made family-run eateries are typically like that. To cut labor costs, all the staff are family members. And at the bossam dynasty of Maeng’s, across the grandparents’ generation, the parents’ generation, and Chiyoon’s generation, offspring were scarce across three generations. The family was small, but each member played a vital role.

The main cooking was handled by Mom, serving was Dad’s domain, and Grandma and Grandpa assisted their respective children. By basic arithmetic, all the remaining odd jobs fell to Chiyoon.

Starting in the upper grades of elementary school, Chiyoon was put to work as the official errand boy of “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam.” It wasn’t forced—it just happened that way. Watching part-timers flee from the grueling labor in a daze, he figured helping out a little was more efficient.

In short, everyone was overworked, but with no decent new hires coming in, they couldn’t step away from the front lines—it was a startup-style operation through and through.

Inertia worked terrifyingly with the passage of time. As he grew older, the things Chiyoon could do and had to do at the restaurant only increased.

And so, at twenty-one, in the prime of his youth, he found himself boiling liters of starch for bossam kimchi on weekends, seasoning mountains of cabbage, and counting cash until his fingers swelled.

Chiyoon was undeniably a victim of this situation.

The evidence was clear. Since starting middle school, his fingerprints had worn down, and he’d even developed a paper allergy! The only compensation for his lost youth was independence.

It was break time at last.

The restaurant building consisted of five floors, including a rooftop. On the third floor—where Chiyoon’s grandparents and parents primarily lived—loud voices echoed.

“Hey, you! You’re the kind of kid who rots your mom and dad from the inside out! No sense at all! Huh? Independence, you say!”

“I don’t care! I can’t live like this anymore! I can’t die living like this!”

“Like this? What’s ‘like this’? Is your grandma, grandpa, mom, and dad working ‘like this,’ you brat?”

Chiyoon and Misin sat at opposite ends of a large low dining table, locked in a heated standoff. Flanking them on either side were his father and grandparents, scattered about. It resembled a living room scene from a morning drama featuring the whole family.

Misin, whose face was so identical to Chiyoon’s you’d think she’d birthed him asexually, huffed with a sharp expression.

“If your grandma, grandpa, dad, and mom worked this hard to build this place, you should be saying, ‘Oh, thank you so much,’ and thinking about taking it over—not talking about independence!”

Each word, a gem of righteous logic, spat out like a rapper in a hip-hop survival show.

“No way, no way! I don’t want to inherit the shop! I’m twenty-one now! I’ve got my own path in life!”

“Path? Did you just say ‘path’ with your own mouth? Do you even know what a path is? This kid, I swear!”

Misin clutched the back of her neck as if the word “path” had flipped a switch, her eyes flashing. That glare was straight out of a depiction of Yama, the king of hell.

“Honey, oh no, Misin-ssi, calm down! Chiyoon must be tired lately, that’s all. We’ve been so busy. You’ll give yourself high blood pressure like this…!”

Mokju, Chiyoon’s father, drenched in cold sweat, struggled to hold his wife back as she reached for a broom or flyswatter.

“Yes, son!! Our daughter-in-law’s the pillar of this family—what’ll we do if something happens to her! Chiyoon, hurry and apologize to your mom!”

His grandfather grabbed Chiyoon’s shoulders, shaking him gently while casting a pleading look at his daughter-in-law. Despite Grandpa’s pleas, Chiyoon’s face flushed as he huffed with the same expression as his mother.

“Grandpa, why should I apologize to Mom! I’ve already made enough kimchi for a lifetime and washed enough dishes for a lifetime! I really want to live on my own! I can’t even look at pork anymore!”

Gasp—!

The room filled with the sound of sharp intakes of breath.

Grandma, shocked, began slapping the wooden floor. “Oh no, oh no,” she wailed.

A walnut-sized lump formed at the tip of Chiyoon’s clenched jaw. He wondered if he’d gone too far, but since it was all true, he didn’t take it back. He just turned a resolute gaze toward the family’s ultimate authority, the CEO of their family enterprise—Misin.

Mother and son’s eyes clashed in midair.

Misin knew her son well, the one she’d carried in her womb. He wasn’t the type to live independently on his own. But the scary part was something else. This kid was the type to do what he said he’d do. And that was never a good thing.

She had no intention of yielding an inch to her son. Pointing a stiff finger at him, she declared,

“Unless you bring someone to marry, don’t even think about living on your own or anything else!”

“Oh!” Exclamations erupted. Faces around the room softened at the family head’s wise decision.

