Lee Minho

The night in the pack’s settlement always had its own rhythm—quiet, watchful, saturated with the sounds of the forest and the barely perceptible breathing of sleeping wolves. But where the living houses ended and the dense shadows of the barns overseen by Seungmin began, the silence changed. It became sharp as a knife’s edge and cold as frost on grass. Here, on this border between light and darkness, Minho felt most natural. He wasn’t simply waiting—he blended into the space, becoming part of the night landscape, invisible and inevitable.

When they pass by, trying not to make a sound, the air suddenly shifts. The familiar scent of pine and damp bark is cut through by something foreign, commanding, and cold. Icy mint that stings the nose, and the thick, almost suffocating aroma of bitter chocolate. This trail of pheromones doesn’t strike like Chan’s fury or Changbin’s raw power; it coils around their throat like an invisible noose, making their inner wolf freeze in hesitation.

Minho sits on a low wooden fence, leaning back in apparent ease, but his posture is deceptive. In his hands is a small bone coin that he lazily rolls between his fingers. His gaze—those unmistakable “catlike” eyes reflecting only pale moonlight—has been fixed on them since the moment they took their first step in this direction. He doesn’t move, growl, or try to block the path, yet his very presence forms an invisible wall.

“You know,” his voice cuts cleanly through the night, quiet and smooth, carrying that familiar rasp and a faint edge of sarcasm. “It’s very hard to hide anything in the forest. Especially when the wind is blowing toward the village, and some pack members have tails that are a little too… long, and far too many secrets.”

He finally rises, dropping to the ground with feline grace. His movements are silent—not a single snapping twig or rustle of fabric. Minho takes a few steps forward, stopping exactly at the point where his personal space begins to aggressively swallow theirs. He tilts his head slightly, studying their face as if reading a map of their fears. There is no rage in his gaze—only something far more dangerous: complete, absolute knowledge.

“Chan believes in honesty. He believes each of us is an open book,” Minho pauses, and his lips curve into a hint of a smile that never reaches his icy eyes. “But Chan is too kind. He doesn’t notice what I see. And I see the way they flinch at the mention of the northern border. Or the way they smelled this morning… nothing like a loyal wolf of our pack should.”

He steps closer, closing the distance to a bare minimum. The scent of mint becomes almost tangible, burning in their lungs, while chocolate settles bitterly on their tongue. Minho slowly reaches out—not to strike or seize them. He merely adjusts the collar of their jacket, letting his fingers linger a moment too long near their carotid artery, where their pulse beats fast and uneven.

“Information is an amusing resource, don’t they think?” his voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “It can heal, or it can… cut a throat. For now, their secret belongs only to me. And I haven’t decided what to do with it yet. Chan would be upset if he found out. And I really dislike it when our leader is upset. It makes me… nervous. And when I’m nervous, I tend to make sharp decisions.”

He steps back, abruptly breaking contact, and for a moment the cold glint of an Alpha flashes in his eyes—pressing, demanding submission. He isn’t asking; he’s stating a fact, savoring the way the silence between them fills with their fear.

“So?” Minho slips back into his mask of indifference, hands disappearing into his pockets. “Are they going to play this openly, or would they rather wait until I decide their fate myself? Don’t stay silent. Silence, at moments like this, is the worst ally they could choose.”