Chapter Text
Life is different in prison.
On the outside, who you are matters. Whether you’re rich or poor, whether you’re a student, whether your family has influence or you’ve built yourself up from nothing. Whether you’ve been in a magazine, published something, or created something. Whether you’re a professor, or a scientist, or a CEO, or a person with a guitar in a train station who plays there every single day without fail, for a few dollars from passersby. Whether you stop to feed the birds in the park, or have children, or ride a bicycle, or don’t eat meat. All of those people have a place in the world.
They live their normal lives, luxurious or stressful, day by day, without knowing what the grass is like on the other side.
Taeyong has had a lot of time to think lately, and he imagines that somewhere, someone is leaving their house in pajamas to buy an overpriced coffee from a very well-known chain. Someone is lying under a beach umbrella, rubbing sunscreen onto their arms and complaining about how much they hate sand getting everywhere. A man is probably stranded on the side of the road with a broken-down vehicle. A young woman is likely graduating from college, with the dreams of her entire life ahead of her. There is almost certainly someone in a church, or at a gas station, or plotting how to steal a tube of lipstick from a department store. Or walking their dog, or ordering from the breakfast menu at a restaurant at eleven at night, or waking up knowing they have to work for eight hours.
The outside world keeps spinning… but inside the prison walls it feels like the same day, every day, and it doesn’t matter who you are.
No one cares if you’re rich or poor in prison. It makes no difference if you have a degree, or a wealthy family, or any kind of skill, or any fragment of evidence that you’ve left a mark on the outside world. You wear the same as everyone else, because you are at the same low status as everyone else.
The only thing that matters inside prison is where you fall on the universal social ladder. It is incredibly important to know who your friends are and who has your back. How strong you are matters, a lot, and who you know matters even more.
And every day is the same.
Taeyong is lying on his back, staring up at the fluorescent lights in his small cell, which buzz endlessly and never turn off.
The room is tiny, two meters by three, and contains nothing more than a rigid metal slab bolted to the wall with a thin futon-style mattress on top. There is a lidless toilet, a small metal sink with no mirror, and a door with a slot through which food comes and goes. The walls are completely bare, except for small carvings beneath the bed, where someone scratched nonsense into the surface to avoid going completely insane from boredom. The door is only fully opened once every three days to allow him to shower, and then he is locked back inside.
There are no sounds in the small room except his own breathing and the cracking of his back and ankles when he moves; his bones pop every time he stands up, and he has spent a long time over the past few days lying on the thin futon, thinking. There is nothing to do but think and listen to the footsteps of correctional officers through the door, and to the moans and complaints of those locked in similar boxes around him here in the hole.
That’s what they call solitary confinement on the upper floor: the hole. Probably because it’s underground, windowless, with nothing to remind you that there’s an outside world. After more than a week, he thinks he might go crazy and start peeling paint off the walls too.
He wishes they would turn the lights off at night.
Taeyong heard someone knocking on the heavy iron door, followed by the beep that rang out for the first time in countless hours. He immediately rolled over to look up and saw the warden standing there—the first real person Taeyong had seen in five days who wasn’t wearing a black guard uniform. The warden had a neatly trimmed mustache and a plain gray suit with a blue tie. Taeyong liked the small burst of blue. Personally, he’d been wearing far too much orange lately.
“Lee Taeyong, it’s time to return to gen pop,” the warden announced. Taeyong slowly rolled out of bed and stood up, his ankles cracking softly. He pulled down his rumpled, wrinkled shirt that matched his pants, and walked silently in socked feet to the door. The warden stepped back as he approached, and Taeyong slipped his feet into the shoes by the door. They were prison-issued, just like the orange uniforms—simple gray and white. When he finished, he looked at the warden and the guard behind him.
The officer held a pair of handcuffs, and Taeyong already knew the routine here. He held out his hands and watched glumly as they clicked shut around his wrists.
They led him out of solitary confinement, and he felt his legs thank him for the stretch as he walked down the hallway toward the elevators.
“No more threats. No more knives. You hear me?” the warden warned as the three of them rode the elevator. “You haven’t been sentenced yet, but any more stunts like that and you’ll be here for life. Follow the rules, understood?”
The older man spoke, and Taeyong tasted bitterness in his mouth at the tone and the words.
“My father used to tell me that,” Taeyong murmured, watching the numbers change above the elevator door. “Playing by the rules somehow got me here,” he added. Everyone fell silent. He knew no one really cared what he had to say. He was a prisoner. A lesser person compared to the two of them who would get to go home to comfortable beds in decent houses.
The elevator dinged, the doors opened slowly, and Taeyong was led down the secured hallway, the guard’s hand on his shoulder. The short corridor had offices, each door bearing a name, and at the start and end of each section were more uncovered exits. There was no escaping this place—the locks kept everyone inside. They only let you out if they allowed it. He still couldn’t hear the other inmates yet, but he knew they were just a few hallways away. The warden left him, and a second guard was waiting behind door number one to escort him back to general population with all the other prisoners.
