Chapter Text
The sterile lights of the boundary gates felt like a distant memory. Inside the Cleaners' headquarters, the atmosphere had shifted into something far more grounded, thick with the heavy scent of roasted meats, strong coffee, and the lingering trace of ozone from the day’s gear. Night had fallen completely, casting deep shadows across the courtyard while the bustling cafeteria—more akin to a warm, dimly lit bar than a sterile military hall—remained alive with the clatter of heavy metal trays and loud, raucous laughter under the soft, ambient glow of the hanging lamps.
Even though they were spread across different tables, all the Cleaners were packed together in a tight, unified cluster, forming a massive, unbreakable front that completely dominated their half of the hall.
At the main table, Enjin sat relaxed, his massive frame shifting as he leaned all the way over, stretching across the space to softly whisper something into the ear of his boyfriend, Gris. Gris listened with a quiet, familiar calm, the contrast between Enjin's looming size and his own presence completely blurring in their shared space. Just behind them, Riyo was leaning back in her seat, her short black shorts and thick leg warmers finally cleared of the basin dust. She had a bright, easygoing grin on her face as her fingers idly reached backward, playfully messing with the blonde hair of her Alpha partner, who was sitting directly behind her at his own table alongside August.
A few seats down, Zanka sat completely relaxed, his wood and incense pheromones holding a soft, comfortable hum. He was deeply engaged in a quiet conversation with his tight-knit circle, sharing the table with Guita, Dear Santa, Rudo, Amo, Fu, and Follo. Guita was still practically vibrating with leftover adrenaline from the ridge, loudly gesturing with her hands while Amo smiled gently, leaning in to listen. Beside them, Rudo and Dear Santa were casually trading food from their trays, while Fu and Follo chimed in with quick, quiet jokes about the day's deployment. Zanka finished the last sip of his drink and set the metal cup down with a quiet, deliberate click. His wood and incense pheromones smoothed out into a relaxed, neutral hum as he offered a faint, relaxed smile to the rest of the group before standing up.
"I'm heading out," Zanka murmured smoothly, giving Rudo a quick, affectionate pat on the shoulder as he began to slide back from the heavy wooden bench. "Don't stay up too late training, or you'll be useless on tomorrow's training"
"I'm not gonna be useless!" Rudo huffed softly, though a heavy yawn betrayed her words as she waved a dismissive hand at him.
Picking up his empty tray, Zanka's sharp blue eyes looked strictly ahead, deliberately keeping his gaze fixed on the exit doors at the far end of the hall. He had no intention of looking toward the long metal tables on the military side of the room, completely treating the presence of his twenty former academy classmates as background noise. His posture was perfectly upright, carrying the unbothered, easygoing confidence of a Cleaner who was entirely at home in his own territory. As he stepped out into the wide aisle separating the two halves of the cafeteria, his boots made a steady, rhythmic sound against the polished concrete floor.
On the far side of the hall, completely isolated from the chaotic warmth of the Cleaners, sat the massive, heavily regulated tables of the military personnel.
The four Hell Guards from the mission—Barris, Vane, Kira, and a quiet, intensely focused Mina—were seated alongside the other sixteen elite soldiers of their detachment. All twenty of them shared the exact same background: they were all Zanka’s former classmates from the academy quarters. But tonight, the usual arrogant chatter of the barracks was completely dead. Instead, a suffocating, tense silence hung over their long metal table, driven by the two terrifying figures sitting at the absolute head of their column.
Commander Kyoka Nijiku, the absolute authority of the Hell Guard’s Red Horns Squad One—and Zanka’s formidable older sister—sat perfectly erect. Her sharp, calculating eyes slowly scanned her subordinates, her very presence radiating a lethal, suffocating pressure that made Barris stare fixedly at his untouched ration tray. Sitting right beside her was her little brother Goka. His massive, imposing build cast a long shadow over the table, his arms crossed over his chest as his stern gaze locked onto the visibly sweating Vane.
