Chapter Text
The air in the Red Bull garage hummed like an engine strained to the breaking point — vibrating, heavy, charged with adrenaline, the sharp smell of burning rubber and sweat. Everyone was holding their breath. The last lap. Yeonjun’s heart wasn’t beating in his chest anymore — it was pounding somewhere in his throat. The steady roar of the car was the only sound left in his vacuum, swallowing everything else: the whistle of the wind, the distant cacophony of the crowd, the voice of his engineer in the earphones.
This was it. The grand finale. Here, in Abu Dhabi’s sweltering inferno, where late autumn felt like high summer, where the sun scorched thought from the mind, and on the blistering asphalt, the cars flew down the track so fast their shadows could barely materialize before they were gone. Here, fate had played out. His RB19 — that fierce, unstoppable beast — crossed the finish line. That lap wasn’t just driven. It was taken. Ripped raw from the track with that ruthless and therefore beautiful grace that separates a true champion from a pay driver whose rich daddy bought his seat on the grid.
Cheers. Fireworks. Embraces.
All at once, sensation flooded back — a crashing wave of feeling after moments of numb suspension. He felt it all… the deep, radiating ache of muscles pushed past their limit, the tremble in his hands he no longer had to fight, the raw, oxygen-starved burn in his lungs.
But one feeling cuts through everything else.
The taste of victory.
⟡
The press conference hall was a blur of camera flashes, the air itself feeling dusty and thick. It was stifling, heavy with the cloying smell of expensive perfume and the anticipation of scandal. The AC was fighting a losing battle against the packed room.
Yeonjun, however, didn't feel the stuffiness at all. After the brutal 60℃ cockpit heat, this was practically refreshing. He flicked a strand of hair, the color of faded ash, from his forehead with a light, effortless motion. The Miu Miu outfit from the new collection clung to his skin with a silent, intimate familiarity, highlighting every line and muscle carved by years of training. His sponsors would be thrilled. Every fashion house dreams of dressing a champion, and he was victory incarnate — the perfect mannequin for their vanity, and they paid dearly for the privilege.
He sank into his chair, head tilted back, and watched through half-lidded eyes as the team principals — men in sharp but conservative suits — parried questions, weighing every word with surgical precision.
He could hardly blame them. Their driver, their star asset, their walking investment had just clinched his second world title. But the season was over. The next few months meant boardrooms and closed-door meetings, not racetracks. Their image, their ability to keep old sponsors and lure new ones — all of it would dictate next season's budget. And that budget would determine if they could build a car to beat the competition. Talent gets you far in Formula 1, but after all… money decides everything.
"So, why is your second driver not here today? Does this mean Steven Wilson's contract won't be renewed?"
Ah, right. Steven Wilson… Yeonjun’s gaze drifted past Kim Namjoon, the Red Bull Team Principal, to the shadows backstage. He could make out a few key team figures, but Steven Wilson was conspicuously absent. What a shame.
Wilson was in his fifth season in Formula 1, but his first with Red Bull. An alpha — not tall, but broad-shouldered, almost too big for the cockpit — he was exactly the type of alphas Yeonjun couldn't stand. The spoiled son of wealthy parents, ambitious, and convinced he was better than everyone. Especially any omega. Well… who could blame Yeonjun for forgetting the man existed?
Kim Namjoon’s face was a perfect mask of polite neutrality. "We're evaluating all our options for next season. It's too early to be discussing driver line-ups."
"Your strategy clearly focuses everything on your lead driver, Choi Yeonjun. Yet Red Bull hasn't scored highly in the Constructors' Championship for quite a long time. Is improving your team standing a priority for next season?"
"Winning is a complex equation," Namjoon deflected, smooth and polished as ever. "It requires a talented driver, a competitive car, and flawless teamwork. Our goal is to excel in every single area."
Yeonjun observed the elegant little farce playing out before him, a picture of bored condescension. His fingertips tapped a soundless, restless rhythm against the table, disrupting the perfect symmetry of the sponsor water bottles. His gaze drifted to the press attaché, Yuna, seated slightly apart. He saw the silent admonishment in her eyes, mixed with a kind of fatigue. He answered with a flicker of a wink. She looked away immediately, a faint blush rising on her cheeks.
"Yeonjun, how do you comment on the fact that you took your teammate out of the race on the very first lap? He failed to finish and scored zero points for the team."
