Jihoon sat on the floor beside him, his hand moving in slow, rhythmic circles over Kit’s bruised back, carefully avoiding the deepest purple marks that still throbbed with every breath.

"Kit, come on," Jihoon whispered for the hundredth time, his voice thick with sleep and genuine worry. "It’s just money. At least you’re here. At least nothing really happened to you. Usually, you’re the one telling me how you kicked some Alpha’s teeth in for looking at you wrong. Why are you still crying?"

Kit finally rolled over, his eyes swollen and bloodshot, a stray tear carving a path through the dust on his cheek. He let out a loud, pathetic sniffle and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"It’s like that Fridge put a curse on me," Kit croaked, his voice cracking. "I sold his stupid clothes and the universe decided I wasn't allowed to have a single win. For once in my life, Hoon... I felt scared. I mean, I’m too young to die! Do you see this face?"

He gestured frantically to his features, his vanity still fighting through the trauma. "This face makes Alphas at the club want to spend their entire inheritance just for a glance, and I almost got it blown off by some low-rent prick in a ski mask! I would have defended myself, I really would have, but at what cost? Those motherfucking shits had actual guns, Hoon! I love myself way too much to be killed over a few fucking rubles."

He sat up abruptly, wincing as his back protested the movement, a reminder of the thirty rounds of absolute wreckage he'd endured. "Even if those rubles were going to get me that new phone. Even if they were going to put something in that goddamn fridge besides expired noodles and dry cereal. We can’t even pay the fucking rent! The landlord is going to throw our shit on the sidewalk by tomorrow morning!"

Kit grabbed a throw pillow and hurled it across the room with a jagged scream of frustration.

 "AHHH! FUCK!" He stared down at his bare feet, the mismatched socks now dirty from the walk home. "I wish my pride had just taken a hike back at that Fridge's hotel. I should have just taken the money for my services. Thirty rounds, Jihoon! Thirty rounds for nothing but clothes and a pair of boots that are now stolen and a sore ass! I let that white-haired bastard treat me like a doll, and for what? To end up barefoot and hungry?"

Jihoon pulled Kit into a tight hug, letting the younger boy bury his face in his shoulder. "We'll figure it out, Kit. We always do. I'll ask Anton for an advance, or maybe I can—"

"No," Kit sobbed into Jihoon's neck. "You've done enough. It’s my fault. I'm broke, I'm scentless, and I'm pretty sure I'm being haunted by a billionaire iceberg with crystal eyes."

Jihoon’s head lowered, his shoulders beginning to shake with a silent, violent tremor. His grip on Kit’s arms tightened, his knuckles turning a ghostly white.

"Why the fuck would you say that?" Jihoon’s voice was a low, jagged rasp, barely audible over the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen.

Kit pulled back slightly, blinking through his swollen lids, his breath hitching. "Wait? Hoon, I just—"

"How could you just casually say that shit to me?" Jihoon snapped, his head whipping up. His face was flushed, and Kit could see the heavy, hot tears spilling from his eyes, dripping onto his shorts in dark, wet circles. "We’ve been living together for more than five years. We’ve shared every miserable ruble, every single season, and every shitty client. We’ve known each other long enough to know the sound of each other’s breathing, and you just... you just casually say ' I've done enough'?"

Jihoon let out a sharp, choked laugh that sounded more like a sob. "And it’s your fault because you’re scentless and broke? When the fuck did you start considering us to be strangers, Kit? Since when is your burden not mine?"

Kit felt a fresh wave of shame wash over him, more biting than the cold floor under his bare feet. He looked at Jihoon—really looked at him—and saw the raw hurt he’d just inflicted. He’d been so wrapped up in his own trauma, so obsessed with the humiliation of being fucked by a Sokolov and then losing everything to some low-life thugs, that he’d forgotten who he was talking to.

"I didn't mean it like that," Kit whispered, his own voice breaking. "I just... I'm a mess, Hoon. I feel like I'm dragging you down into my own personal hell. Look at me! I'm branded like cattle, I've got no scent at all and I'm crying like a fucking infant."

"I don't give a shit about your scent, and I don't give a shit about you being broke!" Jihoon screamed, his voice echoing off the thin walls. 

He grabbed Kit’s face, forcing the younger boy to look at him. "You’re my brother. You’re the only thing in this miserable life that makes sense to me. So don't you dare sit there and act like you’re alone in this. If you’re haunted by that billionaire, then we’re both haunted. If you’re broke, we’re both broke. You don't get to push me away just because your pride is hurting."