Misin added a decisive blow.

“And even if you bring someone to marry, if they’re not decent, you’ll never get independence—not even if I die!”

Finally, Chiyoon’s face hardened.

🥂

The bossam shop turned off its sign and entrance lights earlier than usual, closing for the day. Chiyoon’s rebellion had delayed the kimchi-making, causing them to run out of ingredients ahead of schedule. The family was now in the back room on the first floor, preparing dinner.

“Chiyoon-ah, my boy. Don’t just sit there—come over here.”

“Father-in-law, just leave him be. Hey, Maeng Chiyoon, aren’t you going to eat?!”

Chiyoon sat in the small space behind the counter, staring blankly at the television screen in the center of the shop.

[Jeongmin-ssi, why are you crying on such a happy day?]

[M-Manager… sniff… I’m just so happy, I can’t…]

[I’ll… always make you happy. I love you, Jeongmin-ssi…]

Two men in wedding suits gazed at each other with smiles. The screen faded to black, and logos of the drama’s sponsoring advertisers scrolled up in a flurry. The preview that followed showed the omega actor getting slapped by his mother-in-law and collapsing.

He’d protected his Soomdabooks account. Despite succeeding at the otaku ultimate skill of “predicting the next plot twist,” Chiyoon’s brow didn’t relax. If anything, the predictable development only fueled his anger.

“At least… they got married, I guess?”

Normally, he’d have clapped with Grandma and cheered, but he couldn’t. He was too unsettled.

The condition his mom had set faced no opposition. They thought living on his own—or pursuing any path besides inheriting the bossam shop—was impossible for Chiyoon. And honestly, even he thought they might be right.

Despite his parents’ persuasion, Chiyoon hadn’t chosen to go to college. Since elementary school, the only thing he’d consistently done—and knew how to do—was help at the bossam shop. It was only natural.

If he’d had a gentler personality despite his lack of skills, things might’ve been different. But Chiyoon’s social circle consisted of his family and one internet friend—that was it. Even that one internet friend barely knew his personal details. All he knew was that they lived in Gangwon Province and had 10,000 BL novels in their Soomdabooks library.

Thus, for a spoiled kid who couldn’t do much and had a rotten personality to be sent out into the world alone, he’d need a guardian meeting his parents’ conditions. It felt forced, but since Chiyoon’s own demands were just as stubborn, the logic was a wash.

Chiyoon accepted his mother’s terms.

The problem was he couldn’t clear them himself.

Putting aside whether there was anyone around suitable to be a spouse, Chiyoon had never even had a crush or dated. And now marriage? Did that even make sense?

It could take ten years, twenty years—who knew how long—to meet that condition. For others, marriage seemed so easy. As he shot a glance at the TV, someone opened the shop door.

Ding-a-ling—

The bell chimed crisply.

“Sorry, but we’re closed for today—”

Chiyoon froze mid-sentence, unable to continue.

At the shop entrance stood a man in a suit, wearing a baseball cap pulled low. Even among alphas in their final year of high school, only a rare few had that kind of build. It’d been a while since he’d seen someone with such height and presence in real life.

“Not the owner, I take it. A part-timer?”

The man tilted his head as he asked.

A snake’s tongue seemed to flicker toward Chiyoon. On the back of his right hand, part of a tattoo peeked out from under his sleeve. His tone was casual, but his piercing gaze felt like it was licking Chiyoon’s cheek from beneath the cap.

“…Something like that.”

“One of the guys I work with said he made a reservation. Could you check for me, kid? His name’s Taesu.”

Popular restaurants generally don’t take reservations. It’s more profitable to operate without them.

“Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam” was no exception. They’d never taken reservations separately. If word got out and people started flooding in, it’d be a hassle. He needed to make that clear.

“We don’t usually take reservations here. Seems like there was a mix-up.”

“Hmm. You look sharp, so I doubt you’d mess up. Right?”

“Yeah.”

The man chuckled at the quick reply. His mouth opened wide, revealing a red cave between his lips and teeth.

According to Grandpa, people who showed that kind of mouth cave when they laughed were destined for success—and this guy seemed blessed in more ways than one.

“Guess Taesu screwed up big time. Is starving your boss the new trend with kids these days?”

“Ever made him work late without feeding him? Even if it’s not a trend, I’d want to pull something like that.”

“Really? I’m in trouble then.”

“Hey, hey! Chiyoon-ah! Who’re you talking to?!”