Yeonjun feigned a slight frown. He took Wilson out on Lap 1? Sure, he'd probably seen it happen, had definitely heard the engineers' frantic updates in his ear — they reported every little thing on that track — but… did he really need to clutter his mind with that nonsense?
He leaned into the microphone with deliberate, almost lazy slowness.
"Yas Marina is famous for its tight first-lap battles… I wasn't required to yield the position. It's a race. These things happen," he said flatly, recycling the standard, neutral response that works for ninety percent of all racing incident inquiries.
The reporter wasn't finished. "Your teammate has publicly called you an 'unbearable show-off,' stating you're actively blocking his ability to compete for wins. Do you believe your conduct is ultimately harmful to the team?"
The corners of his mouth twitched into a smirk that didn't quite touch his cold, dark eyes.
"I'm holding Steven back?" His voice was a drawl, dripping with mock surprise. "I thought the only thing holding him back was a simple lack of talent."
A ripple of laughter spread through the media pen. Journalists are like hyenas; they perk up at the scent of blood. And Yeonjun loved playing to a captivated crowd. Some rational part of him, buried deep, whispered to stop now, but something far more primal took over: when you get bitten, you bite back. He couldn't resist adding:
"Maybe he should go back to karting. My five-year-old nephew could overtake him on a bicycle."
The chuckles around the room grew louder. But he knew the next question was coming. He always knew. It was the real punch, and no matter how many times he braced for it, it always managed to land.
"He also alluded to your… emotional volatility. He claimed, and I'm quoting him directly here, that the team constantly has to 'manage your omega episodes'."
The word ‘omega’ hung in the air, ugly and heavy with humiliation. Here, it was never just a statement of fact; it was a diagnosis. Unstable. Emotional. Weak.
A cold tremor traced his spine beneath the designer shirt, but Yeonjun’s smirk remained frozen in place, a perfect mask of indifference. He refused to give them the reaction they craved.
This was the brilliant, cutthroat world of Formula 1. Perhaps it was the whole world, but here it was amplified, stripped of all pretense, down to the raw nerve. You could feel it, a visceral pressure like a knife-edge on a fresh scar. The so-called pinnacle of motorsport. A rich gentleman's club that traditionally belonged to alphas. Raw strength, endurance, reflexes, ice-cold composure, mental fortitude — these were the non-negotiable qualities of a top driver. How could an omega possibly exist under such conditions?
And yet.
Choi Yeonjun could.
From the moment he’d first presented, he was different. He was not the fragile creature of porcelain and softness they expected to see in omega. His body — lean, hardened, and strong — was a deliberate provocation, a challenge to their entire world order. He could physically match any of his alpha peers. And from that very first time he’d felt the pure, unadulterated rush of adrenaline that only comes from dancing a car at the limit through a high-speed corner, he’d been consumed by one glittering, obsessive dream: to race. He could never let it go. Not even after biology had handed down its life sentence, branding him with that single, limiting word: omega.
The ultimate joke, right? Why did some get to choose their destiny, while others had the door to theirs bolted shut before they could even touch the handle?
And yet.
Choi Yeonjun had chosen his destiny.
His entire existence was proof. Not proof that he was the best omega driver. Proof that he was simply the best. The best among alphas, betas, omegas — the categories were irrelevant. All that mattered was the stopwatch, the cold, hard data on the timesheet. The only justice was a world that saw him for what he was: Choi Yeonjun. A person. A Formula 1 driver.
The press room waited, the silence deafening, poised for his answer.
"You only hear that kind of talk from alphas with a superiority complex who are overcompensating for their own insecurities. It's usually to make up for… " Yeonjun paused expertly, holding the room in suspense. "... let's call it a significant shortage in another department. I say this because I once made the mistake of walking in on him in the drivers' shower room and..." He spread his hands theatrically, raising his eyebrows. "But no. I shouldn't say more. I'd hate to disappoint his loyal fanclub."
The room exploded with laughter. Camera flashes went wild, firing like frantic strobes. Namjoon massaged his temples while Yuna hid her face behind her binder. Yeonjun sat back, thoroughly pleased with himself.
But deep beneath the performance, under all the layers of sharp edges and defiance, something old and familiar twisted in the darkest, most fragile part of him. Bitterness. It tasted like the ghost of his own scent, the one he could almost no longer recall, muted daily by suppressants — that deceptively sweet almond note, followed by the lethal, sharp tang of poison.
