Chapter Text
Jayce Talis had agreed to the lunch out of obligation, not real interest. His mother had been persistent, insisting this match would be different. She’d described her as beautiful, thoughtful and naturally curious, the kind of person who asked real questions and never let the conversation settle on small talk. Overall, she sounded like someone Jayce might actually connect with, or at least someone who wouldn't bore him outright.
Now, sitting across from said young woman, he wonders why he ever let himself be fooled into it.
Lyra is beautiful, he can't deny that. She is polite and pleasant, everything her parents clearly trained her to be. She laughs whenever he says something mildly amusing and asks about his research with what looks like interest. Yet the more she speaks, the more that interest feels rehearsed. There is a hollowness under it, a softness that has nothing to do with kindness. She feels younger than him in a way that has nothing to do with age, though she is a good seven years younger. Jayce offers careful answers and feels the dull ache of repetition settle in. Every set up has been just like this, polished and forgettable.
Jayce had seen it often enough to recognize the source in how omegas were raised. From their first heat onward, omegas are placed in programs meant to prepare them for the roles designated for their second sex. The practice is considered standard and even a protective measure by most families, though it has always felt outdated to Jayce. These programs focus on managing instincts, responding to a potential partner, and carrying oneself in ways that suit an expected match. The lessons are framed as etiquette, but anyone who looks closely can see that they are designed to shape behavior for a future bond rather than support personal growth.
The system is not openly cruel, yet it still creates limits that no longer make sense. An unmated omega is rarely allowed full independence, and the idea is treated as long-standing tradition rather than something that needs to be questioned. Society trusts the structure because it has been in place for generations, even though the world has changed around it. Jayce has known many omegas who were capable, intelligent, and driven, and none of them deserved to be held back by rules that never accounted for what they could truly be.
Arranged bonds are still common, especially among the established families of Piltover. Reputation, compatibility, and how well two households align tend to matter more than emotion and attraction ever do. Chosen bonds are not unheard of, but they are rarely encouraged in circles like his, spoken of as exceptions rather than examples. When such matches are discussed, they are usually settled early, with most alphas and omegas bonded by their mid-twenties. At thirty-one and still unmated, Jayce’s situation draws attention—spoken of softly, with polite curiosity and measured interest, particularly given his standing as the only son of a House that has continued to rise.
But each failed arrangement only leaves him more certain of what he wants. More than anything, he wants a bond that is chosen, not arranged. He wants something built on shared want and genuine respect, not forced politeness or expectations decided by tradition. A partner whose mind challenges his, whose drive feels like a mirror to his own. Someone he can build beside, rather than lead.
His eyes drift to the window and the soft movement of people outside. Jayce doesn’t mean to be rude, but he already knows that this afternoon will never lead to anything more. He tells himself he’s not counting the minutes until he can end the date, yet the way his attention keeps drifting to the clock behind the counter suggests otherwise. It should be simple to excuse himself and bring this to a close, though he stays seated a bit longer out of courtesy.
Lyra has moved on to a story about a shopping mishap and the bag she misplaced. Jayce tries to listen but barely retains more than a few words. His attention shifts when the bell above the door rings, the sound pulls him away from the street.
A man enters, and the space draws inward around him. The atmosphere shifts as though a door has opened somewhere deep inside the room, and something inside Jayce settles. Stillness spreads through him, a strange heaviness that displaces every other thought. His posture straightens, shoulders pulling back as an instinctual awareness pricks at the back of his neck. His senses narrow, everything else fading to a blur.
The newcomer is lean, almost fragile in build, with a careful way of moving that suggests each step requires intent. A cane taps softly against the floor, a steady rhythm that punctuates the silence now blooming in Jayce’s mind. He is dressed in muted tones—a simple jacket and trousers that hang loose on his frame, chosen more for ease than display.
His hair is dark, long, and slightly unruly, falling to his shoulders as he surveys the room with a calm, methodical gaze. There is something precise about him, something that speaks to discipline held just beneath the surface. When he turns, Jayce catches the pale line of his throat and the brief glint of a thin silver chain at his collarbone. The sight sends a quiet, pleasant hum through Jayce’s system, low and unmistakable.
Then Jayce catches his scent.
It is subtle at first, a whisper in the air that curls around him, cool and clean. Like ozone after a storm, or the first breath of winter on a high mountain peak. Then it deepens, richening into something warmer, spiced with hints of cinnamon and an undercurrent of something metallic and sharp. Like steel, ink and old books. The combination is intoxicating, unlike anything he has ever encountered. It settles in his lungs, makes him want to breathe deeper, to fill himself with it.
Jayce’s alpha senses, usually a background thrum he can easily ignore, surge forward, humming with a sudden, fierce recognition. He is aware of the omega’s presence as if he is a lodestone and Jayce is the needle spinning to find him. It is an instinct older than reason, a pull that bypasses thought and goes straight to bone. He has never felt anything so immediate, so absolute.