Barris swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to break the silence and salvage what was left of his dignity in front of his superiors. "Commander Kyoka... the report on the basin sector is nearly finalized. The anomalies encountered broke our baseline tactical formulas, but as the Hell Guard, we maintained our defensive parameters exactly as the regulations—"
"Save your pathetic excuses, Barris," Kyoka interrupted, her voice dropping like a heavy iron portcullis. She didn't even look at him, her fingers casually tapping the surface of the table with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. "You held a defensive line because you were too paralyzed to move. Do you think I am blind to the telemetry data? You allowed yourselves to be completely outpaced out there."
Vane shrank back into his seat, trying to make his frame as small as possible under Goka’s heavy stare. "The toxic pockets were... they were denser than forecasted, sir," Vane whined softly, his eyes darting nervously around the table. "The vanguard parameters were completely disrupted."
Goka let out a low, deep chuckle—a sound heavily laced with military disdain, yet carrying a faint, patronizing amusement. Looking down at the twenty young recruits lining the table, Goka knew their youth and inexperience made them fragile, which was exactly why he felt the need to criticize them with brutal, unyielding harshness. In the military hierarchy, weakness was a death sentence, and these kids were proving to be far too soft.
To Goka and Kyoka, both dominant Alfas of the main Nijiku bloodline, Zanka’s status as the only Omega automatically made him the weak link of the family—someone who had run away to play with the Cleaners because he couldn't cut it in the true, unyielding military hierarchy. In their own twisted way, they still loved their younger brother fiercely, but raised under the brutal conditions of the main clan, they didn't know how to express it correctly for a child. To them, affection was wrapped in harsh conditioning and tough love; they genuinely believed that pushing him to his breaking point and constantly demeaning his choices was the only way to make him strong enough to survive.
Worse still, this harshness was fueled by a deep, poisonous resentment. Kyoka and Goka absolutely detested the Cleaners, and they hated the entire concept of being a Giver even more than before. In their eyes, this filthy organization and their strange, spiritual reliance on Jinki had stolen their little brother away from them. Zanka was supposed to be theirs—their hidden treasure, the protected Omega of the Nijiku household. Seeing him out here in the dirt, relying on a piece of trash like a "Jinki" instead of the clan's bloodline military power, felt like a personal insult to their lineage.
"The vanguard parameters weren't disrupted, Vane. You all were just completely outclassed," Goka rumbled, leaning forward as his shadow blanketed the table, his smile sharp and dismissive. "Our little brother didn't just survive the horde; he actually did his job while you rookies were busy calculating a retreat route. You let a weak Omega who couldn't even handle the main clan hierarchy run circles around you and disgrace the Red Horns' name. How embarrassing."
Kyoka’s expression remained perfectly stone-cold, her silence confirming Goka's words. To her, Zanka's success today wasn't a display of true strength—it was a fluke, a minor achievement in the dirt that only emphasized how pathetic her own squad had been for letting someone like him outshine them. Deep down, her harsh judgment was her twisted way of monitoring him, ensuring he wasn't getting soft out here in the wasteland with the thieves who had taken him, even if her cold demeanor only drove the wedge between them deeper.
The moment Zanka’s tall frame moved into the open aisle, heading toward the tray return racks near the main exit, Goka’s stern gaze tracked his younger brother’s every step with a sharp, heavy intensity. Beside him, Kyoka’s stone-cold expression didn't change, but her fingers stopped their rhythmic tapping on the table. The silence between the two dominant Alfas grew infinitely heavier, their eyes locking onto the young Omega as he walked past. Yet, despite the harsh words they had just unleashed on their own recruits, their tracking gazes carried that same twisted, deeply buried protectiveness, silently monitoring the movements of the little brother they still viewed as their ultimate household treasure.
Mina sat quietly a few seats down, her notebook resting flat beside her tray. Now that the initial terror of the day had worn off, her submissive, respectful act completely vanished. Her eyes darted shamelessly toward Kyoka and Goka, her mind already recording their heavy, dominant postures. The moment Kyoka tilted her chin to a precise, commanding angle, Mina’s neck twitched. Blatantly and shamelessly, she replicated the exact, lethal tilt of the Commander's head, her shoulder shifting to mimic the rigid authority of her superior right under her nose.
