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[ P.S. Yes, I know this is not what professional sportsmanship looks like. But humour me. Please.]
[Location: Olympic Arena, International Combat Pavilion – Day Five of the Games]
No one expected this year’s Olympics to end in a warzone.
Well, no one except maybe the ones watching Thailand’s Kenta bulldoze through his bracket with the kind of ferocity that had veteran coaches whispering things like “untamed” and “someone check if that kid’s possessed.” Twenty-two, second-youngest Judo rep Thailand’s ever fielded, and already leaving a trail of bruised egos and battered countries in his wake—Taiwan, Japan, China, all thrown over his shoulder like they were nothing more than warm-up dummies.
And now, Korea.
Specifically, Park Soojun—Korea’s pride, an undefeated champion planning to make this his swan song. Just one last win before retirement and a lucrative commentator gig.
Too bad he nearly choked a rising star to death to get there.
It wasn’t called. Not officially. But it didn’t have to be. The whole stadium saw it—saw Kenta’s face turn the colour of his judogi, saw his hand tap eight times before it dropped limp. And saw Park Soojun, grinning like the villain in a sports anime, already rising to take the podium while Kenta was still trying to breathe.
Pete—Kenta’s senior and designated guardian angel—had him by the eri before the scoreboard could blink.
That’s when it all went to hell.
Cue the chaos.
The Korean and Thai camps were at each other’s throats before the crowd could finish gasping. Someone from Korea’s boxing squad stepped in. Someone from Thailand’s Muay Thai team stepped on them. Next thing anyone knew, the Brazilian capoeira reps were trying to separate two men yelling in three languages, and security had just walked away—because frankly, they weren’t paid enough for this.
And in the middle of it, somehow—Kim.
Twenty-five, Korean Taekwondo rep, known for his discipline and control. The kind of guy who bows before and after a match, picks up his opponent’s mouth guard if it falls, and believes in fair play like it’s religion.
So obviously, the universe dropped him right in the centre of the fray.
One moment, he was trying to talk down a panicked Malaysian coach. The next, Way from the Jujutsu team took a kick to the ribs, stumbled into Kim’s shoulder, and suddenly—he was on the floor.
Thighs around his throat.
Judogi in his face.
And Kenta glaring down at him like he was seconds away from finishing what Park Soojun started.
Kim should have panicked.
He should’ve fought back, broken the hold, shouted for backup. Hell, he should’ve tapped.
But instead—his lungs stuttered.
His Alpha stirred.
And his instincts, buried and beaten into submission by years of composure, cracked wide open.
There was an Omega on top of him. That was the first thing his body recognized—before species, before uniform, before the fact that they were literally in the middle of an international athletic brawl.
That scent—wild, electric, tangy with adrenaline and something uniquely Kenta—hit Kim’s senses like a sucker punch. His heart thudded against his ribs, desperate, animal. His body went hot, then cold, then hot again, like his blood couldn’t decide what it was supposed to do.
His throat was being crushed. He should’ve been blacking out.
Instead, he was breathing deeper. Greedy.
And worst of all—his mouth hurt. Ache deep in his jaw, phantom pressure in his canines. His instincts weren’t screaming run or defend. They were screaming bite.
Claim.
God help him.
Above him, Kenta’s eyes narrowed. The pressure on Kim’s windpipe slackened just slightly—just enough for Kenta to lean in, forehead nearly brushing Kim’s, voice low and laced with something feral:
“Why do you smell like that?”
Kim didn’t have an answer. Just the pounding of his heart and the terrifying realisation that if Kenta had gone just a little harder—if that had been a mating press and not a chokehold—he might’ve let it happen.
The fight around them blurred, security whistles echoing in the distance. Somewhere, someone from the Indonesian fencing squad was climbing a bench to film it all. Flags lay trampled underfoot.
But in that moment, all Kim could hear was the Omega above him. All he could smell was him.
And the only thing he could think was—
He’s mine.
Even if they both pretended otherwise.