Jihoon wiped his eyes aggressively with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of dampness on his cheek. "And for the record, Kit... you’re not scentless to me. You smell like home. You smell like someone who survived thirty rounds with a Sokolov and walked out on his own two feet. That's more than any other Omega in this city or county could say."

Kit let out a shaky, watery laugh, leaning his forehead against Jihoon’s. The tension in his chest loosened just a fraction. "I still wish I had those 550,000 rubles though. My ass really went through it for that money."

"I know, baby," Jihoon whispered, pulling him back into a hug. "I know. But we’re still here. He didn't kill you after those rounds, and those robbers didn't kill you either. We’ll figure out the rent. We always do."

Jihoon let out one last shaky breath, wiping the dampness from his cheeks with a final, aggressive swipe. "Okay, enough. Enough with the fucking waterworks, Kit. We look like a pair of drowned rats."

He stood up, his legs cracking from the hours spent on the floor, and grabbed his work bag from the kitchen table. 

His scent—a sharp, sweet mix of artificial peach and a hint of musk that usually got stronger when he was riled up—filled the small space as he sat back down on the sofa, clutching a small, pristine white box tied with a silk ribbon.

Kit looked at the box, then up at Jihoon, his eyes still red but curious. "What’s that?"

"Can you believe the bakery on the corner was closed today?" Jihoon sighed, leaning back into the cushions. "Some bullshit about being out of stock. I nearly threw a brick through the window."

Kit let out a dry, hollow laugh. "I went there too. Before... before everything. It was closed for me, too. Then I got robbed. My luck is literally a dumpster fire."

"Hey, no more thinking about those dick-sucking, gutter-trash motherfuckers," Jihoon snapped, nudging Kit’s arm with the box. "Open it."

Kit took the box, his fingers trembling slightly as he undid the ribbon. Inside were four perfect, heavy sweet cakes, topped with thick swirls of pink cream and dusted with silver pearls. 

They looked like they belonged in a palace, not a run-down apartment in a district that smelled like wet pavement. Kit immediately snatched one up, shoving half of it into his mouth.

"Oh my god," Kit mumbled, sugar coating his lips. "Hoon, you’re the fucking best. I think I just saw god."

"Don't talk with your mouth full, your spoiled majesty," Jihoon joked, though his eyes softened as he watched Kit eat.

Kit swallowed hard, already reaching for the second half. "Did you buy these after your shift? Where did you even find them if the bakery was closed?"

Jihoon leaned back, a small, weary smile playing on his lips. "Well, I didn't give you the full tea yesterday because you were basically a walking corpse when you got home and I was running late for my shift. Remember how I told you Anton texted me about a VIP client?"

Kit nodded, his mouth busy with the pink cream.

"So, Anton tells me this guy is a big deal. First time at the club, but he specifically requested 'the best,' and since I’m the head of the escort wing, I had to go," Jihoon explained, his voice dropping into that familiar, gossipy tone. "To keep the story short... the guy is a fucking billionaire. Easy. He smelled like old money and expensive tobacco. But imagine this, Kit—the asshole didn't even want a full service. He just wanted a blowjob."

Kit paused, cake halfway to his mouth. "Just a blow? For a VIP rate?"

"Exactly," Jihoon snorted, his scent of peach turning a bit sour with annoyance. "And god, he had a fucking tree trunk between his legs. I was working my jaw off for thirty minutes, eyes watering, the whole jaw hurt. I was definitely getting into it, you know how I get obviously I was horny myself? But the second I finished, the motherfucker just looks at me while he's getting dressed and says, 'You’re Just average Yet You aren't even one of my favorites.'"

Kit choked on a crumb, coughing into his hand.

 "He said what?"

"He starts talking about the Compatibility System," Jihoon rolled his eyes, his voice mocking. "Talking about how he has hundreds of compatible mates across the country and I didn't even make his 'top list.' The audacity! I just gave him the best head of his life and he’s checking his goddamn stats."

Kit shook his head, a genuine smile finally breaking through his misery. "What a prick."

"Right? But then, because I guess he felt bad for being a total dick, he tells me he already paid Anton the full overnight rate for the 'best service' even though he was leaving early. He told me he'd buy me anything I wanted as a bonus. Jewelry, a new bag, whatever." Jihoon gestured to the box in Kit’s lap. "And all I could think about was you crying about these fucking cakes. So I made his driver circle the city for an hour until we found a high-end patisserie that was still open at midnight."