The man's eyes sweep past Jayce’s table without pausing, his focus fixed on something near the back of the café. Jayce watches him move, each step measured; sleek metal wrapped around his leg, supporting his stride. He sees the slight tension in the man's shoulders, the way he holds himself as if protecting a hidden wound. There is a story in the line of his spine, a history of pain that Jayce can almost feel.
His companion, an older woman with severe features and a tight bun, gestures impatiently towards a table. The omega nods, his expression unreadable, and follows her. As he passes Jayce's table, the scent strengthens, washing over him in a wave that makes his fingers curl around the edge of his cup. He can feel something rise in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. He forces it down, jaw tight, reminding himself that he is in public.
Lyra is still talking, her voice a distant buzz, but Jayce can no longer hear the words. His entire being is focused on the omega who has just taken a seat several tables away. He just watches, mesmerized by the way he holds himself, the quiet grace in every movement. He wants to go over; to introduce himself, to hear his voice, to see if the omega’s eyes are as captivating up close.
But he stays rooted to his seat, a silent observer, caught in a web of sudden, overwhelming fascination. The world has narrowed to a single point, a single presence, and he is powerless to look away.
Finally taking notice of his distraction, Lyra's chatter falters. "Jayce? Are you alright?" she asks, reaching out to touch his arm, her brow furrowed in concern.
Feeling the unwanted touch, he tears his gaze away from the man, forcing a smile that feels strained and unnatural. "I'm fine," he says, his voice a low rumble that feels foreign to his own ears, subtly shifting his arm away. "Just... lost in thought for a moment."
Lyra seems to accept this, though she looks a little put out. She glances in the direction of Jayce's focus, her eyes briefly landing on the omega before returning to Jayce. “He seems rather old for an unmated omega, does he not?” she says, her tone laced with a hint of disapproval. “My mother says older omegas who are not yet bonded are often… difficult.”
Jayce’s jaw tightens. He feels a surge of protectiveness, a fierce desire to defend a man he has never even spoken to. “Or perhaps they are just selective,” he retorts, his voice sharper than he intended.
Lyra blinks, taken aback by his tone. “I... I suppose,” she stammers, her composure faltering.
Jayce knows that was rude. He knows he should apologize, smooth things over, and bring this disastrous lunch to a graceful conclusion. But he doesn't. Letting the date stretch on gives him an excuse to stay, to keep his seat, to keep watching the omega across the room a little longer. The impression of him lingers in the space between breaths, a promise of something Jayce never knew he was missing. He wants to know him. He needs to.
***
The café is too warm. Viktor can feel the prickle of heat on the back of his neck, a familiar discomfort that has little to do with the temperature. It is the presence of so many people, the press of their scents, the low hum of overlapping conversations that grates on his senses. Years of suppressants have wreaked havoc on his body's ability to regulate itself, leaving him perpetually on edge, a tightly–-coiled spring of frayed nerves.
His guardian, Anya, is a woman of stern disposition and unwavering conviction. She believes in the old ways, in the natural order of things, and she has made it her mission to see Viktor settled in a suitable match. Today's lunch is just one more step in that direction, a chance for him to meet again with Dmitri, the alpha she has chosen for him.
Viktor has no desire to see Dmitri. He has no desire to be settled, to be matched, to be anyone's property. He wants to work, to build, to create. He wants to use the knowledge he has acquired through years of relentless study to make a difference in the world. He wants to be more than just a pretty thing to be kept, bred, and silenced.
He scans the room, a habit so well-practiced he can assess his surroundings unnoticed. He notes the exits, the positions of the other patrons, the layout of the tables. It is a self-preservation tactic, a way of maintaining a semblance of control in a world that rarely leaves him any room to maneuver.
Then he sees him.
The alpha is sitting at a table near the window, a woman across from him. He is large, broad-shouldered, with a mop of dark hair that falls into his eyes. There is an intensity about him, a focused energy that seems to radiate outward even from a distance. He is laughing at something the woman said, a deep sound that makes something in Viktor's chest ache.
And then the alpha's eyes meet his.
Time seems to slow down. The noise of the café fades away, replaced by the frantic thumping of Viktor's own heart. He feels a sharp stir, a sudden, inexplicable pull that is both terrifying and exhilarating. He has never felt anything like it before. It is a spark, a flicker of something he has long since buried under layers of suppressants and self-discipline.
He looks away, his cheeks burning. He can feel the alpha's gaze on him, a physical weight that makes the hairs on his arms stand on end. He forces himself to focus on Anya, on the meaningless words she is speaking about Dmitri's prospects, about the benefits of a match with a family of such standing. He hears the words but they do not register, a meaningless drone in the face of this new, unknown sensation.