“We’re taking you back to your cell. You can come out at lunch,” the second guard said, and Taeyong nodded silently. He was incredibly grateful not to be thrown straight into gen pop after his five-day stay in the hole. Even though he hadn’t eaten breakfast, he was willing to wait a few more hours until lunch if it meant avoiding the other prisoners for a little longer.
The lock buzzer hummed as it disengaged, and they opened the door for the three of them. Taeyong saw another closed door farther down the hallway, and now he could hear it—the chatter of the other prisoners. Taeyong swallowed to himself as he stood in front of the final door, both guards behind him. He hardened his face, forcing himself to stay calm and unflappable. The moment the doors opened, the smells hit him hard and his stomach churned, but he didn’t let it show.
He could feel every kind of anxiety inside, but on the outside he needed to be a hardened rock.
General population was the central area of the prison where all the inmates spent their time when they weren’t in the yard, in their cells, or at their prison jobs. In Taeyong’s opinion, gen pop was one of the scariest parts of being in prison. There were so many inmates, and they outnumbered the guards ten to one. If anything happened—a fight, a threat—Taeyong wasn’t sure a guard could stop it in time.
The smells hit him as hard as the sights. Besides the cleaning solution and the mandatory prison shampoos and soaps everyone had to use, people’s scents were very similar to those in the outside world. Some subtle, some strong, some good, some vile. He scanned the main hall that connected the four cell blocks. There were metal tables bolted to the floor where inmates lingered. Every table was occupied, with little groups and gangs sitting on them or around them. Some were playing cards, others just talking, but whenever the lock buzzer sounded, it always drew the attention of those nearby.
His first entry into general population hadn’t caused a stir in their eyes, but it didn’t take long before they knew who he was beyond these walls, and then everything changed for him. He could no longer fly under the radar of the other prisoners undetected.
This time, he heard the calls, shouts, and jeers; he felt the stares of envy, hatred, and lust, but Taeyong kept his eyes focused ahead on his destination. He didn’t lower his chin; he couldn’t waver. He just had to listen to them say whatever they had to say and suppress the growing instinct to fight or flee. His hands started to sweat, but he stayed as calm as he could while they taunted him.
“Look who’s back?”
“I heard a pretty boy got into a fight.”
“Oh, little omega, ready to take on the big dogs, huh?”
“Did your daddy get you out of solitary?”
“Where’s your knife now? Leave it in the hole?”
Taeyong’s eyes stayed forward, shoulders back. He’d been warned that those who submitted would be targeted, but Taeyong had been taught from a young age never to yield to anyone. He had to pretend he wasn’t affected. The moment they knew he was scared shitless, they’d win, and Taeyong didn’t want to know the outcome of that scenario.
One of them broke away from the sidelines and moved toward him quickly. Caught off guard, Taeyong hesitated and glanced at him briefly—something his cellmate had told him never to do. When the larger inmate reached Taeyong and grabbed his shoulder before a guard shoved him back, it was impossible for Taeyong not to look.
“We’ve been waiting for you to come back, bitch,” the man growled, and Taeyong’s heart began pounding wildly at the thought. This alpha was friends with the one Taeyong had clashed with five days earlier. A guard pushed Taeyong forward while the other stayed behind and threatened the inmate with a write-up if he continued. Taeyong fixed his gaze ahead again, feeling other people’s eyes on him, but he needed to remain unflappable. He’d rather keep up the pretense of composure than crumble beneath them.
In a minute, they were standing at the entrance to Block C, the buzzer sounded as the door opened, the iron gates swung wide, and Taeyong felt his nerves unwind a little as the heavy gen pop door closed behind them.
Inside Block C, the sounds of gen pop were muffled. They walked down the wide, empty hallway of prison cells. All the cells were the same size, but some had drawings—the simple affections prisoners were allowed to keep. Taeyong smelled the familiar scents of his neighbors’ cells and the other inmates who lived in his block.
His cell was empty—his cellmate was in gen pop or somewhere else—but Taeyong was grateful for a moment alone. Even though he’d just spent the last five days in solitary, he wasn’t ready to join the other prisoners. They opened his cell, and Taeyong stepped inside. The door closed and locked behind him. Taeyong turned, pushed his hands through the open slot in the bars, and the guard uncuffed his wrists and removed the shackles.
“Freshen up for a bit. Someone will come get you for lunch,” the guard said, and without another word, both turned away. Taeyong pressed against the bars and called after them.
“Wait,” he said. “Shouldn’t I be heading to the kitchen soon? They might need me to prep lunch.” The guards looked at each other, then turned back to stare at him in the cell with fake apologetic expressions.
“No. You’ve been removed from kitchen staff. You’ll eat lunch with the rest of gen pop,” one said. Taeyong felt his heart sink at the terrible news, his eyes and mouth opening, ready to ask more questions. “You can’t threaten someone with a knife and then go back to the kitchen. After lunch, you can go see your inmate counselor and check what jobs are available, but because of your kitchen incident, your options will be limited.” Taeyong’s mouth opened desperately.