An urgent voice cut through their banter.

Misin gaped from beyond the restaurant hallway, alternating between the customer and her son. She stomped over like someone being chased.

“Why’s she acting like that all of a sudden?”

Chiyoon furrowed his brows and tilted his head.

As he shifted his gaze, a hot breath suddenly brushed his ear.

“That must be the owner.”

It was less a question and more a statement. The man tapped his own lips with a finger, a smile glinting under his cap.

“You and your mom are like two peas in a pod. Those plump lips.”

He whispered so only Chiyoon could hear, his voice a smooth, soft baritone. A shiver shot through him instantly.

Then Misin stepped in front of the man and asked cautiously,

“Uh, what brings you here?”

Mom was known for being kind to customers, but her demeanor was subtly off from usual.

“…Could it be, you’re here for Manager Ahn Choesu’s reservation from ‘Daeho Construction’?”

“Daeho Construction, that’s right.”

The man nodded nonchalantly. What was that about? Chiyoon couldn’t make sense of their conversation. He stepped out from behind the counter, planting himself between the man and his mom.

“Mom, what reservation? We’ve never taken reservations before. And who’s Choesu? He just said Taesu.”

The man’s line of sight towered far above Chiyoon’s. He’d figured he was tall, but up close, the difference was staggering.

“Good memory, too. No wonder Taesu hates me. I don’t even know his name right.”

“…You’re not lying, are you? Like you’re starving and just here for dinner.”

“Chiyoon-ah! Stop it!”

Misin hurriedly yanked her son behind her. It was as if she were shielding him from the man. She was shorter than Chiyoon, so it didn’t fully hide him anyway.

“Oh, Mom, why all of a sudden—”

As he opened his mouth, Misin silently smacked his arm. Her gesture screamed “shut up,” and Chiyoon faltered, flustered.

“Our kid’s still young and doesn’t know much. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what he said, but…”

“It’s fine.”

Her visible relief at his curt reply was palpable.

Chiyoon tugged at Misin’s apron hem, looking up at the man. Something was definitely off. He’d never seen his mom grovel to anyone like this before.

Her warm hand, always heated from standing by the kitchen fire, brushed his before letting go. She was guiding the man further into the restaurant.

“…Then, you must be hungry. Let’s get a table ready quick. Honey, Chiyoon’s dad! Manager Ahn Choesu’s party is here!”

At that moment, the baseball cap came off. Thick hair swayed with the man’s movements.

Sharp eyes, with a faint double eyelid barely visible, turned toward Chiyoon. Thin pupils reminiscent of a coastal beast or a reptilian snake folded into a smiling squint.

“The kid’s got a bite to him.”

The man drawled lazily as he followed Misin.

“Oh, he’s kinda hot.”

The words slipped out with a breathy exclamation.

By then, the man had already sauntered off.

🥂

[You’re fighting with your son over independence?]

[This kid, there’s really nothing he can’t say!]

[Who’s that guy? You’re always nagging us not to take reservations, yet it’s okay for a businessperson to flip-flop like this?]

[Keep your voice down. They can hear everything over there!]

[Your voice is louder right now, Mom.]

Misin didn’t address a single one of Chiyoon’s questions. She left him with just one sentence.

[Your dad and I will handle everything, so don’t you worry about it, Chiyoon. Don’t even think about taking a step toward them. If you say even one word to those people like you did earlier, forget independence—there won’t be a drop left for you.]

What did I even do? I didn’t do anything. Chiyoon grumbled quietly, still stewing over the daytime frustrations. To begin with, his parents—along with his grandparents—had blocked his path so thoroughly that he couldn’t even catch another glimpse of the man’s hair.

Chiyoon puffed out his cheeks sulkily and picked up a trash bag as big as himself. Taking out the trash was usually his dad’s job, but thanks to his mom’s insistence, it was his task today.

“Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam” was located in Cheongham Market, one of the traditional market complexes in Ulchogu, Seoul.

Behind the market lay the Deulnaecheon promenade and a tree-lined street, where a refreshing breeze blew—unusual for a big city. Perhaps because of that, unlike most traditional markets, which young people tended to avoid due to their old-fashioned vibe, Cheongham Market didn’t feel that way.

The sun had long since set.

Cherry blossom petals fluttered down, silently filling the spring night.

Chiyoon trudged toward the open lot behind the shop, groaning under the weight of the trash bag. The smell of cigarettes hit him. As soon as he registered it, a sharp puff of smoke stung his nose, making him scrunch it up.