Anya is saying something else to him, her voice a sharp, insistent drone. He nods, not really listening, his attention still fixed on the alpha. He can feel a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through him, a slow, creeping heat that has nothing to do with the stuffiness of the café. It is a dangerous feeling, a flicker of a fire he thought he had long since extinguished.
He risks another glance. The alpha is still looking at him, a small, thoughtful frown on his face. The woman with him is talking again, but the alpha's focus is entirely on Viktor. He feels exposed, perceived in a way he has not experienced in years. It is as if the alpha can see past the carefully constructed facade, past the frail body and the quiet demeanor, to the person he truly is. The one who dreams of cogs and circuits, of prosthetics that work, of a future he can build with his own two hands.
The feeling is overwhelming, a rush of emotions he is not prepared to handle. He has spent years learning to suppress his instincts, to dampen the urges that society tells him are shameful and dangerous. But now, in the presence of this one alpha, all of that control feels like a fragile shield, about to shatter under the force of a single, devastating glance.
He forces himself to look away, fixating on the pristine white tablecloth. He can hear Anya's impatient sigh, feel the weight of her disapproval. He knows what she is thinking. That he is being difficult, that he is not trying hard enough. That he is failing at the one thing he is supposed to be good at.
He wants to scream. He wants to stand up and walk out of this café and never look back. He wants to go back to his small, spartan room, to the comfort of his books and the familiar hum of his small, soldering iron. He wants to be free.
But he can't. He is an omega. And in Piltover, that means he is not his own. He is practically a possession, a commodity, a prize to be won by the highest bidder. And Dmitri, with his powerful family and his deep pockets, is the highest bidder of all.
The thought of Dmitri sends a cold dread through him. He has met the man only in passing, but the memory is enough to make him feel sick. Dmitri is large and imposing, with a cruel smile and hands that linger too long. He looks at Viktor not as a person, but as a thing. A beautiful, fragile thing to be admired and controlled. The thought of being bonded to him, of being forced to share his body, to bear his children, is a living nightmare.
He looks up again, his eyes instinctively seeking out the alpha. The man has turned back to his companion, but the tension in his shoulders is still there. He can feel the alpha's awareness of him, a current that runs between them, a silent, invisible thread that pulls and tugs, demanding to be acknowledged.
Viktor doesn’t understand. He has felt nothing but dread around every potential alpha. But with this one, all he feels is a strange, aching curiosity. He wants to know who this alpha is. He wants to know what he is thinking. He wants to know why he is looking at him with such intensity.
Anya straightens up as the bell to the door rings, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face. "There he is," she whispers, her voice laced with satisfaction. "Isn't he handsome?"
Viktor's blood runs cold. He can feel Dmitri's gaze on him already, proprietary in a way that makes him feel dirty. He wants to shrink, to disappear. He forces himself to remain still, to keep his expression neutral. He doesn’t want to give Dmitri the satisfaction of seeing his fear.
Dmitri strides towards their table, his steps confident and measured. He is the picture of Piltover high society, from the polished leather of his shoes to the golden cufflinks on his wrists. He stops beside their table, his shadow falling over Viktor. "Anya," he says, his voice a smooth, deep rumble that sends a shiver down Viktor's spine. "Viktor. I hope I'm not late."
"Not at all, Dmitri," Anya says, her voice full of warmth. "We were just admiring the ambiance."
Dmitri's eyes lock onto Viktor, a slow, possessive smile spreading across his face. "The ambiance is... adequate," he says, his attention lingering on Viktor's throat. "But I suspect the company will be much more interesting."
Viktor can feel a familiar, bitter taste rising in his throat. He knows this game. He knows how to play it. He forces a small, tight smile, his eyes lowered in a show of submission. "Dmitri," he says, his voice quiet, devoid of any emotion. "It's a pleasure."
Dmitri chuckles, a low, grating sound. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you," he says, his hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from Viktor's forehead.
Viktor flinches, a small, involuntary movement he cannot control. He hates being touched. Hates the feeling of another person's skin on his own. It is a violation, a theft of the small, precious space he has fought to carve out for himself.
Dmitri's smile widens, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He has seen the flinch. He knows he has gotten under Viktor's skin. He leans in closer, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Don't worry, my little omega," he says, his breath hot against Viktor's ear. "You'll get used to my touch. You'll learn to crave it."
Viktor's stomach churns. He can feel the air growing thick and suffocating. He wants to lash out, to push Dmitri away, to scream at him to get his hands off. But he can't. He is trapped. Trapped by duty, by tradition, by the crushing weight of expectations.
He looks up, his eyes seeking a distraction, a lifeline. But the table is empty. The alpha with the intense gaze is gone. The woman with him is gone too. There is only an empty chair and a half-empty cup of coffee. A wave of disappointment, sharp and unexpected, washes over him. He feels a strange sense of loss, as if he has been abandoned.
