Kiss the Scumbag

The crushing tension made it impossible to take a deep breath. Seol Yu-jin exhaled in short, shallow bursts, barely managing to breathe as he stared at the man before him. The darkness cast a perfect shadow over Winston Campbell’s sharply defined face, obscuring his features. In contrast, Yu-jin was bathed in moonlight, his expression laid bare. The thought that Winston could see every detail of his face made him even more uneasy.

But he couldn’t afford to push the man away. The weight of the gun pressed against his temple was a stark reminder of reality. Winston loaded a bullet into the chamber. One wrong move, and a mistake—accidental or not—would end everything. The image of the child left behind flashed vividly before Yu-jin’s eyes. He couldn’t let Angela end up like him.

Lying completely still, he forced himself to speak. His throat was so dry that forming words was difficult, and when he finally managed to force out a sound, his voice was hoarse.

“…What the hell are you doing?”

At his strained question, Winston let out a breathy, almost amused laugh.

“Well, that’s what I should be asking. What the hell are you doing in my bed?”

The casual way Winston said my bed didn’t register at first. But when it did, Yu-jin stiffened.

“What do you mean, your bed? Are you saying… this is your room?”

Winston chuckled again, a sharp, cynical laugh tinged with irritation. He leaned down abruptly, closing the space between them until his breath was warm against Yu-jin’s face. Their eyes met—so close it was suffocating.

“Sweetheart, you really should’ve practiced more. That performance just now was way too sloppy.”

It was only then that Yu-jin realized why the door to the room hadn’t been locked.

Because the room was already in use.

Separating him from the child hadn’t been their only goal. Their methods were far more malicious than he had anticipated, and despite all his efforts, he was still a step behind them. Cold dread seeped into his chest. But now was not the time to panic. The gun pressed to his temple made it painfully clear—this was real.

“Don’t call me that,” Yu-jin said through clenched teeth, his voice tense. His entire body was rigid, his limbs frozen in place, but somehow, his voice remained steady. He had no choice but to make his resistance clear.

But Winston didn’t care.

“Then what should I call you?” He smirked. “Whore? Slut?”

Winston chuckled, his shoulders shaking in amusement, but Yu-jin wasn’t laughing. Every time Winston spat out another cruel word, the barrel of the gun trembled slightly against his temple. Yu-jin was too terrified to even be angry, fearing that one wrong breath might make Winston’s finger twitch.

“What exactly were you expecting, sweetheart?” Winston asked, his voice still dripping with mockery. Yu-jin’s vision had adjusted to the darkness, and he could now faintly make out Winston’s expression.

“You soaked this entire room in pheromones, spread yourself out naked on my bed—did you think I’d lose my mind and just fuck you?”

Winston let out a sharp, bitter laugh, his face twisting with disgust.

“Your pheromone stench makes me sick.”

He still hates me.

The thought surfaced in Yu-jin’s mind. Of course, how could he forget? How brutally Winston had rejected him back then. There was no way this man had changed.

But to still hate me this much…

“I… I didn’t know,” Yu-jin managed to say, his voice trembling. “Think about it—how was I supposed to know this was your room?”

It was a logical argument, something anyone would find reasonable. But, of course, it didn’t work on Winston.

“You’re telling me you didn’t realize? Even though my scent is all over this place?”

The immediate mockery made Yu-jin flinch. Winston didn’t know—he had no idea that ever since that day, Yu-jin could no longer pick up certain scents. His mind was clouded, constantly aware of the gun against his temple, making it hard to think straight. But somehow, he managed to grasp onto one idea.

“I could have mistaken it for Harold’s room.”

Extreme Alphas could distinguish between their own pheromones and those of others. But to everyone else, the scents were indistinguishable. To Yu-jin, Winston’s scent and his father’s smelled exactly the same.

And that struck Winston hard.