Kyoka’s sharp eyes flicked instantly toward Mina. Unlike Riyo, who had merely been irritated earlier, a flash of cold, dangerous displeasure crossed the Commander’s face. She absolutely despised the disrespect of an inferior trying to drain her authority through imitation. But with the heavy political weight of the mission hanging over them, Kyoka held her tongue. She didn't say a word, shutting Mina down with a single, icy glare that made the copycat freeze in her tracks and look back down at her papers.
Just as Zanka reached the edge of the open aisle, his boots barely crossing the threshold toward the exit, a deep, booming voice cut through the ambient chatter of the cafeteria, instantly freezing him in his tracks.
"Hey, Zanka!" Enjin called out loudly from the head of the main table. He didn't even look up from where he was sitting, leaning back comfortably with one arm resting over the back of Gris’s chair, a lazy, knowing smirk plastered across his face. "Make sure you actually head back to your quarters tonight. Don't go trying to sneak out of the gates later just for that 3:00 AM Romeo of yours just for hit him with your Jinki"
The comment dropped like a bomb in the middle of the hall.
Zanka’s entire frame went rigid, his boots glued to the concrete floor. His wood and incense pheromones instantly spiked into a chaotic wave of absolute mortification and defensive panic, flooding the central aisle.
Instantly, a wave of collective laughter erupted across the Cleaners' tables, a few of them shaking their heads at Enjin’s lack of a filter. But just as quickly, the amusement shifted. A heavy, collective look of concern rippled through the crew. Their eyes darted from Zanka's rigid back straight over to the military side of the room, their smiles dropping as they felt the sudden, dangerous spike in the atmosphere, silently bracing themselves for the fallout of having that specific piece of information aired out in front of the main clan.
However, for those sitting right at his table who had been left out of the loop, the bomb exploded out of nowhere. Guita’s sleepy eyes snapped wide open, losing all her exhaustion in a single second.
"A 3:00 AM Romeo?!" she squeaked in a loud whisper, turning in absolute disbelief toward Dear Santa, who also blinked a few times, visibly stunned by the scandalous revelation.
But the real devastation happened across the aisle, at the military tables.
The twenty young recruits of the Hell Guard didn't start whispering or making a scene. Instead, a collective, paralyzing dread washed over them. They knew exactly how the main clan operated, and they knew how dangerously possessive the commanders were over their household treasure. The mention of an unknown person bypassing security and infiltrating space—it terrified them. Barris’s jaw locked so hard it turned white, while Vane and the others completely froze, their eyes fixed firmly on their plates. They didn't dare utter a syllable or exchange a single glance, utterly paralyzed by the sheer gravity of what had just been revealed in front of their leaders, terrified that any movement would draw the lethal attention of the upper echelon down upon them.
At the head of the column, the reaction from the Nijiku siblings was nothing short of terrifying.
Commander Kyoka’s stone-cold facade didn't just crack—it shattered into an icy, lethal glare that practically promised execution. Her gloved fingers dug so hard into the edge of the metal table that the iron began to creak under her grip. Beside her, Goka’s smug, patronizing smile vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, thunderous scowl. His massive chest heaved heavily as his dominant Alpha presence flared with a suffocating, possessive fury. The very thought of some unknown bastard sneaking through the dark and violating the sanctuary of their little brother's space—their protected, stolen treasure—made both Nijiku Alfas look ready to mobilize the entire Red Horns Squad One to hunt down and tear this faceless intruder to pieces.
Zanka’s knuckles turned bone-white around his tray. He could feel the sheer weight of his siblings' burning, murderous glares drilling a hole straight into his back, demanding an explanation he refused to give.
"You really don't know when to drop it, do you?" Zanka muttered sharply, his voice laced with a tense, defensive edge that tried desperately to mask his complete and utter humiliation.
Without waiting for a response, and without daring to turn around to face the laughing Cleaners or the terrifyingly protective expressions of his family, Zanka slammed his tray onto the return rack with a loud, echoing CLANG and bolted through the exit doors, disappearing into the dark corridor outside before anyone else could say a word.