He risks a glance back at Dmitri, hoping to see some flicker of humanity, some sign that he is not the monster he appears to be. But all he sees is a cold, calculating hunger. Dmitri is only interested in what Viktor represents: a beautiful omega, silent on his arm and round with his pups. A symbol of his power and control.
He feels the phantom, dull ache in his lungs, a reminder of the fragility that everyone sees, but no one truly understands. He was an easy target growing up, his small frame and omega scent drawing the wrong kind of attention. Incapable of defending himself between his leg and lungs, he was a constant source of worry for his foster father, Singed.
Singed had lost his daughter, Orianna, when she was attacked by an older alpha years prior. The tragedy had hardened him, made him cynical and distrustful of any alphas. and he had seen Viktor's second sex as weakness, as a liability.
And so, the man of few words and even fewer morals, had found a solution. A potent cocktail of drugs that had numbed his instincts, suppressed his heats, and turned him into a walking ghost. The drug had been a necessary evil, one that had allowed him to move through the world without the constant fear of being claimed. But it came at a cost that Singed never saw, before his own untimely death.
The drug had slowly poisoned him, speeding up the decline of his already weak lungs. It led to his heats stopping completely, his scent becoming warped and faint. By the time he was of age, he was too frail to be considered a desirable match. But it had given him something else: freedom. The freedom to study, to learn, to become the engineer he had always wanted to be. Then his prognosis came, and his whole world turned upside down.
He had been a walking dead man, haunting the halls of the Academy, a brilliant mind trapped in a failing body. His guardians, Roman and Anya, were beside themselves. However archaic they viewed the world, they still cared for Viktor in their own way. They searched relentlessly, finally finding a surgeon who could do the impossible. The surgery had been a success. He was going to live, he had a second chance at a future.
But that future came with a debt he now felt bound to pay.
He comes back to the conversation at the sound of his name. "… and Viktor is rather delicate, my family has some concerns. Can he even be bred? I have to be honest, Anya."
Anya's laughter is a brittle, artificial thing. "Delicate, perhaps, but in appearance alone, Dmitri," she says, her tone a careful balance of placation and pride. "He is strong where it counts. With a brilliant mind too, he has a degree in biomedical engineering, you know."
Dmitri scoffs. "A pretty hobby, I'm sure," he says, waving a dismissive hand. "But what use is it to him? Or to me? His role will be in my home, in my bed. Not in some dirty laboratory."
A muscle in Viktor’s jaw twitches, a barely perceptible tell that costs him dearly to control. The cane feels cold and solid in his grip, a real thing in an unreal conversation. His degree, the many nights hunched over diagrams, the joy of the sheer intellectual thrill of a design coming to life—all of it reduced to a "pretty hobby." He wants to lean across the table and tell Dmitri about the self-regulating prosthetic he designed for his leg, a project that was rejected for funding because it was deemed "too ambitious" for a single, unmated omega. He wants to explain the nuances of bio-integrated circuitry until Dmitri’s eyes glaze over with the same polite boredom he so often encounters.
Instead, he says nothing. He lets the dismissive words hang in the air between them, a testament to the power dynamic that holds him captive.
"The doctors assured us his heats should return in earnest within a few months now. His system is stabilizing after the surgery, so it's only a matter of finding the right balance," Anya continues, her voice a smooth, practiced melody of persuasion. "You'll have that to look forward to. He'll be eager for you, I'm sure."
Eager. The word is a physical blow. He will be eager, because his body will betray him, because biology will override the screaming protest of his mind. He will be pliant and receptive because years of no heats will make the first few feel like a dam breaking, and he will have no choice but to be swept away by the tide. His doctor had explained it clinically, a warning veiled as encouragement. His system, starved for so long, would likely react with an intensity that would be difficult to manage alone. The thought is terrifying, a loss of control that feels like a final, complete surrender.
Dmitri's smile is a predator's baring its teeth. "I have no doubt," he purrs, his fingers now stroking Viktor's nape, a proprietary gesture that makes Viktor's skin crawl. "I have a knack for encouraging... eagerness."
Viktor’s gaze snaps to Dmitri. He can feel the walls closing in around him. He is trapped in this impending bond, trapped in this life, trapped in this body that is both his salvation and his curse. He's going to pass out, maybe throw up. He needs air.
He shifts back in his seat, the scrape of the chair against the floor unnaturally loud in the sudden lull in their conversation. "If you'll excuse me," he says, his voice a careful monotone. He doesn't wait for a reply, pushing himself to his feet with a stiff, deliberate motion. He doesn't look at either of them as he turns and walks toward the door with as much grace as his racing thoughts will allow.