“Taesu-ya.”

And then the voice of the man he’d just encountered drifted over on the breeze.

“…Y-yes, yes!”

The man, holding a pristine cigarette in one hand, called out to the bulky figure in front of him. It seemed this guy was either Choesu or Taesu—one of the two.

Even the brief glimpse under the shop’s indoor lights had left an impression, but standing under the hazy glow of the streetlamp, the man looked like a living photoshoot. No wonder good-looking people shouldn’t star in ads for harmful products.

Lost in such thoughts, Chiyoon was about to stride carelessly toward the utility pole when he noticed something off about the atmosphere. It felt more intense than a student getting scolded by the dean in the faculty office—downright menacing, even.

“I told you not to pull gangster shit like that.”

“…I’m sorry, hyung-nim.”

“And I told you to cut the ‘hyung-nim’ crap, too.”

The man flicked cigarette ash onto the palm of the bulky figure—Taesu—standing beside him. Upon closer inspection, Taesu’s cauldron-lid-sized bare hand was already piled high with spent cigarettes.

Using a person’s hand as an ashtray? Chiyoon’s brows furrowed in disbelief. He’d thought the man seemed practiced at putting on a kind, smiling facade, but the difference between how he’d spoken to Chiyoon earlier and how he was treating Taesu now was as stark as a cleanly sliced cross-section.

“I fed you three square meals a day and treated you nice, and now you think I’m a pushover? You’ve got too much fat on your gut, Taesu-ya.”

“N-no, sir, Director…!”

“Then why’s there a reservation at a place that doesn’t take them?”

“Well, uh, that’s… No, I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”

Without realizing it, Chiyoon found himself hiding around the corner, eavesdropping on their conversation. He’d leaned forward, but his body instinctively twisted back.

A forceful tug spun him around. Before him stood a burly middle-aged man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, glaring down at Chiyoon. He looked like the epitome of a noir film’s extra henchman.

“Hey, kid, why’re you sneaking around like a rat?”

Stunned, Chiyoon stared at the man, who then spat phlegm onto the toe of his shoe.

“Huh? Can’t talk? Little punk like you popping out of nowhere with no fear. You look like some flirty omega.”

No matter how loose his tongue was, Chiyoon wasn’t so unfilial as to recklessly spout off and ruin three generations of his family’s business.

“I work at the shop next door and just stepped out.”

But he decided that anything said after the man spat was fair game for self-defense.

“I was just about to sneak a peek, but you stopped me.”

“‘But’? ‘Stopped me’? This little brat’s got a short tongue, huh? You said you came from that shop?”

“I don’t explain things twice.”

At that, the middle-aged man’s face twisted into a scowl.

“Look at this punk’s attitude. You’re that part-timer who kept yapping about no reservations, aren’t you?”

Why’d that come up here? Chiyoon’s face, which had been holding onto a semblance of civility, crumpled.

“You’ve caused me more than a couple headaches, you know. I, Lee Younghak, had everything squared away with the owner and his wife, and then their kid butts in? Huh? You owe me an apology.”

As Younghak rolled up his sleeve, a tattoo of a carp twisting through water emerged. The man’s appearance, demeanor, disjointed explanation, and his mom’s odd behavior clicked together, piercing through Chiyoon’s mind.

“No answer when an adult’s talking to you? When someone apologizes, they’re supposed to bow their head like this—”

“Hey, did you threaten my mom and dad?”

But he never got an answer.

“Urk—!”

Thud—!

What entered Chiyoon’s field of vision was a hand. A large hand grabbed Younghak’s hair and yanked it back in a smooth, unresisted motion, like an object falling through empty space. A thick silver chain watch jangled with the movement.

Younghak couldn’t respond to Chiyoon’s question because that massive hand was pressing his head down. He wheezed in pain, struggling to look up despite his hair being gripped.

“D-Director Cha… sir?”

It was the man from earlier. When he’d silently approached and grabbed Younghak’s hair, Chiyoon couldn’t tell.

“Jihak-ssi, what’re you doing?”

“Director, uh, this is Lee Younghak, team leader of Field Team 2, but…”

Taesu had sidled up to the man’s side, adding clarification. The man flicked his eyes toward his subordinate, then shook Younghak’s hair like a rag.

“Do I have to remember every single name? Should I, Team Leader Lee?”

“N-no, sir. Of course not…!”

“Good.”

