Yeonjun keeps at his search for Jimin, no matter how fruitless it becomes. He reposts the same blurb about Jimin on different platforms, digs through ancient social media accounts for someone who might know him, but there's nothing. No one seems to remember him. It's as if Jimin never existed at all, as if an omega so unruly could simply be erased.

Soobin is beginning to flag. He won't admit it, but his voice becomes increasingly disheartened each time he tells Yeonjun there's no news, and he sighs deeply as he types Jimin's name into different search engines. He had wanted to fix this for Yeonjun — Soobin always wants to fix Yeonjun's life — but the task is endless and impossible.

Yeonjun's starting to feel a little guilty that Sooobin no longer spends his time at Yeonjun's apartment studying, but looking through likes on an instagram post from 2013. When was the last time Yeonjun edited done of Soobin's essays?

In the middle of the night, Yeonjun sits on his living room couch, his shoulders aching from hunching over his laptop. He talks to Soobin through his headphones, and they can both hear the others' keyboards clattering through their sensitive microphones. Soobin hasn't typed anything in a while.

"You don't have to keep doing this," Yeonjun says.

"No, I want to help you," Soobin says.

"You have school though. And he's not your brother." Yeonjun stares at the search results on Youtube for Choi Jimin — a plastic surgeon, a make up guru, anyone but his brother. "We both thought this would be easier. I would understand if you didn't want to do this anymore."

"It's not that. It's just that I'm not sure what to do next. There has to be something we're not thinking of."

Yeonjun closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, his nose to the sky. Who might have helped Jimin when he first left home? That's the person who might know something. But he can't track down or even remember any of Jimin's friends.

Yeonjun thinks of himself at 15 — unpresented, naive. He was a pampered teenager who wanted to be good but didn't exactly know how. He still needed so much nurturing at that age.

But maybe Jimin didn't. He was always stronger than Yeonjun, braver than him. Maybe he wouldn't have needed help the way that Yeonjun would have.

"You need talk to your parents. They have to know something," Soobin says.

"I already asked my dad; he said no. And yelled at me."

"You need to try again."

Yeonjun stands up, his heartbeat in his ears and his dignity in his throat. He paces the room.

"What do you think they'll do?" Soobin asks.

It's hard to say. Yeonjun's never disobeyed them before — he only knows how they reacted to Jimin. But really, what could they do? Take the train four hours just to hit him? Yell at him over the phone? So what? He can take a little yelling.

What he's not sure he can take is tumbling down in his parents' esteem. Who is he, if not the good son?

"I just don't want to upset her. I think it hurts her to talk about him."

"She misses him?"

Yeonjun doesn't know. Maybe she misses the little boy that the unruly omega replaced. Maybe she doesn't miss her son, but she misses her baby. Or maybe she just hates to be reminded of her failure.

"I don't know if this is the right thing, upsetting her like this. Do you think it's the right thing?"

Say no. Say never mind.

"I think it's the only thing."

Yeonjun books a train ticket to Gyeongsang before going to sleep. In the morning, he tells Juwon he's homesick and misses his mom, which isn't exactly untrue. Juwon stays in Seoul like Yeonjun knew he would — he can't leave his job right now.

Yeonjun's parents welcome him home with open arms and questions about future grandchildren. They're happy to see him, and it's a relief not be the only omega around anymore. He and his mother split the house chores and Yeonjun sleeps two hours more than usual.

Burned orange leaves lie atop most of Gyeongsang this time of year, and the air is clear and crisp. The smell of Seoul's sewage dissipates, the yellow dust in the air. So few cars pass by Yeonjun's home that he can hear birds singing each morning, and stray cats meander along the pavement. Here, everything is still.

Soobin texts Yeonjun periodically, but Yeonjun's hands shake as he replies. Their affair looks seedier from his parents' nest.

Yeonjun wants to get as much information as possible without asking his parents. Maybe he won't have to speak with them about Jimin at all. So, the morning he visits his old high school, he leaves the house before his parents have woken up. He knows he won't be able to dig for Jimin after looking his father in the eye.

The receptionist at the school isn't willing to share records of past students. "We don't want to infringe on our students' privacy."

"I understand. But I used to be a student here. Do you remember me? I'm Choi Yeonjun." He was a friendly, outgoing student, saying hello and smiling to all of the teachers and staff that he passed by. They were so proud of their golden alpha.

The receptionist chews her gum. "Okay."

Perhaps there were a lot of golden alphas. Or perhaps his diminished status has rendered him completely forgettable, just like Jimin.

"My older brother went here too. Jimin. He ran away when he fifteen, and I haven't heard anything from him since then. I'm trying to track him down, and I just wanted to see if he graduated or dropped out."

The receptionist, a female omega in her fifties, looks at him with a bit more compassion. "I'm sorry. We just can't give things like that away freely."

"Please," Yeonjun says, leaning against the counter. " I don't even know if he's alive or dead."

She grimaces. "Alright. I can't give you school records, but there are yearbooks from all past graduating classes in the library. If your brother graduated, he'd be in the yearbook his senior year."

"Thank you so much," Yeonjun says, pushing back against the counter and propelling himself out the door. He doesn't need directions — he remembers the layout of school perfectly.

As he walks through the hallways, everything feels slightly off. Have they changed the fluorescent lighting? Do the janitors use different cleaning products? But it's not the school that's changed; it's him. He was another person when he walked these crowded halls, confident and forthright. Realistically, he peaked in high school, when he was a talented student, a charismatic classmate, an alpha. There were so many pathways he could have walked down; then, all but one fell away. For a moment, he stands tall, pretends he's still that boy.