The cold afternoon air is a shock to his system, washing over him like a balm. He takes deep shuddering breaths, leaning heavily against the brick wall of the café. The city is a blur of motion and sound, but it's a distant roar, muted by the ringing in his ears. He closes his eyes, trying to center himself, to push back the rising tide of panic.
He cannot go back in. He'll think of some excuse for Anya later, but he needs to leave. Now. He pushes himself off the wall and makes his way down the sidewalk. No destination in mind, only the desperate need to move, to put distance between himself and Dmitri's suffocating presence.
As he turns the corner, he collides with a solid mass. A jolt goes through him, and he stumbles, his grip on the cane failing. Viktor flinches, bracing for the impact with the hard pavement, but it never comes. A strong arm wraps around his waist, catching him, pulling him upright against a firm, warm chest.
The scent hits him first. Smoke and sandalwood. A hint of clean, sweet amber. It's the same intoxicating aroma he caught in the café, but stronger now, more immediate. It wraps around him, a comforting, grounding presence that silences the frantic buzzing in his mind. He looks up, heart hammering against ribs, and finds himself staring into a pair of concerned, hazel eyes.
"Whoa, easy there," the alpha says, his voice a low, gentle rumble that vibrates through Viktor's entire body. "You alright?"
It’s him, from the café.
Viktor is frozen, mesmerized by the concern in the alpha's gaze, the slight furrow of his brow. The man is so close, he can see the small, silver scar just above the left eyebrow, can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. For a wild, reckless moment, he wants to lean in, to press his face against the alpha's neck and breathe deeply. The thought is so shocking, so unlike him, that it snaps him out of his stupor.
"I'm fine," he says, his voice hoarse, pulls away, creating a sliver of space between them. He straightens up, reclaiming his cane from where it clattered to the pavement. "I apologize. I wasn't watching where I was going." His gaze is fixed on the alpha's chin, a practiced avoidance that suddenly feels hollow and inadequate.
"No, it's my fault," the alpha insists, his hand lingering for a moment on Viktor's arm before he reluctantly lets go. "I was... distracted." There’s a moment of hesitation, then a small, almost shy smile touches his lips. "I'm Jayce, by the way. Jayce Talis."
Jayce. He's heard the name. A rising star in the world of innovation, a genius inventor and owner of Talis Innovations, a small but ambitious lab that was making waves in the prosthetics and bio-integration fields. Known for unconventional thinking and for surrounding himself with a team of brilliant, hand-picked minds with no discretion of secondary sex. Viktor's read some of Jayce's papers, admired the boldness of his theories, the elegance of his designs. The coincidence is so absurd it's almost funny.
The knowledge is both a comfort and a source of alarm. A position in a place like that is a dream. A chance to use his skills, to make a difference. But Viktor learned long ago that dreams and reality rarely align in a way that favors him.
"Viktor," he chokes out. "My name is Viktor."
"Viktor," Jayce repeats, and the way he says it, his deep voice caressing the two syllables, sends a shiver down his spine. He says it like it's a name worth savoring. "It's nice to meet you, Viktor."
Viktor just nods, unable to trust his own voice. The weight of Jayce's gaze is palpable,t makes him feel both seen and exposed. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. He's spent years perfecting the art of being invisible, of fading into the background. Now, in the presence of this one alpha, all of that effort feels like a wasted endeavor.
"You seem a little shaken," Jayce says, his brow furrowed with concern. "Is everything okay?"
Viktor's mind races. It’s not like he can just blurt out the truth, that he was fleeing a potential mate who makes his skin crawl, and a future that feels like a death sentence. "Just... a bit of a headache," he says, latching onto the first plausible excuse that comes to mind. "The café was a bit loud."
Jayce nods, his expression softening with understanding. "I get that. My… meeting wasn't exactly stimulating." A grimace, a flicker of remembered boredom crossing his face. "She was very nice, but I think we may have had a total of one shared interest between us. Truth be told, I couldn't end it fast enough." He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture that is both endearingly awkward and surprisingly genuine.
The admission is so unexpected, so disarmingly honest, that it catches Viktor off guard. The omega he had sat with was stunning, a perfect example of his designation in the eyes of society, yet this man had found the meeting wanting. Viktor had heard of some alphas being different, but it was one thing to read about, and another to witness. He takes Jayce in, searching for some sign of mockery or pity, but finds none. There is only a quiet sincerity, a shared sense of frustration with the rigid expectations of their world.
An awkward silence stretches between them, filled with the distant hum of the city and the frantic thumping of Viktor's heart. He knows he should go. Anya and Dmitri will be wondering where he is. But the thought of returning to that suffocating conversation is unbearable. But the thought of walking away from Jayce is even more so.
"So," Jayce says, breaking the silence. "What do you do, Viktor?"