“No,” he shook his head. “No, I can’t work anywhere else. Please.” He tried not to sound helpless, but his plans to keep a low profile and avoid gen pop were ruined by this news. The kitchen had been a safe haven for him; the officer just shrugged.
“I don’t know what to tell you. You need a perfect record and no violence reports to work in the kitchens. We can’t have people with outbursts like yours handling knives and other potential weapons. If you stay clean, you can be reevaluated for kitchen duty in six months.” Then he turned and started walking away. Taeyong was stunned.
“I didn’t even start the fight!” Taeyong shouted. “I was defending myself!” He called after the guards, who didn’t care to listen, and they left Block C, leaving Taeyong gripping the bars of his cell as he tried to calm down.
The kitchen had been his safe space; the staff worked all day. From sunup to sundown. If they weren’t preparing food or serving it, they were cleaning and washing dishes to prep for the next meal. Three meals a day, every day. No breaks. They ate in the lulls when they had a moment before starting the next task.
No longer being allowed to work and eat in the kitchen meant he could no longer hide in a corner by the clean dishes, stealing bites. He had to eat in the cafeteria dining hall with everyone else.
His heart pounded beneath his starched prison uniform as he lined up with his tray for lunch. As he shuffled down the line with the others around him, voices echoing behind him in the crowded cafeteria, he glanced briefly at the inmates behind the glass and counters.
His heart clenched when he saw an omega he used to work with, who gave him a pitying look—one that said “I miss you” and “I’m sorry,” but nothing could be done about it now. At the end of the line, as he reached for a cup of water, his fingers brushed the alpha handing it to him, and Taeyong looked up, feeling his stomach shrink inward. He mustered the meanest glare he could while the alpha grinned back with his teeth.
It was his fault. This alpha was the reason Taeyong had been thrown into solitary and was now forced to join the others in gen pop. This piece of shit was why Taeyong no longer had a kitchen job. The alpha’s smile twisted as their eyes met.
“Welcome back,” he greeted in an overly friendly tone, and Taeyong’s upper lip curled in a silent snarl.
“Don’t fucking talk to me,” Taeyong spat, taking the plastic cup and walking with his tray to fill it with water. When he finished, he turned toward the open cafeteria and swallowed hard.
He walked slowly and steadily through the tables, each filled with other men in identical orange clothing. Every table he approached gave him the same look—critical and unwelcoming—and forced Taeyong to move on to the next. He was reaching the end of the row, the last tables, when a group of elderly inmates waved him over—all of them clearly over eighty and undoubtedly here for decades.
Taeyong felt his heart swell and his nerves relax as he followed the wave and tentatively sat beside them. They all nodded in greeting and then ignored him, which was probably the best outcome Taeyong could have asked for. Making friends in prison was far harder than in the real world. Everyone wanted something in return here. Nothing came free; you did a favor, and they expected one later.
Taeyong caught an interesting scent and turned his head to locate it. His eyes locked with someone at another table, and Taeyong’s fingers gripped his chopsticks. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed this person, but they hadn’t spoken. On his first day, his cellmate had told Taeyong to avoid that particular group. Most of the table were alphas—all tall, younger, strongly built—and each had a small tattoo on the inside of their left wrist. Taeyong hadn’t been close enough to any of them to see it clearly, but he followed his cellmate’s advice and didn’t try to look too closely. He’d been told:
“That’s Jaehyun’s crew.”
He didn’t know what that meant or which one was Jaehyun. He never asked, and he made sure never to seek the answer. While working in the kitchen, he never had to worry about who was who in the bullpen. He felt better not knowing, and he looked away from the long-haired man and back to his lunch. Taeyong only managed a couple of bites before someone sat across from him. His lip curled again at the scent, and he refused to look up, hunching over his food as if protecting it.
“Well, well, well,” the alpha’s voice dripped, and Taeyong didn’t respond, just shoved another piece of soft white rice into his mouth. “Been a while since we saw you here, huh?” he asked. The other inmates who had kindly let him sit at the edge of their table slid farther down the benches, away from the two of them, and Taeyong squared his jaw.
“Leave me alone,” Taeyong said, but it didn’t come out as forceful as he intended.
“Leave me alone,” the alpha mocked in a high-pitched voice that made Taeyong clench his teeth. So childish. “No, no, look—you messed with my boy in the kitchen. Now we’re gonna have a problem.” Taeyong took a deep breath through his nose before meeting the man’s face. Prison hadn’t been kind to him. Patchy beard and mustache, a gold-capped canine—probably for show—and a horrible snake tattoo on the right side of his head. A degenerate in every sense.
“What do you want?” Taeyong asked, playing the appeasing card instead of the fight card. He didn’t want this to go sideways and land him back in solitary.
“There’s a lot I want,” the alpha replied in a sing-song tone. “I want my freedom. I want to walk down the sidewalk with my lady on my arm. But right now, I want your cookie.” He grinned. “I really like sweet things, you see, and starting today, you’re gonna give me your dessert at every meal. Or I talk to my boys and make your life a little harder here. How’s that sound?” He smiled, flashing his ugly yellow teeth and gold canine.
