The private hover-car glided through Planet Xylos's skyline. Unlike the cityscape around Maxwell Corporation, the way to Staredison Gwesty was a vast forestry and riverscape, with only the twin moons casting pale silver light. The emptiness itself was a statement—that this was an isolated place, reserved only for the elite.
Not long after, Neville saw what could only be described as an interstellar version of Mont Saint-Michel, surrounded by endless forest and made festive. Neon lights shimmered across the water and reflected onto the hover-car as they drew closer.
Neville adjusted the collar of his borrowed attire for the third time. The fabric was stiff, unfamiliar against his neck. The suit wasn't ill-fitted—Mick had somehow gotten his exact measurements—but it felt wrong, wrong in a way that made Neville's skin crawl.
From the reflection in the tinted windows, Neville caught Killian's bemused smile.
"Stop fidgeting," Mick said flatly from beside him, his gaze fixed on the scenery outside the window. He didn't even bother turning his head. "You'll wrinkle it before we get there."
Neville stiffened. "I can't help it. It feels like I'm suffocating."
Mick's mouth curved in the faintest smirk. "Good. That means it fits you." His tone carried that dismissive tone, brushing off Neville's discomfort like it was nothing.
The hover-car glided to a stop outside the Staredison Gwesty. The moment Neville's feet touched the ground, his ocean-blue eyes were already scanning the entrance, where elegantly dressed guests arrived in pairs and groups. The doorman, a stern-faced beta in crisp uniform, gave Neville a single look before turning away, as though he already knew something Neville didn't.
Confused, Neville followed Mick and Killian inside.
The grand foyer nearly stole his breath. He had expected something flashy, given Mick's tastes, but he hadn't expected this—this was… different. A whole other level different.
Then he noticed a pattern. The guests' attire seemed to fall into two categories: Most wore fancy, but conservative clothing. The others, however, were dressed just like him. He thought it was just a coincidence until he saw the tiny, matching pins on most of their jackets and dresses.
[Host, this appears to be some kind of... specialized gathering,] Shelly reported, a note of unease in her voice.
'No kidding,' Neville thought, his eyes narrowing as he swept through the crowd.
Neville roamed around naturally, encountering one or two people with pins. They were all different, but they all had that same underlying sweetness—subtle, yet unmistakable.
That distinct scent.
They were all omegas.
Damn that Mick. Neville hurriedly snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray and took a long sip. This was no different from announcing to the world that he had brought an omega with him.
Watching the other omegas laugh and lean into their partners—alphas, no doubt—made Neville grit his teeth. Fine. They could do that. Just… not in front of me. Another omega.
The thought was selfish, but he couldn't help it. Running was not an option; they were all isolated here. No one was leaving without their own hover-car.
He was trapped here, just like the rest.
As he moved through the crowd, his eyes fell on a figure that made him nearly drop his glass. At the center of a small circle of people by the champagne fountain—
—Ethan.
He stood near the champagne fountain, surrounded by admirers. The man wore a perfectly tailored black suit with silver embroidery at the cuffs and collar—elegance distilled into every line. He spoke easily to everyone around him, carrying three conversations at once with effortless poise.
What the hell is he doing here? Neville thought, his mind racing.
And then their eyes met.
He braced for shock, confusion, anything. But there was nothing. Ethan's gaze was calm, unshaken, as though Neville's presence was nothing unexpected. His dark eyes lingered on Neville's for just a second before Ethan's lips tilted into a faint, unsettling smile.
The small gesture sent a shiver running down Neville's spine. Something about Ethan tonight was different. Stronger. More confident.
Before he could think of moving, a hand clamped around his elbow.
"Don't wander, Hope." Killian's low voice was close to his ear, firm, dragging him away. "Mick's waiting."
Neville shot one last look over his shoulder—only to find Ethan gone, swallowed by the crowd. Still, the weight of that gaze lingered, crawling hot at the back of his neck.
Killian's grip tightened when Neville didn't answer. "This way."
He guided him through the maze of glittering elites, past couples who were growing shamelessly handsy under the neon lights. Two betas in crisp uniforms stood guard, nodding their heads in a silent greeting before stepping aside. They walked down a hallway that felt oddly out of place, like a private wing in a high-class hotel.
Finally, Killian stopped before a black door at the far end. Neville's heart pounded hard in his chest, a frantic warning.
Killian caught both of Neville's wrists in one hand, firm as steel, and knocked on the door with the other. He didn't wait for an answer before pushing it open.
The first thing that hit him was the pheromones—a thick, clashing mixture of pheromones that should have already made a mess. Fifteen alphas, three betas, and only four omegas—including Neville.
The math wasn't mathing.
Their positions weren't positioning.
The presence of so many alphas in one room should have caused a bloodbath. Yet, they were all calmly sipping their drinks, lounging on curved sofas in a loose circle, and trading words instead of blows.
Some paired with betas, but not enough to explain the strange calmness. And the omegas—the unmarked omegas weren't even trying to huddle together for safety or comfort. They sat scattered, unguarded; their positions were all wrong to every instinct in Neville's body.
His training from the black hell hole kicked in: one exit, potential weapons noted (at worst, there was always the System Mall), threat levels—extreme.
Mick was already seated in the most dominant position—a high-backed chair that gave him a clear view of the entire room.