Viktor can’t help the bark of laughter he lets out. The question is so simple, yet it feels loaded. He knows what people see when they look at him: an unmated omega, frail and dependent, a burden to be shouldered by a capable alpha. They don't see the years he spent suffering with his illness whilst also getting his degree, his losses and struggles to make it where he is today.
"I'm... between things at the moment," he says, choosing his words with care. "But I studied biomedical engineering, I graduated last year."
Jayce's eyes light up, a spark of genuine interest. "No way!" he says, his voice filled with an infectious enthusiasm. "That's my field. Well, sort of. I focus more on the mechanical and energy integration side of things, but the principles are the same." He's looking at Viktor like he's a puzzle he wants to solve, a fascinating new discovery. "What's your specialty?"
The warmth that spreads through Viktor has nothing to do with the afternoon sun. This is the kind of conversation he craves, the intellectual exchange that makes him feel alive. For a moment, he forgets about Dmitri, about Anya, about the impending sentence of his bonding ceremony. He is just Viktor, an engineer talking to another engineer.
"Prosthetic interfaces," he answers, the words flowing more freely now. "Specifically, neural integration and sensory feedback loops. The goal is to create a limb that doesn't just mimic movement, but actually feels like a part of the user. To restore not just function, but a sense of wholeness."
He gestures with his cane, a subtle, unconscious movement that speaks volumes. "It's a personal project of mine."
Jayce's gaze follows the movement, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a look of dawning comprehension crosses his face, followed by a wave of something that looks remarkably like awe. "The design... for your own leg?" he asks, his voice soft with wonder.
Viktor nods, a flush of pride coloring his cheeks. It's the most personal thing he has ever admitted to a stranger, yet it feels strangely right to say it to Jayce. "The one I submitted for grant funding was rejected. They said it was too ambitious. Too... speculative."
"Who rejected it?" Jayce asks, a flicker of indignation in his eyes. "The Academy? The Council?"
"The Prosthetic Advancement Guild," Viktor says, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "They said the risk of neural rejection was too high, and the resources would be better spent on more... conventional designs."
Jayce scoffs, a harsh, dismissive sound. "Conventional," he repeats, the word dripping with scorn. "They said the same thing about my work on hex-creational energy. They called it a 'parlor trick' until I powered half the district with a prototype the size of a dinner plate." He takes a step closer, his energy crackling with an intensity that is both thrilling and a little intimidating. "Viktor, your idea isn't just ambitious, it's the future. We've been trying to brute-force sensory feedback with pressure sensors and haptic motors, but it's a crude approximation. It's like trying to paint a masterpiece with a mop. True neural integration... that's the holy grail. We’ve been working up to this for the past few years. Have you gotten it to work?"
"To an extent," Viktor says, a wry smile touching his lips. "I just haven't been able to make it work long term. The synaptic decay is too rapid and burns out. The signal-to-noise ratio is a nightmare."
"Then we haven't been looking at the problem the right way," Jayce says, his mind clearly racing. He's pacing now, a caged tiger of intellectual energy. "What if we don't try boosting the signal but instead we try and find a way to dampen the noise? A bio-filter, maybe? Or a self-learning algorithm that adapts to the user's neural patterns in real-time?" He stops, turning to reach for Viktor's arm, his touch sending a pleasant thrill through him. "I have a lab. A good one. The best equipment, a team of brilliant minds. Would y-"
"Excuse me."
The cold, sharp voice cuts through the bubble of their shared excitement. Viktor flinches, the warmth of the moment instantly extinguished. He turns to see Dmitri, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mask of icy displeasure as he takes in Jayce's hand on Viktor's arm.
Anya is beside him, her face a tight, anxious grimace. "Viktor, there you are," she says, her voice strained. "We were worried. You shouldn't run off like that."
"I just needed some air," Viktor says, pulling his arm away from Jayce and stepping away.
"Viktor," Dmitri says, his voice dangerously soft. "You left without explaining yourself. We were worried." He glances at Jayce, his eyes narrowing with disdain. "Is this man bothering you?"
Jayce's jaw tightens, his posture shifting from relaxed enthusiasm to a protective stance. He subtly moves to place himself slightly in front of Viktor, a silent, instinctual act of defiance. "I wasn't bothering him," Jayce says, his tone a low, even rumble. "We were just having a conversation."
Dmitri's lips twist into a sneer. "Yes, I can see that. An alpha cornering an unmated omega on a public street,"
"It wasn't like that," Jayce retorts, his voice rising slightly. "He stumbled. I helped him up. We were talking about-"
"I can speak for myself, thank you," Viktor interrupts, his voice sharp and clipped. He is so tired of being talked over, of every alpha thinking they have the right to speak for him. "Mr. Talis and I were having a discussion about our shared field. It was a professional conversation."
"Professional conversation? About what exactly, your little hobby? I'm sure he was fascinated," Dmitri scoffs. He looks Jayce up and down, taking in the expensive cut of his jacket, the confident set of his shoulders. "I'm Dmitri Volkov. And you are?"