Once again, they had reduced him to this. To biology. His brilliance, his win, his title — all of it vanished, erased by one word.
He made himself smile wider, brighter, feeding off the crowd's amazement and delight. This was how it would always be. He might have convinced the public that he was king of the pinnacle of motorsport. But to most here, he’d always be the one who didn't belong — the omega who refused to play by nature's rules.
⟡
Silence.
It hit him first as a deafening pressure, then a high, nerve-jangling ring in his ears. After the piercing howl of the V6 hybrid turbo tearing through the air at over 300 km per hour, after the roar of the crowd, the blaring paddock music, the endless stream of questions and congratulations… this quiet felt unnatural. Wrong.
Yeonjun tossed the keys to his Aston Martin into a glass vase on the console. The clatter of metal on crystal was absurdly loud, shattering the heavy, artificial silence of his penthouse.
Two solid weeks of this: first the celebrations with his Red Bull Racing team, then the glitzy FIA Prize-Giving Gala, then a blur of interviews, photo shoots, and parties. He’d been the center of the racing world, with planets of hype and envy and corporate interest spinning around him. And now, just like that, they’d let him go. Pulled the plug.
Off-season.
He dragged a hand across the flawless surface of the designer kitchen island. Not a single speck of dust. It was like a showroom model — meant to be admired, not used. He yanked open the fridge — a matte white panel that blended seamlessly into the wall. Inside: a few bottles of fancy water, a full crate of that energy drink — fifteen cans bearing his own smiling face staring back — and a small box filled with protein shakes. No actual food. Nothing that suggested a human being lived here.
He wandered into the living room. Sterile, all cool grays and blacks. Bookshelves stocked with designer knick-knacks, not a single book he’d chosen. Art on the walls some decorator had picked. No photos. No souvenirs. Nothing that said “Yeonjun” lived here. At all.
This wasn’t a home. It was a high-end hotel suite. A luxury pod for a world champion to crash in between flights. A beautifully designed tomb for his exhaustion.
And that’s when it finally caved in on him. A sudden, silent collapse deep in his chest, crushing every support he had left. The thing he’d been holding back all season. All year. He’d locked it down with a stone face in press conferences, a cocky smirk for the cameras, and pure, burning aggression on the track. He’d been a wall. A fortress. For everyone.
The wall broke.
The first tear felt like acid on his skin. It was hot and brutally honest. Then another. And another. They came silently, washing the lies right off his face. Yeonjun slid down onto the kitchen tile, his back thumping against the cold cabinets. He pulled his knees to his chest, hugging them tight. He felt weak. Exposed. An image that he never, ever let anyone see.
Then a sound ripped out of him. A choked, ragged gasp like a wounded animal. Everything he’d held in for years, for months, for every punishing lap, came pouring out in raw, shaking sobs. He cried like a kid, curled up and alone after a fight he’d won but that had cost him every ounce of himself. Everything except this raw, screaming nerve.
Right then, he would have given anything for someone to just ask if he was okay. To have someone to say "I'm home" to. But this wasn't home.
He had no idea how long he sat there before the sobs finally subsided into shaky, hitching breaths. In the dead silence of the apartment, the sound of his own breathing seemed foreign. He wiped his face roughly with the sleeve of his silk shirt, smearing tears and what was left of his makeup.
He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers for his phone. The screen blazed to life in the dim room. Zero notifications. He swiped through them blindly, his fingers trembling and clumsy over the glass.
But one number was muscle memory. His lifeline. He tapped it.
It didn't even ring once.
"Dad?" His voice was a wreck. A rough, broken whisper, strangled by the knot in his throat.
A beat of silence on the other end. But not the heavy kind from before. This was a warm, patient silence.
"Yeonjunie?" His father’s voice crossed an ocean, from San Jose to Seoul, and went straight to the core of him, to that raw, exposed place. It was the middle of the night in Korea. Early morning there. His dad’s voice held no trace of sleep — just immediate, deep concern.