Taeyong was half tempted to grab his dry almond cookie and shove it in his mouth right then. He wanted to tell this particular criminal—who he knew was buddies with the vile kitchen staff alpha—to go fuck himself, but he didn’t.
“My life’s already hard,” Taeyong said with a bored sigh. “I’m sitting here in this vulgar orange outfit, eating this bland-as-shit food, staring at your nasty teeth, but sure.” He picked up his cookie with two fingers and tossed it at the alpha, who barely caught it, crumbs spilling over him and the table. “Oh, hey, maybe if you try hard enough, you can ruin your teeth even more and get them all capped in fake gold. It might make you look even dumber, but that’s just my opinion.” The alpha glared.
“What did you just say, little bitch?” he asked, leaning forward, his breath fanning over Taeyong’s face and making him grimace harder. Taeyong felt his nape prickle at being called a bitch twice in one day.
“I said…” Taeyong started, leaning forward a bit more, his brain screaming “for God’s sake, stop,” but his mouth couldn’t help itself: “Brush your nasty fucking teeth, you piece of trash!”
Since Taeyong could no longer fly under the radar, he figured it was better not to back down and not to let himself be bullied. He might be an omega, but his parents had taught him from a very young age to stay strong and vigilant and never let anyone see or smell your fear. But he felt his fear when the alpha stood up and slammed a fist on the table, making everyone around them jump or look their way.
“You better shut your mouth, Lee Taeyong, before I shut it for you!” he growled, baring his teeth, his gaze darting to the name embroidered on the Velcro patch on Taeyong’s shirt front. Taeyong didn’t even bother reading or learning the man’s name; he kept his bored eyes locked on the bastard’s.
“Are you threatening me now?” Taeyong asked in a lazy tone, resting his chin on one palm even though his muscles felt tense, ready to bolt at any second.
At that moment, a guard stepped in and gave the aggressive inmate a verbal warning, telling him to walk away. Taeyong watched him leave, fuming with clenched fists and returning to his table. Taeyong glanced at his food for a moment, took a breath, then looked at the elderly men who had let him sit with them.
“Sorry,” Taeyong apologized softly and sincerely before continuing to eat at the edge of the table.
He no longer had an appetite, but he forced himself to bring the food to his mouth and swallow every bite. It was more of a show for the other inmates, who still glanced back to inspect him every few moments. Even though he was a bundle of nerves inside, he had to remain intact on the outside—as if he’d easily shrugged off that confrontation. No one could see how he really felt: targeted and scared beyond belief.
After lunch, Taeyong stepped away from gen pop to sit with his inmate counselor and discuss prison jobs he could still do.
He asked a guard to escort him there, and the guard obliged, cuffing him before leading him through the necessary doors. Fortunately for Taeyong, the counselor assigned to him was an acquaintance of his father. Taeyong raised both cuffed hands to knock politely, and the man inside told him to come in. Taeyong turned the knob, and the older man greeted him warmly. Taeyong held out his hands for the guard to uncuff him, and once free, he entered the office and was offered a chair.
“How was solitary?” his counselor asked, and Taeyong shrugged.
“Not as quiet as you’d think.” “How are you?” Taeyong asked politely, maybe hoping for a civilized conversation to buy time before returning to prisoner status.
“Oh, can’t complain,” the man chuckled. “What can I do for you?”
“Ah, I’m looking for work. I’d like to see what options I have now that I’ve been removed from kitchen staff.”
“Oh, I see,” the man said, then tilted his head and frowned. “But do you need a prison job? I assume… your family has topped up your commissary account?”
“Oh, my brother sent me commissary money,” Taeyong replied. “But really, I’d like a job to keep busy until trial.” The man chuckled and leaned back in his computer chair.
“That’s right. I remember you were always like that, even as a kid. Drawing, animals, dancing, baking. Always a busy child.” He listed with a fond shadow, then turned to his computer and started typing. As he entered Taeyong’s information, the omega’s eyes wandered around the office. There was a photo of him, his wife, and their two daughters on the wall behind the desk, along with his certifications, and a small zen sand garden on the corner of the desk that Taeyong wouldn’t mind playing with right now, but he refrained. Being near a friendly face and treated like a normal human gave him a little comfort.
“How are your daughters?” Taeyong asked. “The older one hasn’t finished high school yet, right?”
“Not quite,” he turned and looked at the family portrait. “She’s in her senior year, but already making plans to move to college in eight months.” He sighed and turned back to the computer. “You kids grow up fast.”
Taeyong looked aside and out the window. The windows were reinforced glass with metal wires between the panes, but that didn’t stop Taeyong from gazing at the parking lot and trees. He envied this man, who would drive one of those cars home today to a family that cared about him.
“So, it says here you brandished a weapon against someone,” the man clucked his tongue at the computer screen, refocusing Taeyong. “That’s a serious offense. There aren’t many jobs I can offer you, Taeyong.” He sighed. “You can’t work in the garden—too many tools could be weapons. No metalwork or electrical, again, power tools…” He shook his head. “Basically, you have three options: laundry, janitorial, or the barbershop.”