A dry laugh escaped despite the tense situation. Chiyoon had a lot to say but was just dumbfounded. Choesu, Taesu, Younghak, Jihak—the man seemed to only half-remember names.

Their eyes met as the man turned at the sound of Chiyoon’s laugh. His smooth face spoke in a gentle tone.

“Looks like they were having a morality lesson. This guy’s living real fulfilling, huh?”

He kept calling him a kid like he wasn’t even a student—did he really think Chiyoon was a minor? His tone was like he was coaxing a child.

Chiyoon had braced himself for a scolding, like the ones Taesu and Younghak got, but his tensed body relaxed slightly.

“Team Leader Lee, put out your cigarette before yapping in front of a kid. Must feel shitty. It’s laughable when some nobody’s acting all high and mighty, right?”

His tone carried a hint of amusement, but his actions didn’t match.

The man let go of the hair he’d been holding. It was a careless toss, like discarding trash. Younghak, flung aside, rubbed out his cigarette on the ground like a robot following a command.

But the man picked up the extinguished butt and placed it in Younghak’s palm. With a snap of his fingers, Taesu took the cue and dumped the pile of cigarettes from his own hand into Younghak’s grip.

“Company image.”

“…”

“Take it easy.”

Each word he drawled carried weight.

“Y-yes, sir… Understood, Director.”

“Good, head back inside.”

Thwack—! With a dull sound, Younghak’s head swiveled toward the restaurant entrance. He shuffled off quickly, his gait tinged with dissatisfaction.

“You didn’t faint standing up, did you?”

The man turned back to Chiyoon, his eyes crinkling.

That was the conclusion.

Younghak had threatened his mom and dad to make a reservation at the shop. The man seemed unaware that the bossam place didn’t take reservations. He didn’t seem to like Younghak forcing it, either. And Taesu, whose name was on the reservation, might’ve had it used without his knowledge.

But the anger still simmered.

“Your company culture’s so global—guess casual speech is the office lingua franca?”

Who dared threaten his parents with casual, rude talk? Chiyoon’s eyes shot up sharply.

“Teaching manners right after a morality lesson… You catch on quick. I guess I’m too old—can’t keep up.”

“Even with bad memory, I don’t explain twice. I was raised precious, you know.”

“Yeah?”

The man reached out toward Chiyoon.

Flinching, he wondered if the man would hit him for snapping. But once his mouth opened, it wouldn’t stop.

“We don’t take reservations. Threats are even less welcome. Who’s out here making pathetic threats?”

Instinctively, his eyes squeezed shut in a surge of dread.

A faint menthol scent wafted through the pitch-black vision. Then came the sensation of something tapping his cheek.

Lifting his eyelids slightly, he saw the man examining his face, as if checking for injuries.

“Guess you heard everything—hope your ears didn’t go bad.”

“…If only my ears were the worst of it?”

Chiyoon deliberately put on a sour face, tapping his sneaker toe against the ground. Younghak’s spit glistened there. The man’s eyes narrowed subtly.

“Team Leader Lee’s a talker, huh?”

“Yeah, that guy here. If you hadn’t stepped in first, I’d have handled him.”

The man wasn’t at fault. It wasn’t satisfying, but he’d just shaken Younghak down. Chiyoon knew this was his way of venting.

“Sorry.”

Yet the man knelt on one knee, wiping Chiyoon’s shoe with his bare hand. His posture and tone were as light as fluttering petals.

Maybe it was the afterimage of how he’d treated others. Honestly, Chiyoon had thought he might get hit. He was a bit stunned.

“The guys working under me are kinda dumb.”

“Kinda…?”

“Shh, if you tell dumb kids they’re really dumb, it hurts their feelings.”

As their shoulders brushed, Chiyoon caught a whiff of burnt firewood and ocean breeze—not just cigarette smoke. He felt it instinctively: an unintentional leak of pheromones. The man was an alpha.

His hand suddenly felt lighter. At some point, the man had taken the trash bag from Chiyoon with one hand. The sleek black suit paired with Ulchogu’s green trash bag—big as Chiyoon himself—looked utterly mismatched.

“So let’s have the smart, precious kid let it slide just this once.”

Chiyoon pressed his lips shut.

“We won’t be coming back here anyway.”

Taking his silence as acceptance, the man handed the trash bag to Taesu. Taesu, flustered, rolled his eyes before offering his suit jacket to his boss and awkwardly shuffling off.

“Still mad?”

The man tilted his head, wiping his hands on Taesu’s jacket. Chiyoon shook his head. His sharp, upturned eyes drooped downward in an instant.