The heavy double doors were still vibrating from Zanka’s exit, the resonance slowly dying down into a thick, suffocating silence.
At the head of the long wooden tables, the lazy, teasing smirk on Enjin’s face vanished instantly the moment the doors clicked shut. His entire frame went notably rigid, his casual posture disappearing as a sudden, heavy wave of tension rolled off his shoulders. He didn't say a word. Instead, his jaw clenched tightly as he reached into his jacket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with a quick, aggressive flick of his lighter. Inhaling deeply, he stared dark-eyed past the hanging light bulbs toward the exit, the thick smoke swirling up toward the exposed ceiling pipes and blending into the hazy atmosphere of the room. The truth was, Enjin wasn't amused anymore. The mere thought of Zanka walking off completely alone and isolating himself right now made his stomach turn; not when a goddamn Raider like Jabber had actually managed to breach their security and infiltrate their shared space just days prior.
Behind him, the rest of the Cleaners' tables immediately leaned inward, their voices dropping into a rapid, collective whisper that hummed beneath the soft, ambient glow of the cafeteria lamps.
"Holy shit," Follo breathed, keeping his eyes glued to her plate while her knuckles turned white against the wooden tabletop. "Enjin really has a death wish. The Red Horns look like they’re about to execute everyone in this room."
"Shh, keep it down," Tomme murmured back smoothly from her seat, noticing how tightly Enjin was gripping her lighter. "Don't give them a reason to look over here. Let him cool off."
A few seats down, past the prominent column where the jukebox stood silent and unlit, Rudo and Amo leaned across their table until their foreheads almost touched. They kept their gazes fixed entirely on their trays, far away from the military side of the room.
"Enjin is stressed as hell, and honestly, he has every right to be," Rudo muttered sharply, his voice barely a breath.
"No kidding," Amo whispered, shaking his head as she watched the smoke rise toward the dark bar counter in the back, where rows of bottles sat undisturbed under the shelves. "Amo thinks that Jabber is completely insane for pulling that stunt. But Amo also thinis he’s never getting back in. Have you seen what Enjin, Semiu, and Corvus did to the residential wing? Since the bedrooms are communal, they literally overhauled the security grid for everyone's safety in less than twenty-four hours."
Riyo chimed in, using her hand to muffle her voice as she idly shifted her chair against the tiled floor. "Follo and I checked the upper vents after we come from the mission. Semiu already rerouted the primary pressure valves and replaced every single grate leading into the shared living quarters with heavy titanium locks. A mouse couldn't squeeze into the bunkrooms now."
Guita caught the tail end of the whisper and blinked, her jaw dropping slightly as she glanced toward the large windows on the side wall. "They changed all of that for the entire living area in one day?"
"When a Raider manages to breach the communal barrack, those three don't take risks," Tomme muttered, his eyes shifting subtly across the long tables toward Riyo.
Riyo had completely stopped playing with Eisha's hair. Her easygoing grin was entirely gone, replaced by a tense, serious look as she sat perfectly still on her red-cushioned chair, exchanging a quiet, heavy glance with Gris. The joke was over. Enjin, Semiu, and Corvus had turned the entire shared living wing into an absolute fortress in a single afternoon, drawing a hard line in the sand to protect their crew before the Nijiku clan could even figure out who the intruder was.
Across the aisle, the heavy silence at the Hell Guard table remained unbroken under the cone of the hanging lamps, but the air was thick with a dangerous, predatory tension. Kyoka’s fingers had stopped tapping against the surface, her lethal eyes fixed on the empty doorway, her mind clearly working to decipher the hushed, urgent energy radiating from the Cleaners and the sudden, suffocating tension stiffening Enjin's back.
ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̽‿̩͙‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̽‿̩͙‿̩͙‿̩̩̽‿̩͙‿̩͙‿̩̩̽‿̩͙‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̽‿̩͙‘⸊ˎ
Meanwhile, the cool night air hit Zanka’s face the moment he stepped out onto the high, open terrace of the base. He walked fast, his boots clicking sharply against the stone floor, a stark contrast to his usual easygoing stride. The heavy iron doors of the cafeteria were far behind him, but Enjin’s words—and the suffocating weight of his siblings' murderous glares—still felt like they were pressing hard against his chest.
His wood and incense pheromones were still a chaotic, tangled mess, radiating a sharp edge of pure irritation and lingering embarrassment into the dark.
"Fucking luck of mine" Zanka muttered under his breath, his knuckles turning bone-white as he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket.
Instead of heading toward the communal barracks, Zanka had bypassed the residential turnoff entirely. He needed air, away from the suffocating pressure of everyone inside. Leaning heavily against the terrace railing, he looked down at the courtyard below, where the dim, warm glow of the streetlamps flickered against the grimy, graffiti-lined walls of the ground floor. The night out here was massive and unforgiving, the sky a heavy, dark overcast that swallowed the horizon, but the quiet view did nothing to soothe the restless, chaotic spike of his pheromones.
He stared out past the lights, his sharp blue eyes scanning the shadows beyond the perimeter. Even with the absolute stillness surrounding the complex, Zanka couldn't shake the heavy, knotting tension in his stomach. He didn't feel safe. In fact, he had an overwhelming, unshakable premonition that Jabber was going to find a way back in.
Yet, as he stared into the dark, a wave of intensely conflicting thoughts began to twist inside him, making his chest tighten for a completely different reason.
It was terrifying, yes, but a deeply buried, traitorous part of his Omega nature couldn't forget the sheer audacity of what Jabber had done. No one had ever pulled a stunt like that for him. Throughout his entire life, Zanka had been treated either as a prize to be strictly guarded by his clan, or as a reliable teammate who carried his own weight. But Jabber—a wild, lawless Alpha from the outside—had bypassed every single layer of security, treating this entire fortress like a playground, just to get close to him.
The memory of Jabber's heavy, unpredictable Alpha presence suddenly invading the quiet sanctuary of the communal quarters sent a hot, sudden shiver straight down Zanka’s spine. He hated himself for it, his pride flaring instantly at the thought, but he couldn't deny the thrilling, intoxicating rush of being pursued with such reckless, single-minded focus. It was chaotic, dangerous, and entirely wrong, but it had sparked a strange, unfamiliar warmth that his inner Omega was secretly clinging to, even as his logical mind screamed at him to stay alert.
Zanka knew how Jabber's mind worked; the tighter they tried to close the sector, the more tempting the challenge became. An Alpha like that wouldn't be kept out by a formidable structure; the challenge would only make the prize more enticing.
A sudden chill crawled up Zanka's spine, entirely unrelated to the night wind. He kept his eyes locked on the dim perimeter below, his body entirely rigid, caught between the protective instincts of a Cleaner and the breathless, secret anticipation of a wolf waiting for the shadows to move.
High above the courtyard, the quiet of the terrace was suddenly broken by the heavy, metallic scrape of the maintenance door swinging open behind him. Zanka didn't turn around right away, his posture freezing as he instinctively tried to rein in the volatile edge of his wood and incense pheromones. He didn't want anyone—especially not his family or an overprotective crew member—seeing him out here looking this rattled.
"Figured I’d find you out here brooding," a familiar voice called out quietly.
It was Gris. The tall Alfa walked over to the rusted iron railing, stepping up beside Zanka without the suffocating, demanding energy that everyone else had been throwing around all evening. He leaned his forearms against the cold metal, looking out over the dim, graffiti-lined walls of the ground floor and into the overcast night, his own steady presence acting as a grounding, protective barrier.
Zanka let out a sharp, defensive breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping just a fraction. "Enjin has a death wish," he muttered bitterly, his voice rough. "Screaming that shit out in the middle of the hall. He knew exactly who was sitting across the aisle."
