The elevator doors had barely hummed shut behind Marcus and Malcolm before Luca retreated into the shadowed alcove of the executive kitchenette. The pristine silence of the 102nd floor was a stark contrast to the chaotic biological violence that had just unfolded.
Dahmer tapped his earlobe, activating the sub-dermal comms link. His voice was cold, clinical rasp of a commander.
"Kaelen. Report."
"I've been monitoring the thermal spikes from the van," Kaelen's voice crackled, sounding strained. "The Alpha's readings went off the charts. It looked like a solar flare on my monitor. What did you do, Dahmer? I felt a ripple in the local field."
"He was in pain," Dahmer said, his eyes tracking a single drop of Malcolm's blood on the carpet. "His own biology was tearing him apart. I didn't have a choice. I stabilized him. I used the Enigma core to rewrite the cellular damage. He's healed. Completely."
There was a long, terrifying silence on the other end of the line. "You healed him? With a direct Enigma-to-Alpha energy transfer? Dahmer, have you lost your mind? Did you check the CCTV? Every square inch of that suite is blanketed in high-definition surveillance. If they see you walking into that room, placing your hands on him, and glowing like a dying star, Project Z is burned."
Dahmer leaned against the cold marble counter, his gaze icy. "I froze the local time-stream within the suite's visual sensors. To the cameras, the last ten minutes are a static loop of an empty room. There is no footage of me entering. As far as the digital record is concerned, I never left the hallway."
"And the physical evidence?" Kaelen pushed, his tone shifting from panic to tactical reprimand. "You might have fooled the silicon, but you haven't fooled the biology. You are supposed to be an Omega, Luca. Do you realize what an Alpha rut of that magnitude does to a standard Omega? They don't just 'stand there' and watch. They succumb. They become nauseous and sometimes collapse. Their nervous systems are flooded with the Alpha's command pheromones. If they come back and find you standing there looking refreshed and composed, they won't see a 'brilliant intern.' They'll see a master in a mask."
Dahmer's jaw tightened. The revulsion he felt for the role of a weak Omega was a physical weight in his chest. "I hate this. I hate the theatrics of fragility."
"Hate it all you want," Kaelen snapped. "But if you don't start showing signs of biological distress immediately, Malcolm Ford will sniff out the lie. He's already suspicious. He told Marcus to vet you again. You need to look like you've been poisoned by his scent. You need to be weak, Dahmer. You need to be pathetic."
"Fine," Dahmer hissed, the word tasting like venom. "I'll play the victim."
He cut the connection. For a moment, he stood in the center of the kitchenette, his power coiled tightly within him. Then, with a shuddering breath, he began the most difficult transformation of his life. He manipulated his own internal temperature, forcing a cold sweat to break out across his brow. He relaxed the muscles in his legs until they felt like lead, and he manually irritated his throat until a harsh, hacking cough emerged.
He stumbled back into the hallway, collapsing against the wall just as the executive elevator chimed.
Marcus stepped out, his face set in a grim mask of efficiency. He was heading back to collect some of Malcolm's personal effects before they left for Dr. Armstrong's clinic. He stopped dead when he saw the figure on the floor.
Luca was trembling violently. His face, which had been pale before, was now a sickly, translucent grey. His breath came in shallow, wheezing gasps, and his eyes—hidden behind those crooked glasses—were bloodshot and unfocused. He looked like a bird that had flown into a glass window at full speed.
"Luca?" Marcus rushed over, dropping to one knee. The pity in the assistant's voice was genuine; he felt a surge of guilt for leaving the boy out here in the wake of Malcolm's territorial explosion. "God, I forgot... an Omega's sensitivity. I shouldn't have left you in the drift."
Luca tried to speak, but only a dry, rattling cough came out. He reached for Marcus's sleeve with a hand that shook so much he could barely grip the fabric. "I... I feel... so heavy," Luca whispered, his voice cracking. "The air... it smells like... burning..."
"It's the residual pheromones," Marcus said, his heart softening. He reached out and felt Luca's forehead; it was ice-cold and clammy. "The Boss's rut... it's high-frequency. For a student like you, it's like being hit by a freight train. Here, lean on me."
Marcus slipped an arm around Luca's waist, hauling him up. He was surprised by how light the boy felt—Dahmer was intentionally surrendering his weight, making himself a burden.
"I'm so sorry, kid," Marcus muttered as he guided the stumbling, coughing Omega toward the executive office sofa. "You shouldn't have been here for this. Most Omegas would be in a hospital right now. The fact that you're even conscious is a miracle."
Luca let out another pained wheeze, his head lolling against Marcus's shoulder. Inside, Dahmer was screaming in silence. He hated the touch of the assistant; he hated the feigned weakness; he hated the way his lungs felt as he forced the artificial cough. But as Marcus laid him down on the plush leather sofa and draped a spare blazer over him, Dahmer knew he'd played them.
"Just rest here," Marcus said softly, patting Luca's hand. "I have to take the Boss to the doctor, but I'll have one of the medical staff from the lower floors come up and check on you. You're a brave kid, Luca. Hang in there."
Marcus turned and hurried toward the inner suite, his mind now occupied with the bravery of the poor intern.
Left alone in the dim light of the office, Luca closed his eyes. He stayed draped in the blazer, a silent, broken thing, waiting for the king to return so he could finish the job he had started.