“Then why’re you still sulking?”

He’d grown up hearing he’d float mouth-first even if he fell into water, but right now, he had nothing to say. He was too flustered.

It was rare for someone to apologize to him so readily.

Especially an alpha.

Chiyoon lifted his cat-like eyes to the man.

A sharp gaze that almost seemed single-lidded. A high, pointed nose rising from where his eyebrows sat, a wide, upturned mouth, and a single mole on his cheek.

His gaze dropped there.

Chiyoon promptly turned his back on the man. From the receding distance, a deflating laugh echoed. It sounded like he muttered something, but it wasn’t clear.

It wasn’t until he’d walked far from the open lot that he found words.

“That beauty mark… really doesn’t suit him.”

Chiyoon stared up at the darkened entrance of “Maeng’s Jinmi Bossam.” A sudden curiosity struck him. Had Taesu properly placed the trash bag by the pole? If it wasn’t handled right, he’d be the one scolded, and the shop would take the blame.

“Director, wouldn’t it be better to get that beta kid’s number…?”

So, turning back and overhearing this wasn’t intentional.

Chiyoon instinctively hid in the shadows.

“…The shop owner’s son, I mean.”

“Beta?”

The man trailed off, as if chewing over the memory. There was a bit more weight on the question mark.

“No, uh, I mean, Director, you were so… No, I mean, if he’s a beta, that’s fine with you, and you haven’t had anyone decent lately, so… Yeah…”

Stumbling over his words, Taesu rambled out excuses.

“Taesu-ya. I’m not into minors. Are you trying to get me locked up or something?”

“Huh?”

“The kid said so himself. Said you don’t like me.”

A snickering laugh pricked Chiyoon’s ears. Did he really think he was a minor and treat him nice because of that? Was he some kind of kids’ café worker? Chiyoon sighed under his breath.

“Since when do you meddle in stuff like this? You never cared who’s sticking what where.”

“W-well, that’s…”

“Did Chairman Cha throw a fit?”

“Director, the chairman’s still as stubborn as ever. We can’t delay the schedule any longer…”

“He wants to see his one-and-only dominant alpha get married and pop out a grandkid before he croaks, right?”

Confirmation shot. Not just an alpha, but a dominant alpha. Looked like Grandpa’s face-reading wasn’t entirely off.

“…So, you’ll go to the arranged marriage meeting?”

“When did I say I would?”

“Bro, hyung—uh, Director… Then I might get beaten to death by the chairman…”

“That’s for you to figure out, Taesu. Why’d you cover for Lee Jihak using your name to mess around? That’s why you’re getting hit by an old man and me.”

The click of a lighter sounded, followed by the faint smell of cigarettes.

Arranged marriage. That word filled Chiyoon’s small head.

“Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”

The standard path to marriage was love, dating, then marriage. But not all marriages followed that route.

Pages flipped rapidly in his mind. How many storylines started with marriage for some reason or another? Arranged marriages, strategic marriages, contract marriages, and the whole “marry first, love later” trope in countless pieces of content…

A jolt of exhilaration surged through him, like a lightbulb popping on.

Right—there was such a thing as a contract marriage.

If he could gain independence right now, Chiyoon would’ve bolted out of the shop and begged the first person he saw to marry him. That’s how desperate he was for it.

Falling in love, dating, and thinking about marriage was a far-off future. He’d never even been interested enough in someone for that. The standard marriage process might as well not exist in Chiyoon’s future.

Some people pretended to be newlyweds with friends for housing applications. All he needed was someone willing to keep up that level of loyalty.

A dominant alpha with a face and physique some might find annoyingly perfect, a man called “Director” at a company with enough clout and wealth that his parents couldn’t dismiss him. Plus, it seemed the man needed to get married ASAP, too.

Someone who met his mom’s conditions while staying married just long enough for Chiyoon to gain the ability to stand on his own. The man in front of him was undoubtedly that person.

Just as his mom had barked the conditions for independence during break time, Chiyoon’s eyes glinted.

“If you’re gonna keep whining, wanna go cry alone in the car? The Director’s got a call. If I don’t take this, you won’t just get beaten to death by Chairman Cha.”

The moment Taesu vanished, Chiyoon charged at the man. Cherry blossom petals scattered under the dark night sky. With flushed cheeks, Chiyoon called out.

“Hey, honey.”

He was certain. Not finishing his words earlier, turning back—it was all for this moment.

To propose to Cha Jihwon.