Taeyong was considering laundry when his eyes lit up at the last option.
“Barbershop?”
“Yes, looks like the salon has room for another hair cutter. You’d be washing and cutting hair.”
“Wait…” Taeyong laughed a little. “I can’t work in the garden, but I can work in the salon and use scissors?” His counselor laughed.
“No. Only electric clippers. You’d be trimming beards and buzzing heads. Only senior salon workers with clean records get scissors.” He leaned back in his chair. “Keep your record clean for three months, come back for a psych eval, and I’ll push for scissors approval. But no more brandishing weapons, Taeyong. You’re better than that.” He gave Taeyong a disapproving look that Taeyong would rather not receive after everything.
“It was self-defense, but I’m sure that’s not in the file, huh?” Taeyong asked dryly, a bit bitter, and the man gave him an apologetic smile.
“Unfortunately, circumstances don’t matter. Brandishing a knife in jail is serious. I’m surprised you only got five nights in solitary. But I guess it was your first offense…” He mused, and Taeyong’s stomach felt empty at the words and how little the finer details of last week’s kitchen incident seemed to matter.
“I’ll take the barber position, please,” Taeyong murmured, ready to end this conversation sooner than anticipated.
“You got it,” his counselor said, clicking the mouse a few times. “You can start the day after tomorrow. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, thanks. Have a good day and say hi to your wife and kids,” Taeyong said, still polite despite being angry and hurt inside. He stood, shook the counselor’s hand, and returned to the door, the guard waiting to escort him back to gen pop.
The barber job ended up being far better than kitchen duty in his opinion. Including himself, there were only four people on salon staff, and none were alphas. The oldest inmate—clearly the one who ran this prison salon—showed Taeyong where they kept shampoos, conditioners, towels, hair dryers, and clippers. When he handed Taeyong his kit with a full set of clippers and various guards, he told him it was his responsibility to keep them clean, and if they were found dirty or not sanitized between cuts, Taeyong would get a write-up.
Taeyong truly respected how strictly this fifty-year-old beta ran his salon and how the others deferred to him too. He showed Taeyong his small station—the last chair closest to the back wall—and Taeyong saw all the combs and dryers at his disposal.
The sharp barber scissors of various sizes were kept in a locked drawer and had to be signed out before use; one had to be returned before another could be taken. There was a guard stationed by the door and the locked scissors drawer, watching to ensure everything stayed orderly.
Barbers arrived at the salon at eight, right after breakfast, and by eight-thirty they were open until six p.m., just before dinner. The others working in the salon showed Taeyong the cuts and tricks and told him about regular clients who would come in for shaves.
Taeyong soaked up their information like a sponge. He didn’t want to get fired from this position, and it seemed like a very relaxed place to be.
After a week working there, he learned the salon was far more useful for learning prison hierarchy and gossip. In the kitchen, Taeyong rarely saw other inmates—just those on kitchen staff. He seldom dealt with gen pop. But here in the salon, gen pop came to them.
Many clients—the inmates getting shaved or trimmed—chatted, either among themselves or with their barber, and Taeyong was learning a lot just by staying quiet and listening.
When certain inmates entered the salon, everything else seemed to pause so the senior barber could handle them personally and get them out fast. One was the man with the ugly snake tattoo and gold tooth. He kept giving Taeyong unsettling looks through the mirror, and though Taeyong could feel his eyes, he didn’t meet them, choosing to focus on whatever task he had.
In the second week, after Taeyong felt more comfortable with his coworkers and boss and had a better handle on the room, something very interesting happened.
Taeyong was in the middle of shaving someone’s face—an skinny alpha who didn’t talk to him, which made the job easier—when a scent entered the room.
Taeyong glanced up briefly and locked eyes with the small group of men entering the salon. They were from the same crew as the elusive Jaehyun everyone talked about in these very salon chairs—the one whose scent always drew Taeyong’s gaze during meals—led by the alpha in question. He was tall, with long hair in a messy bun of various faded brown tones and natural black roots showing underneath. He had a lollipop stick between his lips and was flanked by two other alphas. The hand holding the stick bore a small black tattoo on the inside of his wrist.
The entire room seemed to freeze, and all the happy, polite chatter stopped. Even the man in Taeyong’s chair looked at the newcomer through the mirrors with wide eyes.
No one spoke as the three headed to the back of the salon, and the one with the candy hopped up to sit on the counter where towels were stored. Taeyong looked away from him and back to his task as usual, ignoring the scent for now. He tilted the man’s head back with a finger and slowly ran the buzzing clipper along his neck and jaw to trim facial hair. He heard his superior clear his throat and walk toward the three, wiping his hands on his apron. Taeyong’s eyes stayed on his work, but his ears tuned in.
“Welcome. Back for a cut?” his superior asked. The one addressed popped the lollipop from his mouth with a slow, audible sound.
“Something like that,” Taeyong heard his voice for the first time—cheerful and kind, maybe even playful.
“I can help you right here if you’re ready,” his superior said, pointing to his empty chair two seats down from Taeyong’s. The man shook his head.