His face froze for a moment, and Yu-jin felt the tiniest flicker of satisfaction. But it didn’t last long. Winston’s expression quickly smoothed over, his lips curling into a smile. He tilted his head, leaning in until his breath ghosted over Yu-jin’s skin.

“Like back then?”

The whisper was laced with venom. Winston slowly shook his head, a bitter smirk playing at his lips. Then, with a mockingly gentle voice, as if soothing a child, he continued.

“No, no. That’s not right, sweetheart. You knew. Just like before. Just like when you walked into my father’s room on your own two feet. You knew exactly whose room this was. You never make mistakes—your goals are always so perfectly clear.”

Yu-jin didn’t respond. It didn’t matter what he said—Winston would never believe him. The only thing he could do now was let him say whatever the hell he wanted and wait for this moment to pass.

Of course, Winston took his silence however he pleased, twisting it to fit his own conclusions.

“What a shame,” he sneered. “You won’t be sneaking into my father’s bed anymore. Because he’s dead.”

His voice dripped with contempt. Whether it was directed at Harold or at Yu-jin—maybe both—was unclear.

Tilting his head again, Winston let out a curious hum, his voice suddenly playful, almost childlike.

“You’re not thinking of following him to the grave, are you?”

“Of course not.”

Yu-jin denied it instantly, but Winston only laughed.

“I figured. It wasn’t my father you loved—it was his money.”

The gun remained pressed firmly against Yu-jin’s temple. The terror was overwhelming, pushing him to the brink of madness. He struggled to keep his ragged breaths under control and forced himself to speak.

“Wi—Winston.”

He had almost called him Winnie—the old pet name slipping from his lips before he caught himself.

Winston gave no reaction, but Yu-jin pushed forward, desperately stringing his words together.

“Stop this. Let’s talk like adults, rationally. Put the gun away—it’s dangerous.”

Yu-jin’s plea grew more desperate, but Winston’s gun remained steady, unmoving. He could feel himself unraveling, the urge to cry clawing at his throat as he clung to the last thread of hope.

“There’s no need for this,” he begged, his expression raw with desperation. “It’s my fault, okay? I made a mistake. But this—this was really an accident. Even if you don’t believe me, it’s the truth. I just followed the directions to my room, washed up, and went to sleep. That’s all.”

He knew Winston would never believe him. But still, he pleaded.

Winston looked down at him, watching his twisted, pleading expression. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smirk.

“In the nude?”

Yu-jin froze. For a moment, confusion flickered in his eyes—until it hit him.

The robe he had worn to sleep had slipped open in his sleep, leaving his body fully exposed beneath it.

“It’s not what you think,” he choked out, forcing the words through his dry throat.

“I already told you—I was given this room. I didn’t know. Just think for a second—if I had known this was your room, why would I do this? I didn’t want to see you again either.”

“Well, even if you hate looking at my face, you don’t seem to have a problem spreading your legs,” Winston sneered. The gun never wavered as he murmured,

“You’re nothing but a whore.”

The word sliced through the air, but Yu-jin didn’t react. He couldn’t. Fear had crushed any space for anger. He swallowed dryly, forcing himself to speak.

“I came for the money. That’s true, but—”

The barrel of the gun pressed harder against his temple.

Yu-jin flinched violently, his heart nearly stopping in terror. Panic surged, forcing the truth out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“I have a child.”

His voice shook uncontrollably, cracking as tears welled up.

“My child is sleeping in another room. Please—I can’t die here.”

Yu-jin desperately searched Winston’s face, hoping—praying—that somewhere, buried deep inside, even the smallest sliver of mercy remained.

Once upon a time, Winston had been kind. A boy who had reached out to an abandoned child the rest of the household had cast aside. A boy who had loved him.

For the first time since their reunion, Winston’s expression changed.

The mockery vanished. The scorn, the cruelty—all of it disappeared, leaving behind nothing but an eerie blankness.

“…A child?”

His voice was devoid of laughter.

A suffocating silence followed.