They’d wanted to come. His dad, his sister. For the final race, for the big ceremony, for all of it. To be there for him. And Yeonjun shut them down. Hard. He couldn't let them see it, see him like this. The guy who made sarcastic jokes and shook hands with people he didn't respect. This polished, empty doll, stuffed with other people's expectations. He was terrified they’d see a crack. Hear the fake note in his laugh. Realize what he’d had to become just to stay in that car. The worst would be seeing it in their eyes — the only honest ones left — seeing their pain. He couldn't handle that. It was better this way.
And right there, on the cold floor, he finally got it. He couldn’t stay in this sterile, soulless box. The only place his defenses could ever come down was home. His real one. The imperfect house in California that smelled like old wood and gasoline, where his first, hard-won karting trophies were still sitting on a shelf in the garage.
He had to go. Now.
"I… I'm coming home," he breathed out. It wasn't a question. It was the only thing left.
"Of course, son. We're here. We're always here waiting."
⟡
The café was quiet, a rare lull after the Christmas storm. All that remained were a few frayed garlands in the windows and the weary, last-minute rush of Seoul before the New Year. People blurred past the glass, lost in their own worlds, distant and disconnected.
Choi Soobin sat by the window, his fingers absently gliding over his laptop's trackpad. The screen was a mosaic of open tabs — dozens of articles all circling the same looming question: “Analysts Weigh In: Is Choi Soobin Headed for Red Bull Racing?” Most were filled with shots from his latest Formula 2 season — podium finishes, post-race interviews.
But one image kept reappearing. He paused on it. An old photo, five years gone. Soobin himself: a 17-years-old awkward alpha, gazing with pure admiration at his idol. And there he was — Choi Yeonjun. Not yet a double world champion, just a rookie, but already a thunderous presence in motorsport. Not the first omega on the grid, but the first who refused to bow to Formula 1’s alpha-dominated order. That debut season, he fought straight into the points, finishing in the top ten at nearly every Grand Prix. Some mocked him. Some pitied him. Most dismissed him as a flash in the pan — a lucky boy in over his head, whose early success was just a fluke.
He became a lightning rod for controversy, both in the media and among the sport’s powerful old guard. The decision-makers, the ones in boardrooms — almost all conservative alphas. They hid behind fake concern for “safety for omegas”, using it to preserve their inner circle from outsiders.
No one at the top had believed in Choi Yeonjun. Results that would have sealed an alpha’s reputation, he had to prove again. And again. And again.
But he did more than prove it. He conquered. He became champion — twice.
The thought brought a faint, proud smile to Soobin’s face. He couldn’t look away from the younger Yeonjun in the photo. He remembered that day clearly — the warm, firm grip of Yeonjun’s handshake. He seemed different then. Softer around the edges, with fuller cheeks and slightly messy hair. His smile was open, genuine, and his eyes held a kindness as he looked at the starstruck teenage Soobin.
He kept scrolling until his finger paused abruptly. This was the Yeonjun of today — featured in articles about his legendary final win in Abu Dhabi. Every headline with his name was a clash of contradictions: “unbearable,” “aggressive,” “lone wolf,” but also “genius,” “king,” “unstoppable.” Soobin’s eyes fixed on one of the photos. A ruthless, predatory stare that seemed to look right through the screen. A smirk of pure arrogance. Yeonjun had grown into his features — sharper, more striking and intimidatingly magnetic. Soobin hardly recognized him. It was the same face, but something in the omega racing legend’s presence felt completely altered.
Soobin removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes with a tired pressure. Maybe it was just his own nerves. Of course your perception changes when you compare a Formula 1 rookie to a two-time world champion, even if it’s the same person. But something deeper, something instinctual in him felt unsettled. Did the real Choi Yeonjun truly match his reputation?
Soobin’s strong results in his latest Formula 2 season had put him in a solid position for his F1 debut. His agent said a seat at Haas was practically his, if he was interested, maybe even a chance at McLaren. But he’d also mentioned that Red Bull was, once again, looking for a new second driver. A controversial spot, right next to the current champion. The idea was as thrilling as it was terrifying.
He was just getting in his own head. He reached for his coffee cup — long forgotten and cold on the table. He tried to focus on the people walking outside, but he’d barely caught a glimpse of a familiar leather jacket when a whirlwind of energy dropped heavily into the seat across from him.
"Hyung! Sorry, did you wait long?"
Huening Kai's voice cut through the quiet café, too loud and sudden, popping the calm atmosphere like a bubble.
"Don't worry about it. Kept myself busy. Hey, Kai."
