A week later, the manor was back to its usual rhythm. No locked wings, no scent-dampeners humming in the vents, no jackets stolen for nests. Just a bright, sunlit clinic room off the south corridor and a curious omega perched on an exam table.
Lucas sat with one leg crossed over the other, platinum band glinting as he flicked idly through a message on his phone. He wasn't nervous; he just wanted to know if their gamble had worked. The soft hiss of the purifier and the smell of antiseptic did nothing to dampen his calm, green eyes, already roaming the room like a cat sizing up a new space.
Across from him, Dr. Marin-Shaye, in her mid-forties, with a grey bob and sharp glasses, scrolled through her file on a tablet. She had the look of someone who had long since lost patience with court theatrics. "Vitals are good. Labs from this morning are clean. Any questions before I start?" she asked briskly.
