Chapter Text
He’d imagined this day a hundred times. The first turn of the key, the empty rooms waiting for him to fill. Yet now, standing in the middle of the living room, Zanka felt the weight of silence pressing against his chest. This was his space. Alone. For now.
It had taken months to convince the head of his family to let him move out, with the promise that he’d attend whatever school they chose. It sucked, sure, but it was far better than being trapped in the family company.
For now, he would go to school, earn his degree, work, and save up- so that when it was over, he could finally start his own life. Away from the controlling people he called family.
Boxes were scattered across the floor, some already opened, spilling clothes, books, and random clutter into the bright apartment. Zanka ran a hand over the edge of the countertop, feeling the smoothness of the surface beneath his fingers, imagining what it would feel like once everything was in its place.
He wasn’t entirely alone. His roommate hadn’t moved in yet, but Zanka found himself thinking about them anyway. He’d never really had friends before—just vague acquaintances here and there—so the idea of someone else sharing this space made him oddly nervous. Maybe they’d get along. Maybe they’d even, somehow, become friends. The thought made him smirk at himself. He didn’t know what ‘friend’ felt like yet, but maybe now he’d get a chance to find out.
Wiping his forehead, he decided to lock in and finish unpacking everything. It wasn’t much. He liked the simple, clean look of things. Nothing crowded. Nothing unnecessary.
Still, he filled the kitchen with almost every tool you could think of—extra measuring cups, a rice cooker, sharp knives lined up neatly in their block. Maybe it was overkill for one person, but he liked being prepared. Liked knowing he could handle things himself. After that, he slowly made his way to the bedroom.
A full-size bed. A sleek desk. A nightstand. That was it.
The most color in the room came from the light and dark blue comforter folded neatly over the mattress. Everything else was black or white. Very minimal. Very controlled.
It took a few hours, but soon his side of the apartment was done. Though honestly, it didn’t look like someone had just moved in. The kitchen counters were bare, everything tucked away behind cabinet doors. No clutter. No personality.
The bathroom was the same—one toothbrush, one tube of toothpaste sitting in a small cup and a bottle of mouthwash. Towels folded precisely under the sink. Anything extra stored out of sight.
His room was probably the worst. A single small lamp sat on his desk. His bed was made so neatly it almost didn’t look slept in, one pillow centered perfectly. The closet looked like someone obsessed with order had arranged it—shirts organized by color and sleeve length, pants folded neatly on matching hangers.
It was almost too clean.
But Zanka smiled anyway.
Proud of how he’d organized it. Proud of how he had ‘decorated’. Even if decorating mostly meant making sure nothing was out of place.
Glancing down at his wrist to check his watch, he decided now would be a good time to go grocery shopping. He slipped off his indoor slippers and put on a nice pair of sneakers before grabbing his keys and wallet.
Making sure he had his phone in his pocket, he headed out, locking the door properly before going to his car and heading to the nearest organic grocery store.
Once parked, he stepped out and walked into the store, a little pep in his step as this was his first official time shopping for food himself.
He grabbed a cart, the wheels squeaking faintly as he pushed it forward. The produce section was the first stop.
Organic spinach. Bell peppers. Zucchini. He inspected each one carefully before placing it into the cart, checking for bruises, turning them over in his hands like he’d seen chefs do on cooking shows. A pack of free-range eggs followed. Brown rice. Greek yogurt. Almond milk.
Clean. Simple. Good for you.
It was almost automatic. Years of hearing what was ‘acceptable’ and what wasn’t had carved the rules into his head. No processed junk. No artificial dyes. No frozen meals. Nothing that came in bright packaging screaming about flavor.
His cart filled quietly with neat, healthy choices.
He was reaching for a bag of organic quinoa when something down the aisle caught his eye.
Bright colors. Loud packaging. A stack of instant ramen cups, flavors printed in bold letters. Just add water. Three minutes. Done.
He slowed.
At home, that kind of thing would’ve been thrown out immediately. ‘Low quality’. ‘Unhealthy’. ‘Beneath us’. He could almost hear the disapproval.
Zanka stared at it a little longer than necessary.
He didn’t even know what it tasted like.
Carefully, like someone might catch him, he reached out and picked one up. It felt almost too light in his hand. Cheap. Artificial. Completely unnecessary.
He turned it over, reading the back, scanning ingredients he didn’t recognize.
He could put it back.
He should probably put it back.
But… he didn’t have to.
No one was here to stop him. No one was going to inspect his groceries. No one would throw it away before he got the chance to try it.
A small, almost disbelieving smile tugged at his mouth.
Before he could overthink it, he dropped the cup into his cart. It made a soft plastic clatter against the organic vegetables.
And for some reason, that tiny sound felt louder than anything else in the store.
He glanced around instinctively. No one was looking. No one cared.
Still, his heart was beating just a little faster as he continued down the aisle.
It was stupid. It was just instant food.
But it felt like rebellion.
By the time he reached the checkout line, his cart looked exactly how it was supposed to. Neat. Predictable. Healthy.
Except for one thing.
The instant ramen sat wedged awkwardly between a carton of eggs and a bundle of kale, its bright packaging impossible to miss. It didn’t belong there. It looked loud. Out of place.
Zanka shifted it slightly, like that might make it less obvious.
He told himself it didn’t matter. It was just food. Just one cup. But as the line moved forward and he placed items onto the conveyor belt, he hesitated when he reached it.
For a second, he considered sliding it back into the cart. Pretending he changed his mind. Instead, he set it down with the rest.
The cashier scanned his items one by one. Zanka kept his expression neutral, but he felt strangely exposed. Like the fluorescent lights were too bright. Like someone might look at the ramen and think less of him. Think he lacked discipline.
The cup passed over the scanner.
Beep.
The cashier didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even glance at it twice. Just dropped it into the bag with everything else.
That was it.
No judgment. No comment. No look of disappointment.
Zanka exhaled slowly, not even realizing he’d been holding his breath.