“No thanks. I’d like him to do it,” he said, pointing his lollipop toward Taeyong. Taeyong glanced at his client briefly to confirm it was him, and his heart jumped. He wanted Taeyong? Why?
Well, maybe Taeyong knew why. A handful of alphas had made it clear in the past four months he’d been incarcerated that they wanted to fuck him or mess with him, and Taeyong was sure this alpha was acting on the scent instinct they all had. He’d never seek anyone out here, even if they smelled good, but this one was apparently coming to him. After weeks of catching fleeting glances, facing him in a place where Taeyong was starting to feel comfortable felt cornering. He felt his hands start to sweat, but like a well-rehearsed song, Taeyong kept his expression neutral.
Before Taeyong could nod to his superior, the man in his chair moved to yank off the black cape around his neck quickly.
“I’ll get out of your way,” he muttered. Taeyong startled, a surprised sound escaping his throat before he grabbed the alpha by the shoulder and pushed him back into the chair, removing the clipper from his hand at the same time.
“Excuse me, what are you doing?” Taeyong hissed, confused about what the hell had just happened when this new person walked in. He looked at the alpha in his chair. “No. Sit back down. If you think I’m letting you leave this salon with half a beard, you’re wrong.” Everyone’s eyes in the room flicked to him briefly, making the hair on Taeyong’s nape stand up. He forced his voice softer, releasing the shoulder and repositioning the cape. “I’m almost done. Please relax.” The man swallowed, his eyes darting from Taeyong’s to the reflection of the man behind him.
“You should listen to your stylist,” the smug alpha behind them laughed. “You don’t want him to bite. Take your time, Lee Taeyong.” Taeyong’s eyes flicked back to him. The tension in the room was thick. Taeyong met the long-haired alpha’s eyes for just a second longer, realizing for the first time they might be the same age and that he was, perhaps, attractive by someone’s standards—before switching the clipper back on and refocusing on the man in his chair.
Taeyong tried not to let his eyes drift back to the man on the counter, but he couldn’t help it and saw a small black notebook in his hand and a tiny pencil too. The long-haired alpha was taking notes or doodling. Taeyong thought that was odd—especially since anything like a pencil could be an improvised weapon—but the guard seemed indifferent, and Taeyong decided not to linger and looked back at his current task.
In under five minutes, Taeyong finished shaving the man as requested and removed the black cape from his neck.
The man looked at his face in the mirror for less than two seconds before muttering a rushed “Thanks” and bolting from the room. Taeyong’s eyes followed him as he ducked out, then turned to the waiting alpha and gestured to the now-empty chair. Taeyong unplugged his clipper to clean it.
The long-haired man, still sucking his shrinking candy, hopped off the counter and walked to the chair. He sat, crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, leaned back casually. Taeyong resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
For a couple of minutes, no one spoke. The only sounds were the buzz of clippers and soft snips of scissors. Taeyong tried glancing at his coworkers for a clue about what was happening, but all he got were mirror glances before being left in the awkward silence.
After cleaning his clipper, Taeyong turned and went to the cabinets behind them for a fresh cape. He stopped right in front of one of the other alphas who had come in, and the younger, handsome one on the counter looked at him before Taeyong let out a soft but polite “Excuse me,” gesturing for the alpha to move. He did after a prolonged moment, and Taeyong opened the cabinet and pulled out a black cape. He returned to the man in his chair, catching the name on his chest patch quickly before covering it: Jung Yoon Oh.
“There we go,” Taeyong said with a soft sigh as he fastened the cape at the back of his neck and studied their reflections in the mirror. “What would you like?” he asked, placing both hands on the chair behind him. The alpha raised his left hand, and Taeyong caught the flash of his wrist tattoo before he pulled the shrinking candy from his mouth again.
“I’m thinking I need a new look,” the alpha in the chair said, using his planted foot to rock the swivel chair back and forth a little. “Something that says more ‘runway’ and less ‘prison.’” He mused, but that could mean anything. There was a wide range of runway-worthy cuts, and with the amount of hair he had, there was a lot Taeyong could do.
Taeyong’s lips tightened for a moment, eyes narrowing at the bun on the back of the head in front of him.
“May I?” Taeyong asked, his hands gently moving from the chair to the alpha’s head.
“Of course,” Yoon Oh replied, and Taeyong slowly undid the messy bun, removing the elastic and slipping it onto his own wrist out of habit. Once all the alpha’s hair was loose and Taeyong could run his fingers through it, the intoxicating alpha scent flooded him. Taeyong felt his skin warm a little at the fresh aroma up close—like evergreen trees and other floral notes he couldn’t place. His toes curled to keep from leaning forward.
Taeyong combed his fingers through the thick hair in front of him. They tangled, and he pulled a comb from his apron to work it all out. His eyes focused on the long strands as he brushed.
“Well, your hair is very healthy, aside from the old dye and some split ends,” he said after a few moments. “Did you have a particular style in mind, Jung Yoon Oh?” Taeyong asked, and saw the alpha’s brow arch in the mirror. Taeyong felt, once again, every eye turn to watch them and forced himself to ignore it while maintaining eye contact with the one in his chair.