It takes twenty minutes to find the yearbooks in the library, and another twenty to find the ones from Jimin's years as a student. He opens the one from 2007, Jimin's freshman year. Jimin is there, smiling with a closed mouth to cover up his braces. He was a bit chubby back then, his cheeks pushing up into his eyes. In 2008, he smiles with an open mouth, braces gone, his face gaunt. And in 2009, there is no Choi Jimin. Yeonjun checks the yearbook from Jimin's senior year just in case, but he's absent there too. Jimin didn't even make it to 11th grade before he couldn't take his life anymore.

"Fuck," Yeonjun says. This was the his only lead.

Could Jimin have finished high school elsewhere? If he was staying with a friend, it's possible. But on his own, he likely would have focused on making ends meet over getting his diploma. How many job opportunities are there for high school drop-outs? How much had his parents thwarted Jimin's potential when they beat him out of his home?

Yeonjun sulks out of the school, then drives to the police station. He probably could have called, but Yeonjun knows what he looks like, and he knows he has a bit more pull with alphas when they can see his face.

The police precinct stinks of alpha pheromones, all trying to overpower each other, and Yeonjun wants to turn around and leave. But he forces himself.

The cop at the front desk stares at his phone until Yeonjun gets close. He isn't sure if it's his footsteps or his scent that makes the alpha look up, but he smiles upon seeing Yeonjun. "Can I help you?"

"Do you keep records of old cases?"

"Of course. Why?"

"About fifteen years ago, my brother ran away from home. My family still has never been able to find him."

"You want to see what we found out about him?"

Yeonjun grimaces. "Kind of. I'm not sure if my parents even reported him missing."

The cop quirks an eyebrow. "Why don't you just ask them?"

"It's a sensitive topic. Could you search the old cases, or something? Please?"

The cop looks at him for a moment, as if he's contemplating his decision.

Why does everyone resist him when he tries to get information? Is it really so wrong for him to look for his brother?

The cop chews him gum and hums. "Alright, sure. What's his name?"
"Choi Jimin."

The cop types it into the computer, clicks around a little bit, and frowns. "I'm not seeing anything. Are you sure that's his name?"

Yeonjun tries not to sound too snappish, but seriously, of course he knows his brother's name. "Yes."

The cop looks at the computer a little longer, then finally looks up at Yeonjun. "We don't have anything for him."

"Are you sure?"

The cop nods. "It would have come up. I'm sorry. I guess your parents never called us about him."

They hadn't looked for him at all.

When Yeonjun returns home, he can barely look at his mom. She makes him kimchi stew, spilling a bit of red broth onto both of their finger tips as she sets the bowl down. All of her doting feels dirty, as if Yeonjun has stolen all of the love that his parents should have had for Jimin.

"Are you not feeling well?" She asks, pressing the back of her hand to Yeonjun's forehead. He resists the urge to flinch away. "You look a bit flushed."

"I feel a little sick," Yeonjun says.

"Finish your soup, then go upstairs and rest for a little while."

He nods, ready to obey, but he stops himself. "Mom," he says. "If I ask you something, can you promise not to tell Dad?"

She sits down in the seat next to his. "What's going on?"

"Why didn't you and Dad ever look for Jimin?"

She clasps her fingers over the table, gripping them hard. Her baby pink nails dig into her skin.

"I know Dad basically hated him," Yeonjun goes on. "But he was fifteen. Wasn't he worried about Jimin's safety?"

"Your father wanted to look for Jimin and bring him home. It was me who didn't." His mother says, her eyes locked on the table.

"That doesn't make any sense," Yeonjun whispers.
"Jimin didn't want to be here anymore. I let him go."

"But..." Yeonjun hand shakes next to his spoon. He wants to scream, he was your son. He was fifteen. "Weren't you worried about him?"

"Of course I was. But why would I drag him back here? Just to be beaten again? He was miserable here. He needed to leave. So I suggested to your father that you would be better off without Jimin's influence, and he agreed not to go looking for him."

"You thought Dad was beating him too much?" Yeonjun asks. He never considered that his mother disapproved of his father's violence. She never questioned him, never stood up for Jimin. But she never raised her hand to him, either.

What else had his mother disagreed with? Does she feel just as trapped as Yeonjun?

"Of course. Jimin was an awful kid, but your father hit too hard. It became cruel."

"Why didn't you try to stop him?"

His mother looks at him like he's asked her how to count to ten. "Because your father is my alpha, Yeonjun. I need to respect his decisions."

Yeonjun blinks. "That's all?"

She let her child be beaten, she lost her son, just because she didn't want to disagree with her alpha?

His mother nods.

"Do you regret it?" Yeonjun asks.

"No. That would be like regretting a hurricane or earthquake. It was out of my hands," she says. She looks up at the ceiling, and Yeonjun realizes where he got that nervous habit from. "But I do miss him."

Yeonjun's always followed Juwon's lead, and in his absence, Soobin's. But now, he's not sure if he wants to live like his mother. Not if this is where it can lead.

"I want to find him," Yeonjun says.

His mother's gaze slides towards him. "He doesn't want to be found."

"But I was only nine. What could I have done?"

"You saw."

Yeonjun leaves the following morning. There's nothing left to take from here.