Killian guided Neville to stand behind Mick's chair. He mirrored Killian's posture on the opposite side, trying to pass as furniture while his mind ran through backup plans.
"Gentlemen," Mick announced, raising his glass. "Welcome to tonight's entertainment."
The word entertainment landed heavily, making Neville feel goosebumps. He kept his expression blank, though his observations grew sharper. The beta servers never gave the omegas their own drinks. They were always handed to them by the alphas.
Twenty minutes into the drinking, a broad-shouldered alpha, with eyes filled with mischief and lips curved into a smirk, strode across the room over to their side.
He rose, strolled over with a glass in hand, and greeted warmly, albeit a little too loudly, "Mick!"
"Brennan," Mick greeted back. "How was Crysis?"
"Same as always." Brennan gestured with his empty glass toward Neville, the smirk widening. "But who's this pretty little thing you've brought?"
His gaze swept Neville head to toe, unhurried, interested. "Your new pet?"
"Some secretary," Mick said, not bothering to look back. "Handles the boring stuff."
Rage flared in Neville's gut, but he kept his expression a polite mask.
"Hm." Brennan sipped leisurely, eyes never leaving Neville. "An omega?"
"I know, right?" Mick snorted, dismissive. "Looks like a recessive, though."
Brennan's lips curved, voice slipping into a low hum. "Hmmm~. Interesting." His stare lingered, sharp with an unsettling glint in it.
Chatting idly with Mick, Brennan's cup emptied fast. With a flash of a smile, he said, "Come here. Pour me another."
It wasn't really a request. Orders like that were normal in these circles. Neville had done it a hundred times—pouring drinks in group gatherings with people who never even remembered his name. He stepped forward smoothly, fingers curling around the correct bottle with its distinctive spiral design, and poured with the same precise grace as always.
Just as Neville straightened to leave, Brennan's voice stopped him.
"Sit."
Neville hesitated, his gaze flicking around the room. Several pairs of eyes watched with interest. They wanted to see how Mick's so-called secretary would handle being put on the spot.
The smart move was compliance. Making a fuss would only draw more attention.
He sat on the sofa, posture perfect, hands folded neatly in his lap. He left a deliberate few inches of space between himself and Brennan.
"Good boy." Brennan's grin deepened as he closed the distance anyway, thigh pressing firmly against Neville's.
Neville subtly moved back slightly, reclaiming what little space he could. Brennan didn't seem to mind. Instead, he let out more of his pheromones, surrounding Neville deliberately like smoke.
Not that it mattered.
"Drink with me," Brennan said smoothly, producing a second glass and pressing it into Neville's hand.
"I apologize," Neville refused politely, pushing it back a little. "I need to remain clear-headed for work."
Brennan's eyes narrowed, his smile hardening. "I insist."
"I really shouldn't—"
"Just one." The playful tone in Brennan's voice was gone. His pheromones thickened, pressing down. "Unless you think you're too good to drink with us?"
Neville could feel the weight of it, the way an omega was supposed to feel it. But like he said, it was useless.
Should I play along?
"If you'll excuse me," Neville said, offering a tight, troubled smile. "I need to use the restroom."
He stood in one fluid motion, not waiting for a response, and walked away. He didn't need to look back, but he could feel the heat of Brennan's stare.
His alpha pride wasn't going to let this end here.
...
Neville slipped into the attached bathroom, locking the door with a click. He exhaled once, called out to Shelly.
[Host, that place is bad news. Bad. News.] Shelly's voice buzzed with agitation.
"Tell me something I don't know," Neville muttered, washing his hands under the sink just to keep them busy.
Shelly floated close to him. [Host, even if you've got some immunity, you should still top up another dose of inhibitors. Better safe than sorry.]
Neville's gaze lingered on his reflection, thinking. When Killian left him alone earlier, he had time to test this immunity ability. And it was something else.
It was an omega's body, yes—but with hidden cards. After enough strain, his mermaid traits kicked in: regeneration, absurdly efficient when submerged. Even in human form, it was enough to bounce back from damage. Like muscle building through pain, or shedding weight through relentless repetition of exercise—this body grew stronger through abuse.
He pulled out a syringe, loaded the inhibitor, and injected it into his glands.
"Have you figured out why the pheromones were so thick? Most of them felt like normal alphas," Neville asked.
[I detected something in the air, but… it came from an aroma diffuser. A common air freshener.]
Neville's lips curved in a humorless smile. "You're taking everything at face value again."
He snapped the injector shut. "Didn't you notice Ethan back at the banquet?"
[Host… you mean—]
"Exactly." Neville's eyes narrowed. "My body's building immunity, but the more I adapt, the duller my senses get. I didn't even notice until I saw him."
[Then we should get out of here immediately!] Shelly flared nervously, her navigation already pulling up escape protocols. [I'll send an SOS—to the chief secretary, or that violet-bob-haired one—]
"Don't." Neville's tone cut sharply, halting her. "As long as it doesn't work on me, I'll manage."
The bathroom door creaked open.
Neville's expression blanked in an instant as another guest walked in, eyes glued to a glowing light-brain, oblivious. He didn't even glance Neville's way, busily typing on this light brain as he stepped inside.
Neville stayed just long enough to make it look natural, then slipped out.
But then a small thought slipped into his mind.
Didn't I lock that door?