The clinical suite of Dr. Armstrong was a sterile, white-on-white perfection, located in a subterranean wing of Freenly City's most exclusive medical district. Here, the air was scrubbed of all organic impurities, and the silence was only broken by the rhythmic, expensive hum of a Quantum Bio-Scanner.
Malcolm Ford lay on the cold, glass table of the scanner, his torso bare, while a ring of violet light passed slowly from his crown to his feet. Dr. Armstrong, a man with silver hair and a face lined by decades of guarding the secrets of the elite, stared at a wall of holographic monitors.
His hands, usually as steady as a surgeon's, were hovering over the controls with a visible tremor.
"Incredible," Armstrong whispered, his voice echoing in the pressurized room. "Scientifically... it's an impossibility."
Marcus stood in the corner, clutching his tablet. "What is it, Doctor? Is the rut coming back? Is he stable?"
"Stable?" Armstrong turned, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. "He's more than stable. Malcolm, look at these readings."
He flicked a hand, and a 3D projection of Malcolm's circulatory system expanded in the center of the room. Usually, an Alpha's blood during a rut appeared as a chaotic, jagged red. But Malcolm's blood was pulsing with a strange, bioluminescent silver undertone.
"Your body was failing an hour ago," Armstrong said, pointing to a data log of the internal hemorrhaging. "But now? Your cellular repair rate is at 400% of the human limit. It's as if every cell in your body was touched by a localized EMP. You haven't just been healed, Malcolm. You've been... invaded."
Malcolm sat up, the glass table creaking under his weight. He looked at the silver pulse in the hologram. "Invaded? By what? I was alone in that room."
"I don't know what," Armstrong admitted, rubbing his temples. "But the energy signature left in your marrow is unexplainable by modern medicine. It's a foreign strength. It's dense, cold, and carries a command frequency that is overriding your own Alpha DNA. It's like a king met a god, and the god decided to fix the king's mistakes."
Marcus stepped forward, his voice a hushed conspiratorial tone. "Doctor... I mentioned this to Mr. Ford earlier. Is it possible... could this be the work of an Enigma?"
Dr. Armstrong went still. He slowly sat down in his leather chair, looking at the floor. "The Enigma," he breathed.
He looked up at Malcolm, his expression grave. "The symptoms match perfectly. The ability to rewrite an Alpha's biology, the cooling of a violent rut, the 'silver' resonance in the blood... it all points to an Enigma. But in forty years of practice, I have never met one. I didn't think they existed in this century."
"They're just stories," Malcolm snapped, though he couldn't stop thinking about the phantom coldness on his skin.
"Maybe not," Armstrong countered. "There are rumors, Malcolm. Deep whispers in the medical community. I've heard that an Enigma exists in Gwenreen City. They say he is the owner of GEM—the Genetic Evolution Matrix."
Malcolm's eyes sharpened. "Dahmer Lukas."
"Exactly," Armstrong nodded. "But as you know, no one has ever seen his face. He hides behind a mask of mystery. Some of my colleagues at GEM think it's a branding exercise—that he's just a high-level Alpha using the Enigma myth to intimidate his rivals and inflate his stock prices."
Armstrong leaned over his desk, looking directly at Malcolm. "However, after seeing your blood today... I'm not so sure anymore. Someone with this power was in your office. If you want to know what happened to you—you should probably consult the rumored Enigma himself."
Malcolm stood up, his presence filling the small office. He didn't need to ask for the name. Everyone in the tech and genetic sectors knew of Dahmer Lukas. The man was a great man in Gwenreen City.
"Dahmer Lukas," Malcolm repeated, the name feeling like a challenge on his tongue. "You want me to travel to Gwenreen to ask a man behind a mask if he sent someone into my office?"
"I'm saying he's the only one who would recognize this energy signature," Armstrong said. "If you are becoming something else, or if someone is targeting you with Enigma-level technology, Lukas is the only one who holds the key."
Malcolm grabbed his shirt, pulling it on with sharp, aggressive movements. "I'll consider a trip to Gwenreen. But first..."
He looked at Marcus, his amber eyes narrowing.
"I have matters concerning the new interns to deal with. Specifically, a certain Omega who seemed far too comfortable in the middle of a biological war zone. If an Enigma was in my room, I want to know how he got past the boy at the door."
"Sir," Marcus said, checking his watch. "The boy—Luca—was in a terrible state when I left him. He was coughing blood, trembling... the medical team in the lobby said he's barely holding on. He's back in the executive suite now, waiting for your return."
"Is he?" Malcolm's lips curved into a cold, dangerous line. "Then let's go back. I want to see this student for myself. If he's as sick as you say, I'll send him home. If he's faking..."
Malcolm didn't finish the sentence, but the air in the room dropped five degrees.
"Dr. Armstrong, keep these results under triple encryption," Malcolm commanded as he walked toward the door. "If a word of this Enigma thing leaks out, I'll close this clinic permanently."
"Understood, Mr. Ford," Armstrong whispered, watching the Alpha leave.
The executive suite was silent when Malcolm and Marcus arrived.
The lights were dimmed. On the long leather sofa, Luca's blazer was draped over a curled-up figure. Luca was shivering, a low, wet cough echoing through the empty office. He looked small, broken, and utterly defeated by the Alpha's presence.
Malcolm walked to the sofa, standing over the boy. He looked down at the messy hair and the glasses that had fallen onto the carpet.
Inside his head, he felt a strange tug. A memory of the scent of lilies. But his mind was already drifting toward Gwenreen City, toward the masked man named Dahmer Lukas.
He had no idea that the man he was planning to hunt across the country was currently pretending to have a fever right at his feet.
"Wake him up, Marcus," Malcolm said, his voice cold.