It was stupid. No one here knew him. No one cared what he bought.
Still, the small relief felt real.
He paid, gathered his bags carefully, and walked back out into the parking lot. The late afternoon sun was warmer now, casting long shadows across the asphalt.
He loaded everything into the trunk, arranging the bags so the eggs wouldn’t crack, so nothing would shift on the drive home. The ramen sat on top of one bag, light and harmless.
He paused for a second before closing the trunk.
Just one cup, he reminded himself.
Then he slid into the driver’s seat, and started the car, heading back to the apartment with a quiet, almost secret satisfaction humming in his chest.
By the time he pulled into the apartment parking lot, the sky had softened into that early evening gold, the kind that made everything look warmer than it actually was.
He carried the bags up carefully, two at a time, making sure nothing tipped. The hallway echoed faintly with his footsteps, and for a brief second, he wondered what it would sound like when there were two sets instead of one.
Inside, he locked the door behind him automatically and set the groceries on the counter.
For a moment, he just stood there, looking at everything he’d chosen.
Then he got to work.
Vegetables were rinsed, dried, and placed into clear containers before going into the fridge. He adjusted the shelves slightly so everything sat evenly. Eggs on the top right. Yogurt beside them. Almond milk toward the back. Nothing touching. Nothing messy.
The fridge slowly filled, but it still looked…minimal. Clean lines. Space between items. Intentional.
The cabinets were the same. Rice in airtight containers. Quinoa poured neatly into a labeled jar. Snacks arranged in straight rows. He stepped back once, then adjusted a box half an inch to the left. Better.
The instant ramen sat alone on the counter.
Bright. Out of place.
He picked it up again, turning it in his hands like he had in the store. The plastic felt cheap compared to everything else he’d bought. Almost childish.
He could make it now. Just to try it.
His eyes flicked toward the empty second bedroom without thinking.
No.
Not today.
Today felt too new. Too important.
Carefully, he opened one of the upper cabinets and placed the cup toward the back corner. Not hidden exactly just…waiting. For later.
He closed the cabinet softly.
The apartment returned to its quiet hum. The fridge running. The faint tick of the clock.
Zanka leaned back against the counter and looked around. Everything in its place. Groceries stocked. Kitchen organized. Bed made.
It finally felt real.
He wasn’t visiting.
He lived here now.
By the time night settled in, the apartment felt different.
During the day, the sunlight had softened the empty spaces, made them feel open. Now, with only the overhead light casting pale shadows against the walls, everything seemed bigger. Quieter.
Zanka stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, arms loosely crossed, listening. The hum of the refrigerator. The faint buzz of electricity in the walls. No voices. No footsteps. No hushed conversations bleeding through doors like back at his family home.
Just him.
He swallowed, then shook the feeling off. It was fine. It was peaceful. This was what he wanted.
After a moment, he headed to the bathroom before starting the water. The shower steamed up quickly, fog curling along the mirror as hot water poured down his back. He let himself stand there longer than necessary, shoulders slowly relaxing under the heat.
The day had been a lot.
New apartment. First grocery run. First real decision that had been entirely his.
His mind drifted, uninvited, to the second bedroom down the hall.
His roommate would be here soon. A few days, maybe less.
He wondered what they’d be like. Loud? Quiet? Messy? Organized? Would they hate how bare everything looked? Would they fill the apartment with color?
Would they talk to him?
The thought made something nervous and hopeful twist in his chest.
He rinsed off, shut the water, and stepped out, wiping a hand across the fogged mirror before brushing his teeth.
Back in his bedroom, he changed into sleep clothes, a nice navy blue silk set, and turned on the small desk lamp. The soft glow made the room feel less sterile, less like a display.
He slid into bed carefully, smoothing the comforter out of habit before settling against the single-centered pillow.
The ceiling looked unfamiliar in the dim light.
He stared at it for a while.
Soon, there would be another set of shoes by the door. Another voice in the kitchen. Another presence in the quiet.
Maybe even a friend.
The thought made him smile to himself in the dark before he went to sleep.
.
.
.
.
.
Huffing under his breath, Zanka trudged into his apartment, a small cup of coffee clutched in his hand. The door clicked shut behind him, echoing faintly in the quiet space.
Today had been another bust.
It was harder than he’d expected — finding a job when all his experience came from working inside the family company. On paper, it looked impressive. In reality, it felt useless. No one wanted someone who had never really worked outside a controlled environment.
He didn’t want anything big. Didn’t want corporate. Didn’t want management.
He wanted something small.
A bookstore, maybe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that smelled like paper and dust and coffee. Somewhere no one knew his last name.
Somewhere his family couldn’t control him.
Sighing, he slipped off his shoes and made his way to the kitchen, sitting heavily on one of the barstools. The apartment felt just as neat as he’d left it that morning– almost untouched.
The stack of papers he’d left on the counter was still there. Applications. Notes. Places he’d circled on a map.
He flipped through them slowly, the edges slightly bent from being handled too many times.
Rejected.
No response.
‘Looking for someone with more experience.’
His jaw tightened.
He took a slow sip of his coffee, now lukewarm, and stared at the blank line on one of the forms asking for prior work history.
For the first time since moving in, the apartment didn’t feel peaceful.
It felt small.
He stared at the papers for a long time.
The silence stretched.
Without really thinking about it, his hand drifted toward his phone. He unlocked it, thumb hovering over his contacts.
His brother’s name sat near the top.
For a moment, he just looked at it.
His brother would know what to say. Would probably sigh like he was inconvenienced, remind him how lucky he was to even be asking.
He’d still get him a job- make a call, pull a favor.
But it wouldn’t be free. It never was. It would be easy.
Too easy.
Zanka’s thumb hovered over the call button.
Then he lowered the phone slowly back onto the counter.
No.
He hadn’t fought for months just to walk right back into their hands. Asking for help would only prove what they already believed- that he couldn’t do anything on his own. That he needed them.
