Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights of the Seoul Olympic Gymnasium hummed overhead, casting a sterile white glow across the waiting area. The air smelled of disinfectant and sweat, of adrenaline and fear. Rubber mats lined the floors, their surface scuffed from countless matches, countless battles.
Sheng Shaoyou sat on a plastic chair, his knuckles wrapped in fresh white tape. The tape was tight—not too tight, just right—the way he liked it. His taekwondo uniform was crisp and clean, the black collar marking him as a competitor to be feared. His body still thrummed with the adrenaline of the first three rounds, his muscles humming like plucked strings.
He rolled his shoulders and felt the satisfying pull of muscles pushed to their limit.
One more round.
One more round and the national championship would be his.
He had been training so hard for this moment. Years of早起, of running until his lungs burned, of kicking until his legs gave out, of falling and getting back up and falling again. His mother had sacrificed everything for his training—her savings, her time, her peace of mind. She had believed in him when no one else did.
This championship wasn't just for him. It was for her.
Sheng Mai lay in Heci Hospital in Jianghu City, her body slowly being consumed by pheromone cancer. The money from this championship would help her receive proper treatment. It would ease her pain. It might even save her life.
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and wilted flowers. His mother's hands, once strong and capable, were now thin and pale, the veins visible beneath her skin like rivers on a map. But her eyes—her eyes still held the same fire they had always held. The same belief in him.
She had been looking forward to him winning this match. She had told him so, just before he left for Seoul.
"Win this, Shaoyao," she had said, her voice weak but steady. "Win this for us."
The waiting room was cold. Shaoyao pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and tried to focus on breathing. In and out. In and out. The bitter orange scent of his own pheromones filled his nose—sharp, citrusy, familiar. A sign of his Alpha nature. A reminder of who he was.
In the distance, the crowd roared. The announcer's voice echoed through the speakers, announcing the results of the previous match. The thud of bodies hitting the mat vibrated through the walls.
He was a single match away from victory.
The door to the waiting room opened.
Three men in suits entered.
They moved with the easy confidence of people who had never been told no. The one in front was tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes that held no warmth—only calculation. His suit was dark, expensive, the kind that cost more than Shaoyao's mother's monthly rent. He walked straight to Shaoyao and stopped.
"Sheng Shaoyao?"
Shaoyao looked up. His heart rate, which had finally begun to slow, ticked up again. Not from fear. From anticipation.
"Yes."
"We have a proposition for you."
The man's voice was smooth, polished, like river stones worn down by years of water. He didn't sit. He didn't need to. He stood over Shaoyao, looking down at him, and the weight of his presence pressed against Shaoyao's chest like a physical thing.
"I'm listening," Shaoyao said.
"The match against Shaoqing," the man continued. "We want you to lose."
The words landed like a slap.
Shaoyao's hands curled into fists on his knees. The tape creaked. "No."
"Let me finish." The man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. His teeth were white, perfect, expensive. "We will pay your mother's hospital bills. All of them. Past, present, future. And we will give you 15 million yen."
Fifteen million.
The number hung in the air like a physical weight, pressing down on Shaoyao's chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. Fifteen million yen. More money than he had ever seen. More money than his mother would need for years.
He thought about her. About her pale face on the white hospital pillow. About the tangled tubes and the beeping machines and the way her hand felt in his—so thin, so fragile, like a bird's wing.
He thought about the bills stacked on his kitchen table, each one a small death, each one a reminder that he was failing her.
But he also thought about her smile. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about his matches. The way she held his medals in her hands, turning them over and over, as if they were made of gold.
"If I lose this match," Shaoyao said slowly, forcing the words out, "my mother will know something is wrong. She's been looking forward to this. She believes in me."
The man's smile didn't waver. "Belief doesn't pay hospital bills, Mr. Sheng."
The bitter orange scent of Shaoyao's pheromones grew stronger, sharp with anger. He stood, unfolding his frame until he was taller than the man, broader in the shoulders. Years of taekwondo training had given him a presence that made people step back.
"I said no."
The man's smile faded. His eyes turned cold, flat, empty.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Sheng."
He turned and walked out. The other two men followed. The door clicked shut behind them.
Shaoyao stood there for a long moment, his heart pounding, his hands shaking. The bitter orange scent filled the room, thick and sharp, a warning to anyone who might approach.
He forced himself to sit. Forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to push the encounter from his mind.
He had a match to win.
The final round began under a barrage of flashing cameras and roaring applause.
The lights were too bright, the crowd too loud, the mat too firm beneath his feet. Shaoyao squared off against Shaoqing, his opponent, a man with hate in his eyes and desperation in his stance.
Shaoqing moved first—aggressive, hungry, desperate to prove himself. His kicks were fast but sloppy, his punches powerful but poorly aimed. He fought like someone who had bought his way into the finals, relying on strength rather than skill.
Shaoyao blocked. Countered. Danced around the edges of the mat.
He was faster. Stronger. More skilled.
He had been training for this moment his entire life.
But something was wrong.
His reactions were slowing. His vision blurred at the edges. His muscles felt heavy, as if someone had filled his veins with lead. The bitter orange scent of his own pheromones grew weaker, replaced by something else—something chemical and wrong.
The water, he realized, his mind sluggish. They put something in the water.
But he hadn't drunk anything. He had been careful. He had been so careful.
When? How?
The questions fractured as Shaoqing's foot connected with his ribs. Pain exploded through his side—sharp, white-hot, consuming. Shaoyao stumbled, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His legs buckled. The mat rushed up to meet him.
The crowd's roar faded to a distant hum. The lights seemed too bright, then too dim. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.
He could only watch, trapped inside his own failing body, as Shaoqing scored point after point.
The referee's arm went up.
Shaoqing's hand was raised in victory.
The crowd erupted.
Shaoyao lay on the mat, staring at the ceiling, as the world spun around him. The bitter orange scent of his pheromones was gone, replaced by the smell of sweat and blood and defeat.
He had lost the match.
He had lost the championship.
He had lost the money that could have saved his mother.
And as the paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher, their hands firm and efficient, their faces blank with professional detachment, he regretted not just taking the deal.
Now he had nothing.
No championship to his name.
No money to pay his mother's hospital bills.
Just the bitter taste of regret on his tongue and the cold fluorescent lights of the gymnasium ceiling, growing smaller and smaller as they carried him away.