GHOST
Ghosts, spirits. So few they might as well not exist. Terrifying, eerie, relentless. Everyone says they fear them, yet they drift through our lives “alienated,” vague apparitions, sometimes nothing more than a curious distraction.
The room sat heavy with the dank humidity left by all-day monsoon rains.
Outside the window, a bluish dawn was slowly brightening, but in the study—where the slats of the blinds were tilted downward—the gloom of night still pooled.
The man sat motionless, slumped in a high-backed armchair, with no light on. His hand, holding a glass with a bulge at the bottom, did not stir. His face, propped at the temple by his elbow resting on the armrest, remained frozen as if under hypnosis. Only the slow rise and fall of his bare, broad chest proved he was not a beautifully sculpted wax figure but a living being.
Breaking the air that was solidifying around him, he suddenly straightened his waist, deep into the chair’s backrest.
It was 5:59 AM. In Boston, it would be about 4 PM.
After calculating the time difference, he picked up the phone on the side table—the one he’d merely glared at until now.
It might not connect—his contact was hardly free—but luck was with him. After fewer rings than usual, he bridged the fourteen-hour gap and heard that welcome voice.
Even the man’s face—rigid as if it embodied the concept of expressionless—broke into a faint smile.
A brief exchange of greetings, mischievous yet marked by deep affection and trust, followed—words one might share only with someone close.
But he couldn’t tarry. Not just out of courtesy for the other’s time, but because he feared he couldn’t hold himself together a moment longer.
“Sigh... I don’t even know how to begin...”
He let out a hollow laugh to himself, then bit his lip in troubled thought. Finally, as if resolute, he spoke aloud:
“I underwent Changing.”
Though steeling himself had been hard, his voice was oddly calm. He closed his mouth again, as if repeating the words to see if he really said them.
Silence answered from the other end.
“Of course there was another party involved. Would I call it Changing if I’d just noted and climaxed alone?”
Frowning, he closed his eyes and pressed his temple, replying through mild irritation, then quickly regretted the outburst and apologized politely.
“The first issue is... it wasn’t by my choice, nor did I have the other’s consent.”
As he continued, his once-impassive face gradually collapsed into an expression that seemed to give form to agony. To dull the pain, he raised the glass on the table and slammed back a gulp of harsh single malt whiskey.
“I couldn’t help it. It was impossible—but I was utterly dominated by pheromones, not in my right mind, and when I came to... I realized I’d noted while under Changing.”
Recalling that dizzying moment, his face went pale in the darkness.
“I told you it was impossible.”
His voice grew urgent, losing calm.
“No, he’s not an Omega. No, he’s not an Omega... and he’s not a Beta either. That’s the second problem.”
Frustrated by his own rambling, he sighed and brushed his face with the free hand. Taking a deep breath, he sat up straight to explain more composedly.
After a few sips of whiskey, he recalled when they had first met not long ago.
“He was definitely an Omega, but he insisted he was one hundred percent Beta. At first, I thought maybe he hid it for some reason, but it didn’t feel that way. He claimed to know he was Beta and that tests confirmed it. At first... I didn’t sense any pheromones, but independent of that, I still thought he was an Omega. You can distinguish any Omega even if they don’t release pheromones. Yet no Alpha around me detected him as Omega. Strange, but I assumed he was an Omega on heavy suppressants. As °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° you know, even an Omega practically overdosing on suppressants is almost impossible for me not to detect.”
He remembered Choi Inwoo’s mocking—jeering that he despised using pheromones to lure partners or during lovemaking—at that Spanish tavern.
He was the type who distrusted strangers by default, showing he was watching them. It was partly to make others treat him cautiously. He’d treated this man the same, whether Yuni had brought Juhan or with anyone else.
Yet it didn’t take long to conclude that this man—who once learned painting from Chief Han—was not someone to guard against.
First, his diligent composure drew the eye: the way he sealed pamphlets into envelopes, the slight tilt of his head when hanging and taking down works in the gallery—simple motions beautiful enough to catch one’s gaze.
His features, the line of his body in motion, even the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice seemed fresh as if they still dripped water from a recent wash, as though he hesitated between boyhood and manhood.
He wasn’t especially sociable, seemed shy, yet didn’t sharpen his defenses against people. Even taking Inwoo’s brash advances at the tavern without flinching showed a confidence—no shrinking or stammering.
“I’m... not even an Omega,” he’d said, face troubled, eyes transparent, without disguise.