Soobin reached out and ruffled the younger alpha's already messy hair without thinking. The gesture was familiar, comfortable.
"Busy?" Kai snorted, nudging the laptop away. "Let me guess — reading what those vultures are writing about you again? Hyung, I told you, it's pointless. They're all so… toxic. Just a bunch of armchair experts sitting on their couches acting like they know who's gonna be champion. If it's so easy, let's see them get in a car and drive."
Soobin offered a faint smile. There was some bitter truth in what Kai said. But there was another side to it, too. Fans want drama, sponsors want screen time, teams want funding. Everyone's a cog in the machine, looking out for their own interests. And each voice, even dissenting ones, had its role. He didn't bother arguing.
"How's the Mercedes deal going?" he asked, shifting the subject. Kai's expression immediately brightened, excitement flashing in his eyes.
"Almost there. Call it the final straight," Kai said, grinning at his own joke. He was the only one laughing. "Contract's basically mine. What about you and Red Bull? It's pretty much confirmed, yeah?"
"Should be announced soon. They've already invited me to the factory for prep."
"Soobin-hyung!" Kai almost launched out of his seat. "You're gonna be teammates with Choi Yeonjun! That's literally what you dreamed about!"
A cold, uncomfortable shiver traced Soobin's spine. His palms felt damp again.
"That was when I was a kid… Now, I don't even know what he's really like."
"A champion's a champion," Kai said, still beaming, oblivious to Soobin's tension. "Next thing you know, Ferrari's gonna pick us both up in a couple of years. Can you imagine? Both of us in red, spraying champagne on the podium…"
Soobin actually laughed at the thought. "What, you think you're gonna break the Ferrari curse and bring home their first title in 15 years?"
Kai laughed with him. "Who else? Kai Kamal Huening — future five-time world champ, the one who'll restore the Scuderia's glory. Even Choi Yeonjun will be eating my dust!"
He said it with such a bright, believing smile, it was almost convincing. But both of them knew how ridiculous it sounded. They were just rookies — they had a long, hard road ahead. Even with good teams and strong teammates, talking podiums and champagne was way too soon. This year, their only job was consistency: finish races, score points and gain experience.
"Anyway, I'm seriously so happy for you. For us! We totally earned this. We have to celebrate!" Kai declared, clinking his iced frappe a little too hard against Soobin's cup. "Wait... should I even ask how you spent Christmas?"
"In the sim."
"Oh my god," Kai groaned, dragging his hands down his face in exaggerated despair. "That is the most you thing ever."
"What's wrong with spending the day doing what I actually enjoy?" Soobin countered, but Kai was already shaking his head vigorously.
"It's not about that! It's about the atmosphere! Christmas is meant to be magical. You're supposed to be on some cute date, holding hands while it snows, stealing a kiss under the mistletoe, and... you know, wrapping your scarf around your significant other..."
Soobin gave him a look that was equal parts skepticism and mild disgust.
"Even if I hadn't already known, I'd definitely know now that you're a certified virgin."
"It's called being a romantic!" Kai shot back, looking offended.
Soobin just sighed, his eyes drifting toward the window. Not a speck of that perfect, movie-style snow anywhere.
"Whatever. Not really what I'm focused on right now."
"Okay, fine. Christmas is for family time then —" Kai cut himself off abruptly, noticing the subtle tension that tightened his friend's expression. "— I mean, for, like... cozy vibes..."
An awkward pause hung between them. Soobin looked down, focusing intently on his cold coffee. Kai knew he'd stepped in it and scrambled to recover.
"Look, forget it. No point dwelling on a holiday that's already over. Let's just make New Year's good! Let's go to the Alps. Skiing. Me, Lea, Bahiyyih, and you. Something's gotta pry you out of that simulator before you become one with it. Once pre-season testing starts, we're both going to be living in that cockpit seat for a year straight. Let's enjoy our last bit of freedom properly."
Soobin was quiet for a long moment, then finally gave a slow, silent nod. Kai was right. He needed to try and enjoy this break. Somewhere out there a new life was waiting. A new team. And him — the living legend. The man whom that starry-eyed kid in the photo had once idolized. The man whose eyes now felt like they could cut glass. He took a sip of the bitter, chilled coffee, and its taste was the very essence of the unknown future that lay before him, cold and unwelcoming.