The digital clock on the laboratory wall flickered to 7:00 AM, synchronized with the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of the life science building's automated sprinkler system outside. The sound was thin, like static on an old radio, cutting through the heavy, sterile silence of the lounge.
Silas Shen's thick eyelashes shuddered. His eyes snapped open with the reflexive violence of a hunted animal. Years of ingrained academic discipline and a bone-deep paranoia triggered an immediate reaction—he bolted upright. But the movement was too fast, too reckless for a body that had spent the last twelve hours being dismantled by its own nervous system.
A white-hot, splintering lance of pain tore through his cranium.
"Ngh..."
He clamped a hand over his forehead, his knuckles turning a waxy white. In the dim, greyish light of the early morning, the lounge began to slowly, agonizingly pull into focus.
He was still draped in that ancient, tattered lab coat he'd scavenged from the cabinet. The faucet in the ensuite bathroom was still dripping—tap, tap, tap—each falling droplet sounding like a hammer striking an anvil against his raw nerves.
With a hand that trembled uncontrollably, Silas reached for the nape of his neck.
Dry. Cool. Calm.
The terrifying, incinerating heat that had threatened to melt his marrow into slag had receded. In its place was a hollow, echoing exhaustion, the kind of lethargy that followed a near-fatal hemorrhage. His fingertips fumbled with the edge of the isolation patch. He peeled it back an inch, expecting to find the weeping, raw mess of a chemical burn.
Instead, the skin felt firm. The inflammation had subsided; the angry, crimson lacerations had closed into clean, pale scars.
It was a healing rate that defied medical logic—unless, of course, the subject had been saturated with a high-concentration, meticulously gentle stream of Alpha stabilization pheromones.
Silas scanned the room. The air was... clean. Void.
There was no trace of that overbearing, maddening scent of sun-kissed oranges. No Hunter Huo.
A self-deprecating, ghostly smirk curled Silas's bloodless lips. He gripped the velvet armrest of the sofa, his muscles screaming in protest as he forced himself to stand. His legs felt like columns of wet sand, ready to dissolve at the slightest pressure. The "withdrawal" had left him a hollowed-out shell.
"A hallucination..." he whispered, his voice a jagged rasp that barely disturbed the dust motes in the air.
He remembered kneeling on the floor, clutching the lab coat as if it were a life raft. He remembered the primal shock of the ice water. He remembered the absolute, glacial despair of falling into a bottomless crypt just before his consciousness flickered out.
But then, why did he feel the phantom weight of a scalding embrace? Why did he have the lingering sensation of someone holding him—not with the violence of the night before, but with a terrifying, reverent tenderness, shielding his heart as if it were a flickering candle in a storm?
Silas stumbled toward the door. He reached for the brass handle.
Click.
It turned.
No lock. No mocking Alpha standing guard.
The corridor outside was a desolate stretch of fluorescent lights reflecting off polished linoleum. Silas stood in the threshold, his frame swaying precariously. He braced himself against the doorframe, his fingers brushing the interior side of the handle.
There, hidden from view, he felt a faint, lingering dampness—the moisture of a cold towel used to wipe away traces of someone else's presence.
"I... I survived it."
His voice carried a frantic, hysterical edge of triumph. A flicker of megalomaniacal pride sparked in his grey eyes. Even a "Marking Interruption" from a top-tier Alpha—a physiological tide capable of crushing the will of any Omega—had been held back. He had held the line with nothing but his iron-hard arrogance and a shattered lab coat.
He believed, in the vacuum of his missing memory, that his immune system and his pride had fought the battle alone.
He had no way of knowing that ten minutes prior, Hunter Huo had only just let go of the "Iceberg."
The "puppy" had kept watch by that narrow sofa for the entire night. To prevent Silas from slipping into a fatal shock brought on by the rapid oscillation of body temperature, Hunter had kept his palm pressed firmly against Silas's spine, directly behind the heart. He had filtered his own pheromones through a layer of agonizing restraint, stripping away the aggression until only the stabilizing warmth remained. Before leaving, he had used a wet towel to meticulously scrub away every trace of his own sweat and scent from Silas's skin, erasing the evidence of his "intrusion."
"Professor... you have to stay... stay this proud forever."
Hunter had paused at the door, looking back one last time at the man sleeping fitfully on the sofa. Hunter's eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with the red exhaustion of a man who had stared into an abyss all night. His varsity jacket was a wrinkled mess from where Silas's fingers had gripped it in his sleep.
Hunter wanted to stay. He wanted to be there when Silas woke up. He wanted to claim his prize, to hear Silas whisper his name in that soft, broken voice of the night before.
But he didn't dare.
He knew Silas Shen better than the man knew himself. Silas was a man built of glass and ego; if he ever discovered that his most vulnerable, dependent moment had been witnessed—that he had clung to an Alpha like a drowning man—it would break him. Silas would hate him with a purity that would eventually drive him to vanish from Hunter's life forever.
So, the wolf chose the stupidest path: he erased the tracks, giving all the credit to Silas's "willpower."
After a quick, staggering wash in the sink, Silas replaced his glasses. One arm was still snapped, but he balanced them precariously on the bridge of his nose. He straightened his spine, each step a calculated effort of grace, as if announcing his victory to the very walls of the building.
He pushed open the main doors of the faculty building, stepping out into the crisp morning air, only to find Hunter Huo "passing by."
Hunter was carrying two bags of steaming soy milk and hot buns, looking as if he'd just finished a casual morning jog. He radiated a mindless, youthful energy that set Silas's nerves on edge.
"Yo, Professor Shen. Early start?"
Hunter approached with a carefree grin, the kind that reached his eyes—though Silas failed to notice the desperate, aching tenderness buried beneath the sparkle.
Silas stopped, his gaze sweeping over the student with icy indifference.
"Student Huo," Silas began, his voice cold and steady. "Your 'experiment' failed last night. As you can see, my rationality is far more potent than your instincts."
Hunter's smile faltered for a micro-second. His grip tightened on the bag of soy milk until the plastic crinkled, but he quickly relaxed, thrusting a bun toward Silas with a laugh.
"Sure, sure. Professor Shen is invincible. An 'upstart' like me stands corrected. Haven't eaten, right? Take it. Don't let your 'rationality' starve to death."
Silas recoiled from the touch, his lip curling in distaste. He didn't take the bag; he let it drop onto the pavement between them.
"Stop wasting your breath, Hunter Huo. Your existence is no longer a threat to me. You've lost your leverage."
With that, Silas brushed past him without a second glance, his stride stiff and haughty.
Hunter stood alone on the sidewalk. He bent down, picking up the slightly soiled bag of food. He watched Silas's back—stiff, arrogant, and utterly oblivious to the fact that he was only walking because Hunter had held him together all night.
Hunter took a bite of the lukewarm bun, mumbling through a mouthful of dough:
"Silly... you were a hell of a lot cuter last night when you wouldn't let go of my shirt."