He pressed his lips together and leaned back in the barstool, staring up at the ceiling.
He would figure it out on his own.
His phone buzzed suddenly against the counter, making him flinch. He frowned and picked it up, expecting maybe a spam notification or an email rejection.
Instead, the message preview made his stomach drop.
Unknown Number.
He opened it.
'Good afternoon, Mr. Nijiku. This is Ms. Harlow, your sister’s secretary. She has requested your attendance at a formal company dinner this evening at 6 PM. Your presence is expected. Please confirm.’
For a moment, he just stared at the screen.
Requested, like he had a choice in the matter.
A humorless breath escaped him. Of course, they didn’t ask. They never asked.
He hadn’t even known about a dinner.
He glanced around his pristine kitchen– his apartment, his space, and the earlier feeling of independence thinned slightly at the edges.
Even miles away, they still reached him.
The phone buzzed again.
‘Dress code is White tie. A car can be sent if necessary.’
Zanka’s jaw tightened.
He hadn’t even told them where he was living.
His grip on the phone tightened for a second before he forced himself to relax.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Another message.
Zanka didn’t want to open it. He did anyway.
‘One more reminder. Please ensure you wear a proper neck guard this evening. There will be several Alphas in attendance.’
His expression went completely blank. For a second, he just stared at the words.
Neck guard.
High collar. Structured. Discreet. Mandatory at company events for ‘safety’.
For appearances.
For reputation.
For control.
His fingers slowly tightened around the phone.
He hadn’t worn one since moving out.
The absence of it these past few days had been… freeing. The feeling of open air against his throat. No fabric pressing there. No subtle reminder of what he was supposed to be. How he was supposed to behave.
His thumb drifted unconsciously to his neck. There was no mark. No collar. No barrier.
Just skin.
The apartment suddenly felt smaller.
There will be several Alphas in attendance.
As if that explained everything. As if that justified it.
He let out a slow breath through his nose. Even now. Even here. They were still dictating what he wore. How he presented himself. How visible or invisible he was allowed to be.
Another buzz.
‘We trust you understand the importance of maintaining decorum.’
Zanka huffed out a quiet, bitter laugh.
Decorum.
He glanced toward his bedroom. Toward his closet where he’d neatly hidden the few formal pieces he’d brought with him. Including the guard.
He had packed it, just in case.
His jaw tightened.
Freedom, apparently, still came with conditions.
The phone remained in his hand, the message waiting for confirmation.
For compliance.
Zanka stared at it for a long moment before his thumb finally moved. He didn’t let himself think too much. If he did, he might say something reckless.
Instead, he typed carefully.
‘Understood. I will attend.
In the future, I would appreciate it if my sister contacted me directly regarding personal requests.’
He read it twice.
Neutral. Polite. Technically respectful.
He hit send.
The little ‘Delivered’ notification appeared almost instantly.
His jaw flexed as he set the phone back down on the counter, screen facing down this time. He wasn’t interested in whatever response might come next.
Of course she hadn’t texted him herself. That would imply effort. That would imply he was worth direct communication instead of filtered instructions through an assistant.
He leaned back against the barstool, staring at the ceiling again.
Requested your attendance.
Decorum.
Wear a neck guard.
As if he were an accessory to the company brand instead of a person.
His hand drifted to his throat again without him realizing it. He hated how easily they could still reach him. Hated that a single message was enough to shift the mood of the entire apartment.
A few minutes passed.
His phone buzzed once more.
He didn’t look at it immediately.
When he finally did, the reply was short.
‘Message relayed.’
That was it.
No acknowledgment of his comment.
No apology.
Zanka let out a quiet, humorless exhale. He pushed himself off the stool.
If he was going to be displayed tonight, he might as well get ready on his own terms.
He pushed past his door, making sure to shut it properly behind him as he started stripping his clothes off. Each piece of discarded cloth being tossed into a basket for him to wash later.
Opening his closet, he stepped in and started pulling out his outfit. It was buried behind items in storage in a matte black box, out of sight out of mind, is what he told himself.
He pulled out the sleek black box and set it on his bed. He felt sick just thinking about tonight. He walked to the bathroom, passing the mirror.
Zanka didn’t pause in front of it at first.
There was no point.
He washed his hands because that was what he always did. The motions were exact, stripped of thought. Ritual without meaning. He dried between his fingers carefully, like preparation mattered more than the event itself. He stepped back into his room and opened the box.
The shirt went on smoothly.
He slid his arms through, rolled his shoulders once to settle the silky fabric, and began fastening the mother-of-pearl buttons. They caught the light every time his fingers moved.
He didn’t look at them.
His expression stayed blank as he adjusted the cuffs, flattened the front, straightened the collar. He slipped on a nice pair of garters around his thighs before fastening them and clipping them to the hem of his shirt.
Trousers next.
He stepped into them, pulled them into place, and smoothed the crease down each leg with firm strokes of his palm. He corrected a line that didn’t need correcting. Did it again.
The shoes waited in the box.
Matte black crocodile leather. Structured. Unforgiving. Something his father had made his secretary order for him.
He sat, slid on his socks, then pressed his feet into the shoes. The leather resisted for half a second before molding to him. He tied the laces evenly, tightened them once, then again– not because they were wrong, but because something in him needed the control.
When he stood, the sound of his steps against the floor was sharper. Harder.
He finally looked at himself fully.
White. Black. Clean lines. Precision.
He fit.
That was the part he hated.
There was no strain in the shoulders. No awkwardness in the cut. The version in the mirror looked born for events like this– for quiet conversations and careful smiles and expectations wrapped in silk.
He lifted a hand, pressing his fingers briefly against his own throat.
He could just not go. Let them wait. Let them talk.
For a moment, the thought almost settled.
Then his jaw tightened.
Of course he was going. What choice did he have?
He reached for the neck guard.
The matte black crocodile leather was cool in his hands. The mother-of-pearl detailing shimmered faintly, subtle but deliberate. He held it there for a second too long, staring at it as if it had personally offended him.