Jayce's chin lifts, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "Jayce Talis, of Talis Innovations."
A flicker of recognition crosses Dmitri's face, followed by a wave of even deeper hostility. "Ah, Talis," the name a curse on his lips. "I've heard of you. You work in prosthetics, don't you? What a small world," he says, a slimy smile on his face. "Viktor has a certain... fondness for the subject. Though it's hardly a suitable occupation for someone in his position."
"He has a brilliant mind, that is what he has," Jayce counters.
"Hm, yes I will give him that," Dmitri says. "However, it won't do much in the way of child rearing, and an omega's place is in the home, raising strong pups for their alpha." He reaches out and places a heavy, proprietary hand on the back of Viktor's neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "Isn't that right, my dear?"
Viktor freezes, every muscle in his body tensing at the touch. The casual cruelty of Dmitri's words, the public display of ownership, makes him feel sick. He can feel Jayce's gaze on him, a hot, heavy weight of concern and something else, something that feels dangerously like sympathy. He hates it. He hates being pitied. He hates being weak.
He straightens his spine, a deliberate act of defiance that costs him dearly. "My place is wherever I choose it to be," he says, his voice quiet but firm, laced with an icy fury that makes Dmitri's hand still. "And my degree is not a ‘hobby' , it is a tool. One that I am more than capable of using."
Dmitri's eyes widen, surprise warring with anger on his face; unused to being challenged, especially not by an omega. His grip on Viktor's neck tightens, a clear warning. "You will do well to remember your place, Viktor," he growls. "Especially in public. You don't want to cause a scene, do you?"
Heat floods Viktor's cheeks, a mixture of shame and rage. He is being manipulated, blackmailed with the threat of public humiliation. What’s worse is that Dmitri is right. A scene would only make things worse, would only reinforce the stereotype of the emotional, unruly omega. It would give Dmitri more ammunition, more justification for treating him like a child.
Anya steps forward, her hands wringing in a gesture of placating anxiety. "Dmitri, please," she says, her voice a desperate whisper. "Viktor is just... tired. He is still healing, he didn't mean-"
"I apologize, Dmitri. I don't know what's come over me, I should go home and lie down. Please, can we just go?" Viktor says, his voice hollow. He can't stand this going any further than it already has. Knowing Jayce and anyone that passes are seeing him like this is too much to bear. The words taste like poison, but he forces them out, a sacrifice on the altar of self-preservation. He looks down at the pavement, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a cold, leaden despair.
"See? That wasn't so difficult, was it?" Dmitri says, smug satisfaction in his tone. He finally releases Viktor's neck, but not before giving it a final, proprietary squeeze. "Now, let's go. I've had enough of this... excitement for one day." He turns to Jayce, a dismissive sneer on his face. "Mr. Talis. A pleasure."
Jayce doesn't respond, doesn't move. Just stands there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw set in a hard, angry line. His alpha instincts are screaming at him, demanding he challenge the other alpha, to defend the omega who has been so publicly cowed. But he can't. He doesn't even know Viktor. He has no right, no standing. To intervene now would be to make things infinitely worse for him.
But the restraint costs him. He can feel the low, dangerous growl building in his chest, a primal response to the injustice he has just witnessed. He forces it down, burying it under a layer of steely control, but the anger remains, a hot, potent fire in his gut.
Viktor doesn't look at him as he turns to leave. He keeps his head down, his knuckles white on the handle of his cane. He follows Dmitri and Anya down the street, a prisoner being led back to his cell. He can feel Jayce still there behind him, unmoving, the awareness of him pressed into Viktor’s spine like a held breath, a silent witness to his shame. It is a small mercy that Dmitri doesn't try to touch him again, but the damage is done.
Jayce watches him go, a storm of emotions raging within him. Anger at Dmitri, a cold, hard fury that makes him want to hit something. Frustration with himself, for being unable to do anything but watch. And underneath it all, he is filled with a fierce, overwhelming protectiveness towards the omega who he just met.
He doesn't know what to do. He wants to run after him, to pull him away from the brute who is clearly forcing him into a life he doesn't want. He wants to tell him that he's sorry, that he understands, that he wants to help. But he knows it would only make things worse.
Instead, he just stands there, watching until Viktor's small, slight figure disappears around the corner. Then he turns and walks in the opposite direction, his long, angry strides eating up the pavement.
The world is a blur of color and sound, but none of it registers. He is lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, replaying the scene over and over in his mind. Sees the defiance in Viktor's eyes, the way he stood up to Dmitri, the quiet strength in his voice. The shame and despair that followed, the way he shuttered himself off. Sees the possessive cruelty in Dmitri's eyes, the casual way he asserted his dominance.
