3:00 AM. The School of Life Sciences was as silent as a sprawling tomb of reinforced steel and glass. Inside the faculty lounge, the lights remained extinguished, leaving only the skeletal shadows of the Venetian blinds cast across the cold linoleum floor by the distant glow of a streetlamp.
Silas Shen had curled himself into the tightest possible ball in the corner of the narrow leather sofa. His consciousness was fracturing under the weight of the fever. His charcoal sweater was drenched in sweat, chilled by the relentless draft of the air conditioning—a cycle of freezing and burning that made his fingertips twitch with uncontrollable spasms.
"…Hunter… Huo…"
He murmured the name in the hazy borderland between wakefulness and delirium. The moment the syllables left his lips, he recoiled as if bitten by a viper, slamming his jaw shut to swallow the remaining fragments of the broken sob.
The orange scent in the air was no longer sharp or aggressive. With the passing hours, it had fermented into something mellow, rich, and heavy—like a piece of overripe fruit splitting its skin to reveal a crimson, intoxicating core. It was a fragrance that invited sin. It seeped into every fiber of the gauze wrapped around Silas's neck, inciting a primal, hollow hunger in his very marrow.
He felt like a parched plant in a drought, and Hunter's residual pheromones were the only drops of dew left in the world.
Shaking, Silas reached out toward the water glass on the coffee table, but his uncoordinated hand swiped against something else—the varsity jacket Hunter had carelessly tossed onto the floor before locking the door.
Thud.
The garment hit the floor softly, yet the sound resonated in Silas's chest like a thunderclap.
He stared at the jacket. In the darkness, it looked like a living creature, a coiled beast. His reason screamed at him that it was a trap—a piece of bait left by Hunter to finalize his humiliation. But his instincts were roaring, a deafening cacophony: Pick it up. Press against it. It is the only lifeline you have left.
"No…"
Silas closed his eyes, his nails digging deep into his palms until the pain anchored him. He forced himself to visualize complex genetic sequences, to recite the dry, rhythmic codes of academic conduct, trying to use the cold order of science to dam the rising flood of "Desire."
One minute passed. Two.
The "Withdrawal" was a physical entity now, tearing at his insides. His breathing became shallow and rapid, his lungs feeling as though they had been seared by a blowtorch. Finally, a second before the string of his "Dignity" snapped, he surrendered.
Silas slid off the sofa, his knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. With trembling hands, he snatched the jacket—still holding the faint, ghostly warmth of the Alpha's body.
He pulled it against him, burying his face in the coarse fabric, inhaling with a desperate, almost pathological greed. It didn't just smell like oranges anymore; it smelled of the young Alpha's vibrant sweat, of the sun, and of life itself.
"Ngh… ah…"
A low, self-deprecating sob escaped him.
It was pathetic.
The esteemed Professor Shen, the "Iceberg of Jingcheng University," was currently huddled on a floor like a nameless concubine, clinging to a student's discarded clothes for a scrap of comfort. He trembled in the dark, pressing the burning mark on his nape against the thickest part of the jacket's sleeve, seeking friction, seeking him.
But this vicarious comfort only sharpened the void. He wanted the heat of a real chest, the grip of powerful hands; he even wanted those sharp canines to pierce his skin once more.
Suddenly, the faint, electronic chirp of the door lock cut through the silence.
Beep—
Silas looked up in horror. Before he could cast the jacket aside, a sliver of blinding light cut through the opening door.
Hunter Huo stood there, silhouetted against the hallway lights. He was holding a bottle of warm water and two heated buns. He froze, his gaze falling upon Silas—kneeling on the floor, clutching the jacket to his chest, eyes blown wide with a mixture of terror and tear-stained longing.
"Professor..." Hunter's voice was soft, vibrating with a cruel, triumphant pleasure. "It seems my clothes are more to your liking than I am?"
Silas felt as though he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. The sheer weight of the shame caused his entire body to seize. He wanted to let go, but his stiff, cramped fingers refused to obey his brain.
Hunter stepped inside and kicked the door shut, locking it with a finality that echoed. He knelt down, his long fingers reaching out to tilt Silas's chin upward, forcing him to reveal a face shattered by lust and fever.
"Silas Shen, is this the 'Logic' you were talking about?"
Hunter leaned down, his nose brushing against Silas's, his breath as scorching as molten lava.
"Now, tell me. Do you want this soulless piece of fabric… or do you want me?"