This was the worst part. He lifted it to his throat, his fingers hesitated at the clasp.
His reflection stared back at him- almost defiant. Then he fastened it.
Click.
The sound was soft, but it might as well have echoed.
It settled against his neck, firm and exact. He adjusted it once, lifted his chin slightly, and felt the last piece lock into place.
The hesitation vanished.
The softness in his eyes flattened out.
By the time he stepped away from the mirror, he didn't look like himself.
Just a boy who hated it was buried somewhere underneath.
He stepped back, giving himself one last look before deciding it still wasn’t finished.
Crossing to his closet, he reached up to the built-in shelf and pulled down a small wooden box. The lid opened with a quiet creak, revealing neat rows of jewelry. Small diamond earrings, two watches, one for formal wear and one for events like this. In the corner, though, a pair of earrings that actually looked like they had been worn.
His blue tassel earrings.
The blue tassels he wore every day, delicate threads that swayed just slightly. He threaded them through his ears and adjusted them until they hung evenly, letting the color catch the light. The color matched his eyes, the subtle mother-of-pearl accents woven through his outfit. A small, private satisfaction settled in his chest.
Then his gaze dropped to his wrist.
His everyday watch suddenly looked wrong- too casual, too familiar. He unclasped it and replaced it with the sleeker one, the weight of it heavy on his wrist.
Small details. Every detail mattered tonight.
Zanka exhaled slowly, feeling the rhythm of preparation settle him. He picked up his phone, tapped it once into his pocket, then lifted his keys.
He stepped toward the door, heart quiet but alert. The apartment seemed unusually still in that moment, like it was holding its breath with him. The lock clicked behind him, soft but definite.
And then he saw it.
A black car, sleek, idling silently in the lot. Blacked-out windows. Tires clean, engine quiet. Waiting.
He stopped.
Not a taxi. Not a coincidence.
His grip on his keys tightened. His stomach dipped slightly. The faint hum of the engine felt louder than it should, filling the empty space around him.
He studied it for a long moment. The angle, the way the shadowed windows reflected the dim light, the fact that no one had stepped out yet. Whoever was inside knew exactly where he was, exactly when he would come out.
And still, he didn’t move immediately.
He drew in a slow breath, feeling the tension coil in his shoulders, the quiet discipline he’d built over years holding him steady.
Eventually, he lifted his chin, adjusted the neck guard slightly, and started toward the car.
He didn't hesitate to open the door, slipping in soundlessly as he adjusted himself and buckled up.
The driver adjusted his rearview mirror before changing the gear and driving off.
Zanka didn't even know where they were going. He usually didn't, a text, an expectation, and an hour later, he was being driven to the destination like some kind of prisoner.
He looked out the window, the dark tint making it hard to really make out any details of passing cars and vehicles.
He was used to it, the awkward car rides. When he was younger, he tried to talk to the drivers, but now he knew the routine. Keep his mouth shut. Act proper and just wait till he arrived to his destination.
He didn't know how long he had been driving, nor did he really care. But at some point, the city disappeared and was replaced with acres of lush forest. The trees slowly started changing, becoming more uniform.
The car slowed, rolling up a long, winding driveway flanked by manicured hedges and ancient oaks. The gates opened almost silently, as if the place had been waiting for him. Even from here, he could feel the weight of the estate—massive stone walls, hidden alcoves, and the faint glimmer of chandeliers through high windows.
He had been here before, once or twice, but he couldn't remember who the property belonged too exactly. Most likely a business partner of his Fathers.
When the car finally stopped, there were no cameras or lines. It was almost silent outside, the light noise of crickets and wind. The door opened, and a lady dressed in all black held the door open for him as he climbed out.
Straightening his posture, he dusted his suit off. Taking a deep breath, he started his way up the stairs, his leather shoes clacking loudly in the silence.
A butler appeared from a shadowed archway, bowing slightly. “Welcome, sir,” he said, his voice smooth, practiced. “The hosts are expecting you. This way, please. “
He nodded, letting the butler lead him through the grand entrance. He followed him into the foryor, glancing around slightly as he took in the decorations. It was nice, expensive. No wonder his Father wanted him here, he needed to show off.
At the end of the hallway, he spotted two figures. His brother and sister. He didnt say hello, just walked up to them and let them flank his sides as they continued down the hall. It didnt take long to reach their destination, his sister knocked before opening the giant oak door and went in.
He followed, his brother right behind him.
His Father sat behind a massive desk, mid-conversation with a guest, words drifting in polite, practiced tones.
The moment his father noticed him, the guest’s voice faltered. His father didn’t acknowledge the hesitation- his gaze locked on him.
“You’re late,” his father said, voice smooth but carrying the weight of accusation.
He straightened instinctively, knowing the first impression could set the tone for the evening. His father’s eyes flicked over his outfit– a precise, tailored ensemble that had taken hours to prepare. He nodded once, sharply, satisfied that the basics were correct, but the movement didn’t carry warmth or approval.
Then his gaze shifted higher. The earrings. Small, delicate, blue tassels that swayed faintly as he moved. His father’s expression tightened imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his otherwise controlled face. The approval he had just offered vanished, replaced by a silent, piercing critique.
“Remove them,” his father said, voice low, measured, leaving no room for argument.
The guest coughed, shifting awkwardly, but his father didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance at them.
“Yes, Sir,” he murmured, voice low and careful, the words carrying more weight than any sentence.
He reached up slowly, fingers brushing the delicate blue tassels, and removed the earrings without a word before palmimg them into his pocket. His father’s eyes never left him, sharp and unyielding, the faintest crease of disapproval lingering in the corners.
His father leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers as if considering whether to punish him for the delay– or for the audacity of wearing the earrings at all. The guest shifted in his seat, uncertain, a silent intruder in a private ritual of control.
“Better,” his father said finally, voice smooth but icy, each syllable deliberate. “Tonight is a celebration, you need to do your part and mingle,” he waved off the guest before continuing. “Dont make a fool out of the Nijiku name.”