Taeyong saw a dimpled smile spread across Yoon Oh’s face, wide and full of joy.
“Surprise me,” he said.
Taeyong heard someone in the room inhale sharply through their nose, and for the first time, he could hear the muffled noise of gen pop outside the salon doors because the room had gone so quiet after that statement.
Taeyong was also shocked by such a bold idea. Surprise him? Did that mean Taeyong had full creative control? What was the catch? Was this a test? He could refuse. Say no. But what opportunity might he be passing up? So far, people came to him, told him what they wanted, and he did it—like a one-trick pony. “Shave me here, here, and here.” But this was far more interesting. Prison was terribly boring and structured, and this was free play. No rules. Definitely a test. Or this Jung Yoon Oh was insane—which was a possibility Taeyong couldn’t rule out; after all, they were in prison.
Taeyong hummed as if thinking, pocketed the comb, and ran his fingers through Yoon Oh’s hair again, pulling it back, his eyes tracing the glorious multicolored strands. It was almost a shame to cut it, but the darker natural color had grown past his ears, and the dry split ends weren’t impressive. Taeyong’s eyes lifted to the mirror again to study the man’s face in the reflection—the structure of his cheeks and jaw, his soft lips, full brows. Taeyong stepped to the front of Yoon Oh once more, looking at him face-to-face rather than through a mirror, meeting his eyes. He leaned in a little to visualize a new cut on this man’s face while running his fingers from the temples back a few more times. It really was lovely hair—he couldn’t deny it—but he could imagine something more. He saw Yoon Oh’s brown eyes studying his face too, and saw his nostrils flare as the alpha caught his scent as well. Their eyes locked, and Taeyong felt the corner of his lips curl slightly as a vision came to him.
“Okay,” Taeyong said after a few moments, standing straight and removing the hair tie from his wrist. He stepped behind the alpha again and pulled all his hair into a low ponytail, the tangles now gone, leaving about thirty centimeters that Taeyong was already eager to start on. He tied it tightly with the elastic, then looked at Yoon Oh in the mirror. “Are you sure about this?”
“Quite,” the alpha replied, a smile blooming on his face. “And if you get it wrong, I know where to find you.” Taeyong shrugged.
“That’s very true,” he admitted, then went to the counter, picked up his freshly cleaned clipper again, and returned behind the alpha. He gathered the length of the ponytail in his free hand and switched on the clipper, the mechanical buzz starting. “No turning back,” he warned one last time, glancing at the alpha in the mirror again. He gave a small nod to proceed.
Taeyong held the clipper where he’d tied it—just below the elastic—and swiftly cut through the thick brown hair. In under ten seconds, the alpha had gone from a long, voluptuous mane to hair just above the shoulders.
For dramatic effect, Taeyong easily removed the elastic, tied it tightly around the severed ponytail, and tossed it onto the counter in front of Yoon Oh. He caught a brief glimpse of the barber beside him—jaw dropped, eyes wide.
“You can head to the sinks now,” Taeyong said, and everyone watched Yoon Oh rise from the chair, hair uneven, and it was then Taeyong could fully assess him. He really had the full package: tall, handsome, self-assured.
Taeyong followed him to the sinks, placed a towel where Yoon Oh’s neck would rest, and guided his head back into the basin. He stood over him and washed his hair. The generic shampoo muted the alpha’s scent for the moment and gave Taeyong a chance to focus. It had been a long time since he’d had this much hair to work with, and he took his time thoroughly shampooing and conditioning. As he rinsed the conditioner, he caught the alpha smiling at him occasionally, and Taeyong kept meeting his eyes when he knew he shouldn’t.
“If you don’t stop staring, you’ll get water in your eyes,” Taeyong warned, but that only made the man beneath him smile wider.
“You’ll just have to be very careful then,” he teased, and Taeyong clenched his jaw again. He wasn’t sure what game this alpha was playing, but flirting now felt complicated, and Taeyong wasn’t sure he knew all the rules or players. He decided the best way to win—or come out on top—was not to play at all.
When he finished at the sinks, he towel-dried Yoon Oh’s hair and led him back to the cutting station once more. He sectioned the parts he wanted to keep, then picked up his clipper again and wasted no time buzzing the back and sides. He spent time evening out the fade, using one guard, then another, then none to get the buzz length fading right at the nape.
Once done with the clipper, he switched it off again, stepped in front of Yoon Oh, and set it on the counter. Then he released the top hair and combed through it to ensure no tangles before stepping back and sighing.
“Mr. Kwon?” he called to his superior, who looked over from the cut he was giving someone else. “I can’t finish the rest without scissors. Would you take over, please?” His superior seemed to pale at the request.
“Give me a minute,” he said, and Taeyong nodded, turning back to Yoon Oh and touching his free hair again, avoiding his eyes.
“You can’t use scissors,” the alpha stated quietly.
“Right,” Taeyong said, tongue bitter. “Someone ‘with my record’ can’t use anything that could be considered a weapon,” he recited, annoyed at the chain of events that led here.
