Understudy

The suppressants are working.

Seo-yun repeats it like a prayer as he stands in the wings of the Grand Theater, watching Kang Min-woo nail the final note of Act Two. The lead alpha's voice soars through the auditorium, and Seo-yun's chest tightens—not with jealousy, though that's there too, but with the familiar ache of his designation trying to claw its way to the surface.

Six years. Six years of suppressants and scent blockers. Six years of passing as a beta in an industry that would never let an omega play a leading role.

"Beautiful, isn't he?"

Seo-yun doesn't turn. He knows that voice—low, rough, carrying the weight of someone who's never had to prove anything to anyone.

Director Jae-hyuk.

"Yes, sir." Seo-yun keeps his eyes on the stage. Keep it professional. Keep it distant. Never let them get too close or they might smell—

"You've understudied this role for two years now." Jae-hyuk moves closer. Too close. Seo-yun can smell him—woodsmoke and leather, that unmistakable alpha scent that makes something in Seo-yun's hindbrain want to bare his neck. "Think you could do it?"

Never show weakness.

"I could do it in my sleep, sir."

Jae-hyuk laughs, low and dark. "Confident. I like that."

He walks away, and Seo-yun finally breathes.

On stage, Min-woo launches into the final dance sequence. His movements are perfect, sharp, powerful—everything an alpha should be. Everything Seo-yun has spent years pretending to be.

The music swells.

Min-woo leaps.

And lands wrong.

The crack echoes through the theater like a gunshot.

---

"Compound fracture," the medic says an hour later, and Seo-yun's heart is hammering so hard he's sure everyone can hear it. "He's out for at least eight weeks. Possibly twelve."

The creative team stands in a circle backstage, the opening night audience still in their seats, unaware that disaster has struck. Director Jae-hyuk's face is unreadable—carved from stone, sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes.

"We have three weeks of previews," the stage manager says. "We can't cancel—"

"We won't." Jae-hyuk's gaze cuts through the group and lands on Seo-yun. "The understudy goes on."

The air leaves Seo-yun's lungs.

This is it. This is everything he's worked for. Everything he's sacrificed for. Every suppressant that's made him nauseous, every scent blocker that's given him headaches, every time he's had to hide in a bathroom during pre-heat symptoms because he couldn't let anyone know—

"Can you do it?" Jae-hyuk asks. "Not think you can. Know you can."

Everyone's looking at him. The producers. The choreographer. The musical director. ...