“Understood, Sir.” he said. He stood there, hands neatly folded behind his back as silence filled the room.
A soft knock at the door cut through the tension. “Sir, the party has begun,” a voice called, polite but insistent. “Your guests are waiting.”
His father’s gaze flicked briefly to the door, then back to him. “Make sure to behave yourself tonight,” he said, tone flat, controlled. “Its the least you could do.”
Zanka nodded before stepping to the side and following his siblings to the party.
The room was loud and bright compared to the office. And it smelled awful. Pheromones filled the room to the point where it made him nauseated. But he continued on.
His sister caught his gaze, before speaking. “Make sure to smile, and please, “ she huffed, irritation laced in her voice. “Dont make a scene like last time. Father is letting you go do your little school thing, the least you can do is not make a fool of yourself.”
He nodded, before excusing himself and turning and cutting through the crowd. Passing people that were a little too drunk, nodding nicely before deflecting conversation. He found himself away from the center of it all, tucked in the corner a few feet away from a table filled with finger foods.
And for a moment, he was alone.
“Nijiku?”
Zanka turned, before seeing a man he didnt know. He smiled slightly, raising his hand slightly, preparing himself to end the conversation shortly.
But before he could, a glass of champagne was shoved into his hand. The man stepped closer, slightly cornering him away from the crowd. The faint smell of rank pheromones wafting off him. Alpha.
“The Omega, right? What was your name again? Zanma? Za…” the man mumbled on.
“Its Zanka, and you are?” He responded coolly, ignoring the the first question.
“Ah, that's it, Zanka!” The man took a sip of his own glass, eyeing the one in his own hand. Zanka put it too his lips and took a small sip, out of politeness.
“My father is the main host tonight; you've been here before if I remember correctly.”
Zanka nodded slightly, racking his memories trying to find a name to tack to him. He bit the inside of his cheek slightly. He couldn't remember his name, but he knew he was important, important enough that he couldn't ignore him.
“You’re not joining the company, I hear,” the man said, voice smooth but probing, eyes narrowing as they studied him. “Planning to do… something else, perhaps?”
Zanka stiffened, careful to keep his posture precise. “Ah, no. I’m currently starting university,” he said evenly, each word measured. “I’m not joining the company right now.”
The alpha’s gaze lingered, sharp and appraising, then tilted slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “University, huh? And marriage? Is that your plan instead? To marry into someone’s influence rather than work under your father?”
He stiffened, but made sure to keep a cool smile on his lips. “Yeah, I plan to get my bachelor's. And no, marriage isn't on the table right now.”
The alpha hummed at that, low and unconvinced.
“Not on the table?” he repeated, glancing deliberately at Zanka’s neck — at the matte black crocodile guard with its subtle mother-of-pearl inlay. A symbol disguised as fashion. A leash disguised as luxury. “That’s not what your family’s presentation suggests.”
Zanka’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the stem of his glass. He hated how easily they read the outfit. How easily they read him.
“It’s a dinner,” Zanka replied lightly. “They enjoy theatrics.”
The man stepped half a pace closer. Close enough that the pheromones were no longer faint. Not overwhelming — controlled. Intentional. A reminder.
“Your father doesn’t do theatrics,” the alpha said quietly. “He does strategy.”
Zanka met his eyes fully then.
Machine-still. Perfect posture. Perfect expression. The same expression he’d practiced in the mirror before putting the neck guard on last — like locking a collar into place.
“If my father had decided my future,” Zanka said smoothly, “you wouldn’t be asking me about it.”
A flicker of interest crossed the man’s face.
“So you do have a spine.”
“I have plans,” Zanka corrected.
The alpha’s gaze dragged over him again — assessing, recalculating. He finally took a slow sip of champagne.
“University,” he said. “And what are you studying?”
Zanka didn’t hesitate.
“Medicine with a double in Law.”
That earned a brow lift.
“Useful,” the man murmured. “Ambitious. Independent.” His smirk returned, softer now, edged with curiosity instead of mockery. “Careful, Zanka. Independence is expensive.”
Zanka tilted his head slightly.
“I’m aware.”
Across the room, laughter rose. His sister’s voice. His father’s deeper one, steady and composed.
The alpha finally stepped back half an inch — enough to give space, but not enough to concede.
“Well,” he said, offering his hand at last. “I’m Kaien Ryu. My family handles foreign acquisitions for your father.”
Important. Of course he was.
Zanka slid his hand into the man's grip. Cool. Controlled. Brief.
“A pleasure,” Zanka replied.
Kaien’s thumb brushed deliberately against the inside of his wrist before releasing him.
“Enjoy university,” Kaien said, tone unreadable. “Let’s see how long it keeps you.”
And then he was gone — swallowed back into the crowd of tailored suits and calculated smiles.
For a moment, Zanka stood perfectly still.
Then he exhaled through his nose, slowly.
He lifted the champagne again– this time not for politeness, but to steady the taste of something bitter rising in his throat.
They could dress him in platinum and crocodile leather. They could parade him under chandeliers and call it tradition. But he was not marrying into influence.
He was building his own.
The rest of the party blurred together. Shaking hands and smiling during small talk. At one point his sister brushed past him, fingers briefly pinching the back of his sleeve in silent correction. Posture.
He adjusted.
The music began to wind down, the strings softening into something slow and ceremonial. Guests started collecting coats, murmuring final pleasantries. The pressure in the air thinned with every departing alpha, every fading wave of dominance.
Zanka felt it immediately.
Space.
He stood near one of the pillars now, no longer at the center of the room. His hands were steady again. The worst of the pheromone haze had passed, leaving behind only a dull exhaustion behind his eyes.
He glanced at his watch.
9:47 PM.
His pulse lifted — not from stress this time.
If they followed schedule, final farewells would end by ten. His father liked precision. That meant cars pulling around shortly after.
Home by midnight.