Kit looked down at the cakes, then at Jihoon. The reality of what his friend had done—passing up a potential fortune just to bring him a bit of sugar after a bad day—hit him harder than any Alpha’s mark.

"You're a literal angel, Hoon," Kit whispered, his voice thick again.

"I'm a saint, I know," Jihoon chirped, though he looked exhausted. "Now finish those. We still have to figure out how to keep the landlord from murdering us tomorrow."

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Two days later, the bruising had faded into faint, yellowish shadows that only Kit knew were there. As the bus hissed to a stop in front of the neon-drenched entrance of the Velvet Fantasy, Kit stepped onto the pavement, the familiar scent of city exhaust and cheap cologne hitting him.

Jihoon walked beside him, adjusting the strap of his mesh top. "You sure that back is holding up, Kit? I don’t want you snapping in half during a backbend."

Kit flashed a sharp, confident grin. "To be fair, that Fridge let me rot in a bed that cost more than this entire block for three days. And since Anton actually found a scrap of a heart and gave me those extra days off, I’m basically brand new. The marks are gone, Hoon. I’m pristine."

"Alright, Mr. Peaches," Jihoon laughed, nudging him. "Just don't go overboarding it."

"And may your billionaire client come back for a round two throat-training session, Caspian," Kit shot back, using Jihoon’s seductive stage name—a title earned from the way he could lure any Alpha into a trance with just a whisper.

"Don't hold your breath," Jihoon snorted. "Men like that usually don't come back for seconds unless they're bored."

As they pushed through the heavy double doors, the thrum of the bass and the swirl of cigarette smoke greeted them. Mico, the club’s lead bartender, was already behind the mahogany bar, rhythmically shaking a silver tin. He looked up, his face lighting up with a wicked grin.

"HEY Everyone! Look who the cat dragged back!" Mico shouted, grinning at the regulars. "The club's best has arrived! Our Queen is back from the dead!"

The staff and a few early patrons cheered, a chorus of whistles following Kit as he strutted past. Jihoon laughed, waving them off. "Okay, okay, give the star some breathing room before his first set! He needs to stretch!"

Mico leaned over the counter, winking at Kit. "Actually, Peaches, you’re not hitting the main stage yet. You’ve got a private client in the VIP suite. He’s been sitting there for two hours. Refused anyone else. Said he only wants the performer named Peaches, Feel like I've seen him somewhere. He looks like he could buy the building and burn it for fun."

Jihoon teased Kit, poking his side. "Oh, looks like someone’s in luck! After a week of trauma, you better make this one tip in high-denomination dollars, not rubles." He reached out, playfully slapping Mico’s buttcheek as he walked past. "Give my baby a drink after his private show, yeah?"

Mico winked back, a silent understanding passing between them. Kit just rolled his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. "I don't even want to know the details of what you two get up to in the stockroom."

Inside, Kit stripped off his casual clothes. He reached for his most seductively lethal outfit. He knew he had to do a good performance for his first client after his whole bad week.

 

He checked his reflection, touched up his gloss, and sprayed a cloud of his signature, slightly-too-sweet perfume.

Time to get back in the game, he thought, heading toward the VIP corridor. Perform for this rich prick, get the cash, and finally forget that white-haired iceberg and his thirty rounds of madness.

He reached the heavy oak door of the private suite. He took a deep breath, plastered on his most seductive, "Peaches" smile, and pushed inside. 

The room was dim, lit only by a low amber glow, the scent of expensive tobacco cutting through his cheap perfume.

Kit didn't even look at the man's face at first. He started his routine immediately, sliding toward the brass pole in the center of the room. He brought a slow, manicured finger to his lips, his hips swaying in a hypnotic, practiced rhythm.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, Sir," Kit purred, his voice a low, honeyed drawl. "I promise to make it worth the—"

The words died in his throat. His heart didn't just stop; it plummeted into his stomach.

Sitting on the long leather sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, was a man tapping away at a sleek, obsidian-black phone. 

He was dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the club itself. His hair was a stark, startling white, and when he looked up, those crystal-glass eyes locked onto Kit’s with the force of an avalanche.

Maksim Sokolov.

Kit’s seductive smile cracked, his expression turning purely cynical as his jaw tightened.

"You have got to be shitting me," Kit deadpanned.