The gritty reality of 3rd Street was a sensory shock that even the disciplined mind of Dahmer Lukas found difficult to process.
Freenly City's 3rd Street was the kind of place where the streetlights hummed with a dying buzz and the air always tasted faintly of charcoal and cheap exhaust. It was a neighborhood of "ordinary individuals"—the working class, the forgotten, and the struggling. Here, the grand ambition of Project Z felt like a fever dream from another planet.
Their home was a small, shabby house with peeling yellow paint and a porch that groaned under the weight of a single footstep. To the neighbors, they were just another pair of arrivals: a weary, middle-aged man and his studious, quiet nephew.
"Evening, Mr. Kaelen! Welcome back, young Luca!" a woman from across the street called out, shaking a rug over her railing.
Kaelen, now dressed in a faded flannel shirt and work trousers that looked like they had seen twenty years of hard labor, offered a tired, practiced wave. "Evening, Mrs. Gable! Just getting the boy settled before his big start at the city!"
Luca offered a shy, hesitant nod, clutching the strap of his bag as they ducked inside the cramped hallway.
The door clicked shut, and the "humble" facade remained, but the atmosphere shifted instantly. The interior was small, smelling of old wood and lemon wax. The kitchen was a tiny alcove with a cracked linoleum floor and a stove that looked older.
Kaelen didn't drop his guard entirely, but he moved to the stove, beginning to prepare a simple meal of stew and bread. He handed a bowl to Dahmer, who sat at a scarred wooden table that wobbled every time he moved his elbow.
"Eat," Kaelen commanded quietly. "You need the calories. The day after tomorrow is your descent into the lion's den. You need to be prepared."
Dahmer stared at the steam rising from the bowl. He looked out of place in the flickering light of a dim bulb, his pale, aristocratic features clashing with the poverty of the room. He took a bite of the bread, his eyes narrowing.
"I think that man is not as difficult to tame as the reports suggested," Dahmer said, his voice returning to its low, Enigma-level resonance. "He is arrogant. He is blinded by his own sense of superiority. He looks at an Omega and sees a tool or a nuisance. He doesn't see a threat. That is his first mistake."
Dahmer leaned back, the chair creaking ominously. "I will get him to fall. I will make him crave the scent of lilies and the sight of this 'clumsy' intern until he regrets ever letting me cross the threshold of his company. I'll dismantle his control piece by piece."
Kaelen stopped stirring the pot. He turned, leaning against the counter, his expression becoming uncharacteristically grave.
"Do you truly understand the mechanics of what you're saying, Dahmer?" Kaelen asked. "This isn't a board meeting where you can crush a rival with a signature. To get the material we need for Project Z—to get him to 'release' when no one else could—you have to be ready to allow your body to be touched. By an Alpha. By him."
Kaelen stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I have served you for a decade. I know you better than anyone. You loathe physical contact. You treat a handshake like a biological hazard. You've spent your life behind masks and glass. Can you actually stand Malcolm Ford's touch? Can you endure an Alpha's hands on you without snapping his wrists in a reflex?"
Dahmer went still. The thought of physical contact usually sent a spike of revulsion through his system. He was a creature of sterile environments and absolute boundaries.
"I have spent years perfecting my mind," Dahmer said, his voice cold and resolute. "If the mission requires me to endure his touch, I will persevere. It is a biological transaction, nothing more. Besides..."
Dahmer's eyes drifted to the memory of Malcolm in the twilight. "He looks like a clean freak. His suits are surgical. His movements are precise. He won't contaminate me. He is a high-functioning animal, but at least he is a clean one."
"It's not just about enduring it," Kaelen countered. "It's about responding to it. If he touches you and you go rigid like a corpse, he'll know. He's a predator; he senses fear and he senses lies. You have to learn to melt. You have to learn to welcome it."
Kaelen sighed, pulling a chair out and sitting opposite his Boss. "We have to go back to the expressions. Your 'Luca' was decent at the university, but up close, in the bright lights of an office, you're still too stiff. Your face is a masterpiece, but it's a frozen one."
Dahmer set his spoon down. "Give me a prompt."
"Happiness," Kaelen said. "Not 'I just won a lawsuit' happiness. I want 'I just saw a puppy in the park' happiness. Pure, unburdened, Omega joy."
Dahmer attempted to soften his eyes. He pulled the corners of his mouth up.
"No," Kaelen groaned. "You look like you're mocking a victim. Try again. Think of something... soft. Don't think about power. Think about the way the light hits the water."
Dahmer tried again. He tilted his head, letting a lock of hair fall over his eye. He let out a small, soft exhale and widened his gaze.
"Better," Kaelen whispered. "But the eyes are still too dead. You need to let the light in. Now... show me 'Hurt.' Show me the face of a boy whose 'family problems' are crushing him, but who is trying to stay brave for his uncle."
Dahmer's expression shifted. He let his lower lip tremble almost imperceptibly. He looked down at the scarred table, his posture shrinking, making him look fragile and small in the oversized sweater. It was a haunting transformation.
"That's it," Kaelen said, actually feeling a pang of sympathy despite knowing the truth. "That is the face that will get you past his guards. But you have to hold it. You can't let it slip for a second. If he sees the Boss peering out from behind Luca's eyes, the mission is over."
"It won't take long," Dahmer said, his voice a soft, Luca-like whisper that sent a chill through the room.
"Tomorrow is for rest and final rehearsals," Kaelen said, standing up to clear the dishes. "Get some sleep, 'Nephew.' 3rd Street wakes up early, and an intern for Deviloy Technology cannot afford to look like he's spent the night plotting a coup."
Dahmer stood, his movements fluid and silent. He walked to the window, looking out at the flickering neon of the city skyline in the distance. Somewhere out there, Malcolm Ford was likely sitting in a penthouse, untouched and untouchable.
"Sleep," Dahmer murmured. "
He turned back to the room, the dim light catching the sharp, dangerous edge of his profile one last time before he forced it into the soft, harmless lines of a student. The training continued late into the night, the silence of the shabby house broken only by the low murmur of a man learning how to be human, just so he could destroy the only one who mattered.