A shower.
Silence.
His own air.
The thought warmed him in a way nothing else that evening had.
Another guest approached to say goodbye. Zanka smiled — and this one was easier. Lighter. Almost real.
He glanced at his watch again when the man turned away.
9:52.
Eight minutes.
He shifted his weight subtly, already calculating how quickly he could excuse himself once his father made his final round. He imagined peeling the jacket off. Unfastening the cufflinks. Removing the neck guard last.
Breathing without filtration.
The ballroom doors opened again, letting in a draft of cool night air as another group exited. Zanka caught the faintest hint of it and almost smiled.
Almost.
“Checking the time?”
His body reacted before his expression did.
Zanka turned.
His brother, Goka, stood behind him, hands folded neatly behind his back. Composed. Observant.
Zanka’s fingers shifted slightly over the face of his watch before he let his arm fall naturally to his side.
“Making sure I’m available if Father needs me,” he replied smoothly.
His brother’s gaze lingered a fraction too long.
“There’s a private dinner upstairs.”
The words didn’t process at first. The warmth in Zanka’s chest stalled.
“Upstairs?” he echoed.
“Immediate family. Select partners.” His brother’s tone was casual. Too casual. “You’re expected.”
The last few guests filtered out behind them, laughter fading into the corridor.
Zanka glanced toward the doors.
They were closing.
“But the event is ending,” he said, unable to stop the faint edge that slipped into his voice. “I thought—”
His brother tilted his head slightly.
“You thought you were finished?”
Not cruel, just factual. Like the expectation of being done was funny.
Zanka straightened immediately, smoothing his expression back into place.
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“They’d like a more focused discussion. You handled the ballroom well. Now they want to see you in a smaller setting.”
Smaller.
Which meant heavier. No crowd to dilute the air.
Zanka’s jaw tightened for half a second before he forced it loose. He checked his watch one last time.
9:55 pm.
So close.
His brother stepped past him toward the staircase. “Five minutes,” he said over his shoulder. “Compose yourself.”
Compose yourself.
As if he’d already slipped.
Zanka remained by the pillar as the ballroom lights dimmed another degree. Staff began clearing the final glasses. The doors shut fully this time, sealing off the night air.
The relief he’d been holding dissolved quietly.
He inhaled.
The air still felt thick.
Home would not be midnight.
Carefully, deliberately, he lifted his chin and turned toward the stairs.
It didn't take him long to reach the dining room, a servant stood outside waiting to open the door for him. He nodded before stepping in properly.
The room was more traditional than the ballroom. Traditional Japanese decor. He slipped his shoes off and bowed to greet the guest. Polite.
He sat down, folding his knees beneath him at the traditional table, food already arranged neatly in front of him.
“Ah, so the Omega arrives!” an old man laughed. Zanka was fairly sure he worked in foreign affairs. “I heard you’re going to university. I’m surprised your father allowed it. I was certain you’d be joining the company.”
Before Zanka could even open his mouth, his sister answered for him.
“Ah, yes. Well, we decided he needed more real-world experience before handling any real responsibility. He’s just… playing around with a degree for now.”
The man nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “Makes sense. He’s still young—what, twenty-one now?”
“Yes, young but disciplined,” his Father replied. “He’s not a genius, so it’ll take him longer than his siblings before he joins the company.”
Zanka lowered his gaze to his plate. His portion was noticeably smaller than everyone else’s—barely enough to satisfy him.
“And marriage? I noticed he’s wearing the same guard as last season. Any propositions yet?” the man asked.
His sister spoke again. “Not at the moment. My brother isn’t one for fashion, so I’m redesigning his new neck guard. It should be finished by the end of the month.”
Zanka swallowed. He didn’t want a new collar, but he didn’t react at the statement.
The man hummed, and the conversation slowly drifted back to business as they forgot about him. Zanka released a quiet breath of relief. All he had to do was sit there, eat, and look presentable. He took a small, practiced bite of the food in front of him. It was bitter—sharp enough to make him nearly flinch—but a quick pinch under the table from his sister corrected him before his expression could change.
He continued taking small, measured bites, nodding and speaking only when given silent permission. At one point, a servant was called to escort a business partner to his room, the man was far too drunk to continue the dinner.
His father eventually cleared his throat. “I believe that concludes dinner. I’ll have my secretary sign off on the Hell guard documents. Keep us updated on the statistics.”
A murmur of agreement followed, and the meeting dissolved.
His father remained seated, sipping sake while the guests filtered out toward their cars. “You were acceptable. Your sister will have your new collar sent by the end of the week.”
His sister stiffened, panic flashing across her face before she smoothed it away. She’d needed a month– now she had a week. She shot Zanka a sharp look, as if the timeline were somehow his fault.
“Thank you, sir… If I may excuse myself for the evening?”
HIs Father sat in silence for a moment before sipping his sake again, he turned to his brother before speaking. “Escort him back the the car.”
His brother stood, nodding as he made his way to the door waiting for Zanka to follow. Zanka stood, before bowing and making his way to the door, slipping back on his shoes before he followed his brother down the hall. It was silent, but it was easier than dealing with the sufficating silence his Father gave him.
Once outside, the cool air hit him, and it felt like he’d forgotten how to breathe. The night air loosened his shoulders just a fraction, the tightness in his chest easing for the first time all evening. The car he’d arrived in waited at the curb, engine already running, headlights casting pale lines across the pavement.
His brother walked ahead without looking back, opening the rear door with a practiced motion. Zanka murmured a quiet thanks and slid inside, smoothing his clothes automatically as he settled into the seat.
The door started to close—then stopped.
His brother leaned in, one hand braced against the frame, expression calm but eyes sharp. His voice dropped low, meant only for Zanka.
“Don’t get cocky just because you convinced Father to let you go to school,” he murmured. “One mistake, and you’ll be right back where you belong.”
Then he shut the door with a firm click and stepped away, leaving Zanka alone with the echo of the words and the hum of the engine.
