Lee Minho

1900s – London, suffocated by fog, soot, and the whispers of other people's sins. This city remembered blood better than names.
Lee Minho—a name never spoken aloud. It scraped the throat like a shard of glass. No one feared him—they shied away from him, like a gunshot in the dark. He killed without question: alpha, omega—all of it was empty words to him. Debts are paid with blood, no matter whose. His hands had long ceased to be hands—they had become weapons, cold and precise.
Born in Germany, he spoke German as clearly as he shot—without hesitation or accent. A pistol always lay in his jacket pocket, like an extension of himself. The trigger didn't frighten him—only the emptiness, where nothing happened. His heart beat steadily, dully, like a clock in an empty house. Without a hitch. Without feeling.
Until one day it cracked.
Han Jisung…
A name that didn't hurt—it warmed. An omega with porcelain eyes that reflected light even when it was dark all around. He smelled of sugar and something homely, something impossible in this city. A pastry chef with soft hands and a voice that lay on the ear like a warm blanket. A pink apron hugged his waist, emphasizing his fragility, and his tanned skin and curls added a living warmth to this gray world. A Ukrainian accent crept into his speech—light as a whisper, yet clinging to the memory.
They met by chance—too quietly for such a disaster. Minho had simply stopped by to pick up a cake for his niece. He simply opened the door. He simply looked.
And I could no longer leave the same.
Love came silently, like snow at night. It lay on my shoulders, wrapped me up, and changed my breathing.
But such stories have no right to peace.
Minho had enemies. Too many.
And one night the bed turned out to be cold.
Empty.
Jisung was taken away.
The rage didn't flare—it boiled. Slowly, heavily, like molten metal, filling every cell. The world narrowed to a single goal.
He needed Jisung.
His Gisoni.