"He's an idiot when he's stressed," Gris replied calmly, his tone entirely level, managing to soothe Zanka’s turbulent energy without forcing his dominance over him. "But he didn't do it to humiliate you, Zanka. He did it because he’s terrified. We all are. A Raider walking into our shared living quarters while we sleep... it rattled him more than he’ll ever admit over a cigarette."
Zanka kept his eyes fixed on the dark, unmonitored perimeter down below. Hearing Gris put it so bluntly only twisted the knot in his stomach tighter. His crew was terrified because an enemy Alfa had breached their fortress, yet his own treacherous inner instincts were still vibrating from the memory of how intoxicating that exact breach had felt.
"The base is a fortress now, Gris," Zanka said, his voice dropping into a low, tense rumble as he tried to convince himself as much as the other man. "Semiu locked down the vents. There's no way anyone gets back in."
Gris turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes observing the rigid, defensive line of Zanka's jaw. As an experienced man, he was highly attuned to the subtle, chaotic fluctuations in Zanka’s scent—and he could smell that there was fear there, yes, but also a breathless, lingering heat that didn't belong in a soldier bracing for an attack. He knew exactly what an external Alpha's pursuit could do to an Omega's instincts, no matter how much Zanka tried to fight it with his pride.
"Locks only work on people who follow the rules, Zanka," Gris whispered softly, his voice carrying a heavy weight into the night wind. "An Alpha like Jabber doesn't care about a titanium gate. He knows what he wants, and he already knows the way inside."
Zanka’s knuckles turned completely white against the railing. He wanted to snap back, to let his anger mask the sheer vulnerability threatening to choke him, but looking at Gris—who wasn't judging him, wasn't breathing down his neck like his siblings, and wasn't suffocating him with overprotective panic—the rigid walls around Zanka’s pride finally cracked.
He let out a long, shaky breath, the wood and incense in the air losing its sharp, defensive edge, replaced by a softer, incredibly raw vulnerability.
"It’s messed up, Gris," Zanka confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, completely dropping the unbothered facade he had worn in the cafeteria. "I should hate it. I should be completely disgusted that a lawless Raider breached our base and put everyone at risk. My mind knows that. My bloodline knows that."
He stopped, closing his eyes tightly as a hot, sudden wave of embarrassment washed over his face, but he forced himself to go on, needing to get the suffocating weight out of his chest.
"But no one has ever done something like that for me," Zanka whispered, his fingers trembling slightly against the cold iron. "My whole life, the Nijiku clan just treated me like a prize to be locked behind walls, or a weak link they had to break to make strong. And here, I’m just one of the guys carrying my own weight. But Jabber... Jabber tore through an entire fortress just to get to me. He didn't care about the rules, the danger, or the Cleaners. He just wanted me.... And, I feel stupid because I think like this after only one visit! "
Zanka opened his eyes, looking at Gris with a mix of fierce frustration and deep, conflicting sincerity. "An Alpha presence like his... it was terrifying, but it was the first time I felt completely seen. Not as a weapon, not as a family asset, but just... pursued. My inner Omega is practically clinging to that feeling, Gris. I’m terrified he’s going to break back in, but a part of me... a part of me is completely breathless waiting for it to happen. It makes me feel like a traitor to the crew."
Gris remained silent for a long moment, letting the heavy confession settle into the cool night air. He didn't look shocked or angry; instead, his steady Alfa aura pulsed with a quiet, understanding warmth, validating the intense storm raging inside the younger Omega.
"You're not a traitor, Zanka," Gris said softly, keeping his eyes on the horizon to give him space to breathe. "You're a soldier fighting your own nature, and there's no shame in feeling the weight of that. But you need to stay sharp. Because when an Alpha like that targets a prize, he won't stop until he gets it."
A sudden, sharp breeze swept across the high terrace, making the hanging streetlamps below flicker against the dark courtyard. Zanka didn't answer, but the heavy knot in his stomach felt just a little lighter. He tightened his grip on the iron railing, his eyes locking back onto the dark perimeter below, caught between the protective instincts of a Cleaner and the breathless, secret anticipation of a wolf waiting for the shadows to finally move.