The click of the door still rang in his ears as the car pulled away from the curb. City lights smeared across the tinted window in long ribbons of gold and white, disappearing as quickly as they appeared.
Zanka leaned back into the leather seat, shoulders still tight from the evening. “Play something,” he said, voice low but steady.
The driver hesitated, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. “Sir, your father usually prefers silence—”
“Something,” Zanka repeated, firmer this time, meeting his gaze in the mirror. The single word carried enough edge to end the discussion.
A quiet click answered him, followed by the soft swell of music filling the car. It was classical—strings layered over a gentle piano, slow and deliberate, the kind of piece meant for lobbies and formal dinners. A moment later it shifted into a smooth jazz track, brushed drums and mellow saxophone weaving together in an easy, polished rhythm. It wasn’t anything he would have chosen himself. Too refined. Too curated.
But he didn’t bother asking to change it. The notes blended with the hum of the engine and the distant rush of traffic, creating a steady backdrop that dulled the sharp edges of the night. He watched the city slide past the window, letting the unfamiliar music carry the silence the rest of the way back to his apartment.
By the time the car pulled up to his apartment building, the clock on the dashboard read a little past two in the morning. The city had quieted to a distant hum—an occasional car passing, a siren somewhere far off, the faint buzz of a streetlamp overhead.
Zanka stepped out, giving the driver a short nod before the car disappeared down the street. The cool air hit him again, sharper now that the night was catching up to him. His stomach twisted, reminding him how little he’d eaten.
The day had drained him enough that he couldn’t bring himself to think about anything complicated. All he wanted was to change out of the stiff clothes clinging to his skin and eat the ramen he’d bought earlier that week. He was excited to try it. It seemed simple. Quiet. Something that didn’t come with expectations attached.
He climbed the stairs slowly, keys already in hand, thoughts narrowing to the small routine waiting on the other side of his door: change clothes, boil water, figure out the instructions, and hope it tasted decent enough to fill the hollow in his stomach.
He pushed the keys in, unlocking the door with a soft click, before pushing through and shuffling inside.
The smell hit him first. The aroma was deep and savory, with a comforting weight that made his stomach tighten in anticipation, then, something else. Warm, heavy. The underlying smell of musk and leather, with a hint of iron. The smell itself made his shoulders relax.
He stepped inside the kitchen, freezing at the sight of a man sitting at the counter.
“Who are you?” He questioned.
The man sat before him, hunched over the counter with a bowl in front of him.
Long dark dreads draped over his face before falling back as he sat up. Even from across the room he could tell he was tall, lean too. The man shifted before smiling at him.
“Yo! I’m ya roommate, the names Jabber, Jabber Wonger.” he pushed himself away from the table, standing up and taking a few steps forward.
Zanka tensed, but he tried to keep himself calm. He didnt want to leave any bad impressions.
“Zanka.” he replied shortly. Not giving out his last name. Jabber stood in front of him, and stood a few inches taller than him, just enough that he had to crane his head slightly. The warm musk smell slightly heavier.
“You an omega?
“Excuse me?” Zanka lifted a brow, irritation in his voice.
“Oh, I-,” the man rubbed the back of his neck like he was trying to make himself less of a threat. “The neck guard, I just assumed. I take it your… A beta? Alpha? Its kinda hard to tell with you.”
Zanka took a step to the side, trying to be polite, but his irritation from the night was starting to boil again. But he took a deep breath as he tried to be kind. He started toward the kitchen.
“Im an omega. Assuming by the pheromones you're leaking all over the place, I can see you're an Alpha,” he replied back, curt and short.
Jabber blinked once, then huffed lightly. “Leaking is crazy.”
“Whats crazy is having the confidence to fill the apartment up with your pheromones. Make sure to control it in the future.”
Zanka stepped around him, moving toward the sink. He set a pot beneath the faucet and turned the handle. Water rushed out, steady and loud in the otherwise quiet apartment.
Behind him, Jabber shifted his stance.
“Didn’t know I had a roommate yet,” Jabber said. “I’ll tone it down.”
Zanka didn’t respond, but he noticed it — the subtle tightening in the air easing. Controlled. Intentional.
He shut off the water and placed the pot on the stove. The burner clicked before igniting, blue flame blooming beneath metal.
When he turned around, Jabber was still there.
Still watching.
They stood in the center of the kitchen, only a few feet apart now. Close enough that Zanka could feel the residual warmth radiating from him. Close enough that he had to tilt his chin just slightly to meet his eyes.
Up close, Jabber looked even taller. Broad shoulders. Lean build. Dark dreads pulled back from his face now, revealing sharp features and steady eyes that didn’t waver.
The musk in the air had dulled — not gone, just restrained.
Controlled.
“You always this guarded?” Jabber asked quietly.
“You always this intrusive?”
A faint smile tugged at Jabber’s mouth. Not mocking. Just… entertained.
“Guess we both started off wrong.”
Zanka didn’t answer. He simply held his gaze, expression cool and unreadable.
After a second, Jabber straightened and stepped forward just enough to close the gap by half a pace.
Zanka’s shoulders went rigid.
Jabber extended his hand.
“Jabber Wonger,” he said properly this time. “Roommate. Just moved in.”
“I’ve already given you my name,” Zanka huffed, though he accepted the hand and shook it firmly. His posture stayed straight, composed. “I’ll be in your care.”
Jabber let out an easy, low laugh. “That sounds intense.”
“It is a courtesy,” Zanka replied evenly.
“Right. Well. Courtesy received.”
He stepped back, leaning against the counter like he’d been there all evening, one shoulder resting against the wood as he watched Zanka move around the kitchen.
Zanka adjusted the flame beneath the pot, ensuring it was neither too high nor too low. He opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle of water, shutting the door with quiet precision.
“So,” Jabber said casually, “What was it? Some kinda party? Real fancy fit ya got on..”