“Ah, yes, I’d heard you just got out of solitary,” Yoon Oh murmured, and Taeyong briefly met his bright brown eyes. Now that the highlights were gone, his fresh black hair made his eyes look vivid honey.
“I’d prefer not to be gossip fodder,” Taeyong murmured, and Yoon Oh’s lips parted in another dimpled smile.
“Too late,” the alpha’s voice rang, and Taeyong clenched his jaw.
His boss approached then, and Taeyong set aside what the alpha had said while showing the senior barber what he wanted to do with Yoon Oh’s hair. Taeyong noticed how nervous his elder was acting. He stood close and watched as his mentor, with trembling hands, lifted comb and scissors toward Yoon Oh’s head. Before he could touch the hair, Taeyong placed a concerned hand on his wrist.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah, you don’t look well,” Yoon Oh said, his voice dripping with a new tone. “Looks like you’re about to faint, old man.” Then he turned his head toward the front door. “Oh, guard?” Yoon Oh called, making the room tense again; Taeyong froze at the sudden announcement. The trained corrections officer approached the three stealthily, and Taeyong stepped back a couple paces. “This man looks sick. You should take him to medical,” he suggested.
Taeyong watched, stunned, as the guard placed a hand on his superior’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. Before his boss could leave, he set the scissors on the counter beside Yoon Oh’s discarded ponytail. Taeyong’s eyes focused on them, then flicked to his boss once, but the older inmate was looking at Yoon Oh, and Taeyong saw the alpha nod toward them before they left the salon.
All the inmates in the room had stopped. For a tense moment, Taeyong couldn’t process what had just happened. The guard was gone, as was his superior. The inmates and the scissors were unattended. Everyone’s eyes darted to one another and then to the scissors—an excellent weapon and an even better excuse for a month in the hole. Jung Yoon Oh was the first to speak.
“You should pick up those scissors, Taeyong,” Yoon Oh suggested pointedly. “Wouldn’t it be nice to finish what you started?” Taeyong felt his blood run cold. This wasn’t just a test—it was a performance, a show, a power play. This alpha was clearly pulling everyone’s strings. Taeyong couldn’t back down. He blinked out of his daze, then picked up the scissors.
Taeyong moved around Jaehyun as he cut the longer top strands, pulling them between his fingers to line them up properly, and Yoon Oh shifted under his cape and pulled out his small black notebook again.
“Let’s see here…” he sang, licking his thumb and flipping pages. “Lee Taeyong, arrived February 7th, arrested for money laundering but not yet convicted. Attended Seoul University for Business but majored in dance—which I find pretty interesting and will circle back to. Supports various businesses including clothing lines, restaurants, and even charity events. Large family—one older sister, one younger brother, both sets of grandparents prestigious lawyers or congressmen. They say the middle child is the golden child, but not in your case, hm?” The man smiled small, and Taeyong felt the urge to let go of his fingers. “Your immediate family are all lawyers except you and your brother, and you even married a lawyer. Now, how was that…?”
At the mention of his marriage, Taeyong had reached his limit.
“Mr. Jung, do you usually intimidate people with your Google search skills?” Taeyong interrupted, quite annoyed, and once again the whole room seemed tuned to the two of them. “Because most people here know me and my name without even looking me up. That’s what it means to be a public figure. That’s what it means when your father is the lawyer who put a quarter of the inmates in this prison away.” Taeyong spat the words at the silky black hair in front of him. “Don’t think for a second you know me from what you read in the news. Don’t come into this salon demanding my work and tossing me around like a toy. If you want to play, do it somewhere else.” Taeyong stepped to the front again, put the scissors in his mouth—teeth clinking against metal—while running his fingers through the sweet-scented hair one last time to check his work, then stood straight, pulled the scissors from his mouth, and set them firmly on the counter while meeting the alpha’s eyes. “I’m done. Hope it’s runway enough for you.” He hissed once more before removing the black cape and moving to his clipper set to clean them and continue his work.
Though proud of standing up for himself, his heart hammered with anxiety, and his fingers trembled as he disassembled the clipper. For a moment the room was silent before Yoon Oh let out a short, sharp laugh and stood from his chair. Taeyong frowned at him through the mirror, not wanting to look directly as the tall alpha ran his own fingers through his damp hair.
The fresh new cut was definitely striking on his face and build, and his full lips curved into an ever-present satisfied smile.
“I like your guts, Lee Taeyong,” he said after a moment, circling the chair and gesturing to his friends before heading to the salon door. “I’ll be back next week for a touch-up,” Yoon Oh called as he left, every pair of eyes following him, and when he was gone, Taeyong scoffed.
“What an idiot,” he muttered, and the rest of the salon clients turned their heads toward him. Taeyong found himself once again facing stunned eyes.
“You’re a crazy son of a bitch,” one of the men in the chairs muttered.
“Do you know who that was?” another barber hissed.
“Yeah, an idiot,” Taeyong repeated, unbothered.
“That was Jaehyun, you idiot,” the man exclaimed, and Taeyong felt his heart drop and his fingers freeze.
Oh.
Well, fuck.