Gris took a slow drag from his cigarette, the amber glow illuminating his calm features for a split second before he exhaled the smoke into the dark abyss beyond the railing.
"You know... people outside our circle look at me and Enjin, and they don't get it," Gris continued, his tone dropping into a rare, deeply personal confidence. "Two Alfas in a romantic relationship? In most clans, that’s considered a complete structural anomaly. Society tells us we’re supposed to be constantly competing for dominance, tearing each other's throats out, or finding an Omega to protect and claim. When Enjin and I first realized what was happening between us, our own instincts were a complete, chaotic warzone."
He turned his head to look directly at Zanka, his gaze steady and filled with genuine empathy.
"Every single day was a battle of pride. My Alpha nature screamed at me never to submit, never to show weakness, and his did the exact same thing. We nearly broke each other a dozen times trying to figure out how to love someone without losing our own power, constantly pushing boundaries just to see who would bend first. But then I realized... true strength isn't about fighting the nature of the person you want. It’s about accepting the raw, terrifying reality of how they make you feel... Sometimes it’s destructive. Sometimes what your nature desires is the exact thing that threatens your entire structure"
Gris shifted his weight, leaning his back against the railing and looking up at the heavy, dark overcast sky.
"Enjin is loud, he's reckless, and he suffocates me with his overprotective panic sometimes—just like he did to you in there tonight. But the moment I stopped fighting the fear of being vulnerable with another Alpha, that chaos turned into the safest place I’ve ever known. So, I get it. I get why Jabber’s single-minded focus makes your blood run hot. For the first time in your life, someone didn't look at you as an asset to guard or a weak link to fix. He looked at you and saw his match. He saw you."
Zanka listened intently, his breath hitching slightly in his throat. Hearing a senior Alfa like Gris admit to his own internal wars, to the terrifying vulnerability of defying standard dynamics for the sake of affection, made the heavy, suffocating guilt in his chest finally begin to unravel.
"The crew is going to keep reinforcing those walls, Zanka," Gris added softly, turning back to face the dark horizon. "And as a Cleaner, you have to help us hold the line. But out here in the dark? You don't have to lie to yourself. If Jabber comes back—and we both know an Alpha like that will—you just need to be ready for the storm he’s bringing with him... "
A sudden, sharp breeze swept across the high terrace, making the hanging streetlamps below flicker against the grimy walls of the courtyard. Zanka didn't answer, but his wood and incense pheromones finally smoothed out, settling into a quiet, focused resolve. He tightened his grip on the iron railing, his sharp blue eyes locking onto the pitch-black perimeter below, no longer just a soldier bracing for an invasion, but an Omega standing at the edge of the world, silently waiting for the shadows to finally move.
"The Nijiku treated you like a prize, and you hated it," Gris said softly, the harsh edge vanishing from his tone, replaced by a quiet, undeniable truth. "Don't let a Raider make you feel like one all over again just because he used a crowbar instead of a golden cage."
He reached out, tapping the center of Zanka’s chest firmly with two fingers.
"Keep your head in the game. We're heading back inside before Enjin loses his mind and starts a fight in the cafeteria. You coming?"
Zanka stared at the maintenance door, his heart still hammering against his ribs from the brief, intense demonstration of Alfa dominance. His pheromones slowly leveled out, the chaotic heat completely replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.
"No," Zanka replied, his voice rough but completely steady as he looked back out at the dark horizon. "Go ahead. I'm going to stay out here for a few more minutes. I need the cold air to completely flush my system before I deal with the rest of the crew."
Gris looked at him for a beat, seeing the sharp, functional focus return to the young Omega's eyes. He gave a single, satisfied nod.
"Don't stay out too long," Gris said, turning on his heel. "The wasteland doesn't care about your reflection time."
With a heavy metallic click, the door shut, leaving Zanka completely alone in the dark. He wrapped his hands back around the cold railing, staring into the pitch-black perimeter below. The secret, breathless anticipation wasn't entirely gone, but now, it was matched by a fierce, dangerous resolve. He wasn't a prize waiting to be taken. If Jabber came back, he would be waiting.