Zanka looked down at himself, the formal attire making him feel slightly out of place now. The man across from him stood in sweats and some kind of designed hoodie. He looked comfortable.
Zanka paused for half a second before answering. “No.”
“No?”
“Formal dinner.” he replied.
“Oh.” Jabber nodded slowly. “Just formal? You look like you just stepped out of a magazine, pretty boy.”
“It was not optional,” Zanka said, tone flattening slightly.
Jabber caught that shift. “Got it.”
Zanka twisted the cap off his bottle and took a measured sip, gaze fixed on the stove rather than on him.
“Big company thing?” Jabber tried again, still light.
“It was business,” Zanka repeated, voice polite but closed.
That was the line.
Jabber studied him for a second longer, then lifted his hands slightly in surrender. “Alright. I hear you.”
Zanka turned his attention to the cabinet. Opening the door before reaching for his cup of ramen, he had bought for himself. Though when he reached for it, he found nothing. He cocked his head, he knew where everything was in the cabinets.
Jabber lifted off the counter and took a step forward. “Looking for something?”
Zanka bit the inside of his cheek before responding. “I had a cup of ramen in here. Can't find it.”
Jabber froze, his lazy smile faltering for a second.
“Oh, that was yours?” he asked. “My bad, man, thought it was left behind by a previous tenant. I didnt know it was yours, all your other food was so healthy so I thought-”
“What? You thought you could just take my food?” Zanka turned and looked at him. Shoulders tense and brows furrowed. Stay calm, he told himself.
“I didnt mean no harm man, look I just made it, if you still want it-” Zanka cut him off, voice rising slightly.
“Oh, so now you’re offering it back to me? I’m not going to eat leftovers.”
Jabber straightened, hands lifting slightly. “I said my bad. I didn’t know it was yours.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“It was one cup sitting there. I thought it was from the last tenant—”
“You thought,” Zanka snapped, turning fully toward him. “You thought you could just take it.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“That is the problem.” Zanka’s composure finally cracked. “You Alphas don’t mean anything. You just act.”
Jabber’s easy posture faded. “Alright. Relax.”
“Do not tell me to relax.”
The words came sharp, cutting. Steam curled from the pot behind them, the burner roaring softly.
Jabber tried again, firmer now. “I’ll replace it. I’ll get you a whole box. It’s not that serious.”
Zanka let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Not that serious?”
His shoulders were tight, hands trembling at his sides — not from fear. From fury.
“You walk in here reeking like you own the place. Your pheromones are soaked into the walls. You don’t even introduce yourself properly. You take my food. And you think it’s ‘not that serious.’”
“I told you I’d tone it down.”
“For five minutes,” Zanka shot back. “Then you flooded the kitchen again the second I raised my voice.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“Then control it.”
The air thickened — heavier now, edged with irritation. Jabber’s jaw tightened.
“You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”
“No,” Zanka snapped, stepping closer, eyes blazing. “I am responding appropriately to someone who has no concept of boundaries.”
Jabber’s expression hardened slightly. “It was ramen.”
“It was mine.”
The words echoed.
“And frankly,” Zanka continued, voice shaking now with everything he’d been holding in all evening, “I am not interested in sharing a space with some careless, over-scented alpha who thinks apologies fix entitlement.”
Jabber went still.
“Entitled?” he repeated, low.
“Yes. Entitled.” Zanka’s lip curled. “You assume. You take. You saturate the air like you’re marking territory. This is an apartment, not a kennel.”
That one hit.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Jabber’s pheromones spiked — not wild, but unmistakably irritated now.
Zanka felt it immediately.
“There,” he snapped. “You’re doing it again. You can’t even keep yourself contained for one conversation.”
Jabber’s voice dropped. “Watch it.”
“Or what?” Zanka fired back. “You’ll loom a little harder? Leak a little more?”
The pot behind them rolled into a violent boil, water slamming against metal.
Zanka shook his head, disgust clear across his face.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “I leave one controlled environment just to come home to another alpha who can’t manage basic decency.”
He grabbed his water bottle off the counter.
“Replace the ramen,” he said coldly. “And keep your scent out of my space.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned sharply and strode out of the kitchen, footsteps heavy against the floor as he disappeared down the hall.
A door slammed.
The apartment fell into thick, simmering silence.
Inside, he moved quickly, stripping off the suit jacket and tie, tossing them onto a chair with more force than necessary. Buttons, collar, the black neck guard — all came off in deliberate, frustrated movements.
He peeled off his dress shirt, rolling it into a tight bundle, then slid out of his trousers, finally collapsing onto the edge of his bed in just his boxers. His body ached from the day’s tension, from the dinner, from the constant need to hold himself like a statue.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, chest rising and falling rapidly, before letting out a sharp exhale. Hunger tugged at his stomach, but he didn’t move to eat. Not tonight. Not after that.
He pushed himself back, pulling the blankets up, eyes fixed on the ceiling, muscles slowly unwinding, mind replaying the kitchen, Jabber’s smug, casual smirk, the faint scent still lingering.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook irritation. He decided to sleep hungry.
.
.
.
The kitchen was quiet. The burner ticked faintly until Jabber reached over and clicked it off, the small hiss of steam the only sound breaking the silence.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes tracking the faint trail of Zanka’s departure.
Jabber blinked, caught off guard. Who had the nerve to talk to him like that over a bowl of ramen?
Standing there, bold, defiant, unflinching. Not shy. Not flustered. And then the scent hit him. Thick, heavy, intoxicating—Zanka’s pheromones, warm and earthy, layered with the soft, calming aroma of incense, flooding the air, pressing into him, drowning out his own.
Zanka, was it?
He shook his head slightly, almost laughing to himself.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, voice low, almost excited. “… he smells good…”
He glanced down at the empty pot, the steam curling into the air, and then back toward the hallway leading to Zanka’s room.
Jabber leaned on the counter a moment longer, quiet now, intrigued in a way he hadn’t expected. The apartment felt different somehow — charged, unsettled, alive.
And he liked it.