From the moment he claimed to be Beta—not Alpha, not Omega—he became for the man more than a curiosity; he became a subtle preoccupation.
“I was convinced,” he went on, “he really believed himself Beta. Here, those who can become pregnant are exempt from military service. I confirmed his discharge papers, so until enlistment, he never exhibited Omega traits. If he’d manifested in the military, a normal discharge would be impossible. Thus, it follows he’s never manifested as Omega—even now.”
He remembered the man’s steady gaze, as if saying, “If I were Omega, I wouldn’t hide it.” His deep black eyes were unripe yet never murky—a condensation of pure youth present in everyone.
“To see his reaction, I opened my pheromones a little. He’s undeniably Omega, but Beta? I couldn’t believe it.”
He couldn’t recall how long he’d refrained from releasing pheromones. To confirm whether he truly wasn’t Omega, he’d let them loose—an uncharacteristic act no matter how he looked back on it.
“At first, I felt a wall—then he responded. He began answering with pheromones complementary to mine. I thought perhaps he was a rare, little-known subclass of Omega. Though he detected my pheromones and responded, he thought it was fragrance.”
Even after that first uncharacteristic move, he continued opening pheromones. He could never forget the pure, unsuspecting face that, in front of Shushu’s work, tilted toward his shoulder as if sniffing perfume.
It was the first time he felt not disgust but a thrill—an electrifying jolt—that someone detected his pheromones.
When the other offered an interpretation over the phone, he shook his head decisively.
“No... he’s not cunning enough to fake it. If he’d known they were pheromones and still acted, I’d have noticed. Could I really fail to catch even one ten-year-younger man’s deception?”
Realizing he’d enticed someone a decade his junior, brought him to climax three times under pheromone influence, he fell silent, embarrassed.
He just hoped the man didn’t recall how Inwoo had rebuked him for finding younger partners appealing. But he’d never considered anyone that young—not as a date or a sexual partner.
“At any rate... something happened to him, and though I normally despise that method, to calm him I used pheromones to make love. He responded unmistakably—far more intensely than before, opening his own abundant pheromones. I was certain he was Omega... but—”
Recalling the excitement and dismay when his hand roved between the man’s legs, he set his jaw.
“There was no cum. None at all.”
A heavy, long silence settled. He was recounting truly impossible events.
“At the time, I intended only to soothe him so he’d sleep, so I didn’t penetrate. But afterwards... the pheromones grew stronger. When we made love the second time—believe it or not—I lost all control of my pheromones.”
By the time they were to leave for Hong Kong, his interest in the man had grown complex beyond pheromones, but his purpose on the call wasn’t relationship advice. It was to learn anything—anything—about this pheromone mystery.
Despite a house broad enough that presence alone wouldn’t deter sex, he’d planned the second encounter so eagerly—even switching to a hotel instead of his usual lodgings—that he didn’t need to admit it.
“Oral, neck, groin, armpits, genitals, anal...”
He trailed off, realizing how much private detail he’d shared. It was clinical, like reporting symptoms to a doctor, yet learning so much of another’s private life felt anything but pleasant.
“I’m sorry for making you hear all this...”
Whether soothed or not, he steadied his voice and continued.
“Sweaty areas, strong natural odors, mucous membranes, even bodily fluids—all matched pheromone characteristics. He became more sensitive to mine, becoming candidly lustful in ways unimaginable from his usual character. When penetration happened... we were both so dominated by pheromones we weren’t ourselves, and when I came to... he’d tried noting and Changing. I could... neither control nor resist...”
His voice slackened into a daze. His eyes, bereft of meaning, cast about the room.
Like piecing together a fading dream, he narrowed his eyes and shook his head.
“I thought it a forgivable mistake. I tried to stay calm—of course I did. But without birth control, if he’s Omega, a pregnancy likelihood is over ninety percent, and if he’s Beta, it counts as Changing... How could I have been sane?”
He drained the last of his drink in one go. With the bluish veins on his hand standing out, he wiped his lips roughly, hunched forward, and ruffled his hair.
“I know one or two Changings won’t change anything. But... a defense I’d never breached was shattered so easily. By the most unlikely adversary. Do you understand me?”
His bare shoulders and chest swelled with emotional intensity.
“What’s more astonishing is that after noting him, he was perfectly fine.”
He lifted the empty glass but found no whiskey left.
“I told you it was impossible. A Beta withstanding my noting without so much as a scratch—twice? You know Omegas would suffer at least a day or two, Golden Omegas too. Yet he—”
Perhaps the other spoke, for he cut himself off and faltered like a scolded child.