There was something about Viktor that had gotten under his skin from the moment he walked into the cafe. It wasn't just his intoxicating scent or the quiet grace with which he moved. It was the look in his eyes, a combination of fierce intelligence and deep, aching sadness. Something about him set his instincts off, grabbed a hold of him and shook him up. His alpha had perked up in a way it never had before.
And when he saw that alpha walk into the cafe and join them, he had felt an immediate and visceral dislike. It wasn't just the alpha's dismissive air or the way he looked at the omega. It was something deeper, a primal warning that went straight to his core. The way Viktor had flinched from the alpha's touch had been a punch to the gut. He had to grip the table to keep from standing up and marching over there.
Lyra had wanted to leave after the third time his attention had drifted back to him. To Viktor. He couldn't blame her, they both knew that it would go nowhere. He had paid the bill and walked her out, staying until her carriage arrived. He told her he'd had a lovely time, a lie that left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had started heading to the lab but turned back, an inexplicable pull to see him one more time, to maybe, just maybe, say something. And then he had run into him, that small, fragile body colliding with his, the scent of him flooding his senses.
And his eyes. Gods, his eyes.
When he had looked up at him, those golden eyes wide with surprise, Jayce had felt something shift inside him. It was more than just attraction, more than just the instinctual pull of an alpha to an omega. It was a connection, a recognition on a level he couldn't explain.
He had been captivated. Listening to him talk about neural interfaces and sensory feedback loops, his face lit up with a passion that was beautiful to behold. He was brilliant. More brilliant than anyone he had ever met. And the world was going to put him in a cage. The thought is a physical pain, a tightness in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.
By the time he reaches the sleek, glass-and-steel building that houses Talis Innovations, his anger has cooled into a hard, determined resolve. He has to do something. He can't just stand by and watch it happen. He has to find a way to help.
He storms into his lab, a whirlwind of frustrated energy, startling the small team huddled around a workbench. "Jayce? You're back early," says a young woman with bright blue hair and goggles pushed up on her forehead.
Jayce ignores the comment, striding over to the main console and pulling up the personnel files. "I need you to do a background check for me," he says, his voice tight with urgency. "An omega named Viktor. I don't have a last name, I'm assuming from Zaun."
"Viktor?" The blue-haired woman, Jinx, quirks an eyebrow. "That's a bit of a broad search, boss. Any other details?"
"He's a recent graduate. Submitted a proposal to the Prosthetic Advancement Guild for a self-regulating, neurally integrated prosthetic. It was rejected," Jayce scoffs, the words clipped and precise. "He's slight, walks with a cane, brown hair, golden eyes, these two moles on his face—"
Jinx snorts, shooting him a sideways look. “Wow. Super relevant intel. Should I be sketching him, or are we actually doing research?”
Jayce stops short, jaw tightening. “…He’s brilliant,” he amends quickly. “He has a mind that could change the world.”
Jinx rolls her eyes but her fingers are already flying across the keyboard. “Uh-huh. Say less, Casanova. I’ll see what I can dig up, but the guild’s records are a nightmare to get into. Could take a while.”
"Just do it please," Jayce says, running a hand through his hair. "And look for anything about a Dmitri Volkov. Alpha, probably a member of one of the old money families."
Jinx's fingers pause on the keys. "Dmitri Volkov? His family is old Piltover money. I heard he's an ass hat. This girl I knew back at the Academy had dated him and he dumped her the moment she slept with him. Real piece of work. Are they connected?"
"I'm pretty sure he's Viktor's intended. He's going to snuff his fire out, Jinx. All because of some archaic bonding contract," he says, the words tasting like ash. "I can't let that happen." He turns away from the console, unable to stand still and starts pacing the length of the lab, his mind racing.
He sits heavily on a stool, the fight draining out of him. It would be a lie to say this was only for the injustice of it all. There’s a much more selfish reason for all of this. He can still feel the phantom warmth of Viktor's body against his, a sensation he can't shake. The memory of his eyes, filled with a mixture of defiance and despair, is seared into his mind.
He has never felt this way before. There have been lovers, of course, both betas and omegas, but it has always been a casual, mutual arrangement. Never this primal, possessive urge, this overwhelming need to protect, to cherish, to claim. He knows it's irrational, but he can't ignore it. Jayce has to see him again, has to know if the connection he felt was real, or just a product of his own overactive imagination. He has to save him, not just for Viktor's sake, but for his own. To appease his alpha still screaming at him to find him.
"Have we filled all the spots on that new grant I was telling you about? The one for the sensory feedback project?" Jayce asks, a desperate hope beginning to rise in his chest.
"I think so, boss. We had a final candidate coming in next week, but I don't think we've offered them the contract yet," she says, her fingers tapping away. "Why? You got someone in mind?"
"I do," Jayce says, a slow smile spreading across his face. "And I'm going to offer him the job."