Why did I even have a second penetration? he seemed to ask himself, lips trembling.
He’d blamed the stronger pheromones, but he couldn’t fool himself—or the one on the line—for not actively avoiding that situation.
What if he hadn’t come up to my bedroom? What if I’d gone to sleep quietly?
What he was sure of, from the moment he saw the man trembling, soaked in rain at his doorstep, was that he’d felt such fierce anger to destroy whatever had made him like that—and with equal force, an overwhelming lust for him.
He knew from education what kind of instinct that mix of rage and desire was.
From long exchange with a single Omega, the protective instinct an Alpha develops toward his Omega—at least that seemed closest.
Though such chances were rare now, he also knew that an Alpha faithful to one Omega wouldn’t hesitate to die for that Omega.
He recalled his sex-ed teacher’s impersonal explanation: that as biological fixtures prioritizing reproduction, Alphas protected pregnant Omegas above all—a definition he’d hated as a boy, as if reducing him to a breeding vessel.
But if the anger and desire he’d felt at the gate were akin to an Alpha’s protective instinct, it hadn’t repelled him as theory had.
Rather, he’d never seen a more pitiable, lovable creature. He’d felt he could give everything to protect him and make him smile—and all his energy had concentrated simply on that being.
That misplaced willingness to sacrifice hadn’t repulsed him, but it baffled him nonetheless.
First, this wasn’t his Omega from long acquaintance. Indeed, he wasn’t even an Omega. How could his Alpha instinct be triggered by someone whose very existence was uncertain?
“The second time, I was completely dominated by his pheromones—dragged into noting and even Changing again. I fought to keep pace, but... it was useless. His pheromones seemed designed to compel me to note and Change. It’s beyond me now—his pheromones don’t just stimulate mine...”
He moved his lips and, with a sigh that seemed to push out the cold wind within, said:
“What on earth... is he?”
It felt as if he’d told that long story just to speak that one line.
“No. No, no.”
He shook his head repeatedly, rejecting the answer from the other end.
“Unstable, immature Omega pheromones? For a Golden Alpha like me... to lose control to immature Omega pheromones? Is that possible?”
Amid rising arousal, he gripped his head in painful frustration.
“If that were so... then what about me? Am I really a Golden Alpha? A Ghost?”
He wrapped his head in his hands; his shoulders rose and fell in the darkness.
“I tried to calm down, to be rational. So many times.”
His voice bore the sharp edge of desperation—regret, self-reproach, and the fear of an unknown future.
“But lately, whenever I face him, I feel drawn helplessly. My best defense is to suppress releasing pheromones. Even that... if the place and conditions let us touch, I fall into a madness of craving him. If he sends his pheromones first, I can’t resist—there is no will to resist in me; I’m utterly powerless before his pheromones...”
With elbows on his thighs, he raised his head, palm spread, stroking his jaw as though crushing it.
“To be conquered by mere pheromones, to lose all self-control and go into heat... is this what a Golden Alpha is? After all my training, am I to become such a beast?”
Now his voice softened into emptiness. His gaze at the void was just as hollow.
When the other offered words of comfort, he gave a short, mirthless laugh.
“I’m not afraid. I’m confused.”
He didn’t get the clear answer he wanted—yet he’d never expected one. Even he, versed in Alpha-Omega lore, had never heard of such a case; the other sounded just as unsettled.
Perhaps unburdening himself had eased some weight, he thought—but no. The problem remained, and only he could face it alone.
“I’m going to Chicago in September for an exhibition. I’ll come see you then. And if you learn anything before that... well, let me know. Okay?”
When he hung up, he remained frozen, leaning forward. Only after a long moment did he straighten, pressing his eyes and muttering a curse under his breath.
Rising to fetch more whiskey, he crossed the carpet and caught his foot on the floor lamp’s cord. Instinctively, he reached to steady the lamp—but its thin, rigid metal just missed his grasp.
He managed to break his fall with knee and thigh, sparing the shade and bulb, but furious at such a careless mistake, he swore again.
Forgoing his drink, he laid the lamp on its side, sat on the floor, blinked several times, then, in resignation, leaned back into the sofa and closed his eyes.
He said he wasn’t afraid, that fear was impossible—but deep down, he couldn’t be sure.
No longer could he be certain of anything—not even his own existence.
If he looked in a mirror, he felt he wouldn’t even recognize himself there. And that, he knew, was fear.
