If I could have stayed in that bed with him wrapped around me, I would have.Asa.The name is all I have but the reservationended and without putting down actual names, addresses, and money, it all came to an end.
“Time to face the music, I guess,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair as I walk into the intake wing with my head up.
The guards at the primary gate freeze, their rifles half-raised, their expressions a mix of terror and profound confusion. They were clearly expecting to be hunting me through the gutters of Redbrook for the next forty-eight hours, dragging back a feral animal in a sedative-induced coma. Instead, I’m just standing there, offering them my wrists.
"Thorn?" the lead guard rasps. He doesn't lower the weapon but tilts his head toward his comms. "He’s back. Asset 01 is back on site. Code Green. No—Code Blue. Get medical down here now."
I don't say a word as I let them swarm me, the frantic energy of their movements contrasting sharply with the heavy, grounded stillness in my chest. They handle me like a live bomb, their fingers trembling as they strip my jacket and check for weapons I don't have. One of them, a young Alpha who smells like sour sweat and nerves, leans in too close to check my pulse-point before he freezes, his nostrils flaring.
"He smells like..." the kid starts, then pales, pulling back as if I’d bitten him. "Sir, he’s scented. Deeply."
"Shut up and move him," the sergeant snaps, though I see his eyes track the way I’m breathing. Long, slow, and even. Not the ragged gasps of an Enigma Esper who just broke out of a high-security rut-lock.
They escort me to Medical Wing B, the place where they usually dump me when I’ve burned through another pair of unfortunate Guides. As the glass doors slide open, the sharp, metallic tang of burnout hits me, the two Guides from the Redbrook mission still hooked up to neuro-stabilizers, their faces pale and drawn, their eyes tracking the ceiling with avacant, glazed-over horror. I did that to them. Or rather, the power I can’t turn off did.
Usually, seeing the cost of my existence makes the Black Current flare in a fit of self-loathing. Today, I just feel a distant, cold regret. I look at them, then I look at my own hands, which aren't shaking for the first time in ten years. Whatever happened at Vesper House—whoever that Omega was—he didn't just survive me. He quieted the monster.
"Sit," Dr. Rue says, pointing to the exam table. His lab coat is wrinkled, and his glasses are sliding down the bridge of his nose, but his eyes are sharp, darting between the monitors and my face. "We have fifteen different sensors telling us you should be in a state of catastrophic energetic collapse, Jorak. Why are you sitting there like you just had a nap?"
"Maybe your sensors are broken," I say, my voice lacking the jagged edge of a man on the brink of a psychotic break. "Check the calibration."
"The calibration is fine," Mercer’s voice cuts through the room. He enters from the observation gallery. He stops three feet away, his gaze sweeping over me with the clinical detachment of a man inspecting a malfunctioning piece of heavy machinery.
Mercer leans in, his eyes narrowing before drawing in a slow breath. I see the moment he catches Asa’s scent. His jaw tightens, a flash of something that looks dangerously like calculation crossing his features.
"Pear," Mercer says softly, the word sounding like a threat. "Vanilla. You didn't just find a fix, Jorak. You found a match. An S-Class match, based on the fact that your current is vibrating at a frequency we haven't seen since your awakening. Where is she?"
"He," I correct him, my voice dropping an octave. I don't give him anything else. I don't tell him about the way the Omega’s skin felt like silk, or the way his eyes looked when he realized Iwasn't going to break him. I don't tell him that for several hours, I forgot I was a weapon of the state.
"Where is he?" Mercer repeats, his tone hardening. "We know you went to Vesper House but they aren’t responding to our inquiries regarding the client list. They’re citing 'privacy protocols.' As if the ESA gives a damn about privacy when an S-Class Enigma is wandering the streets uncollared. Who was he?"
"I don't know," I lie. It’s a half-truth. "I was in a rut. You think I was checking IDs?"
Mercer paces the small room. "You broke containment. You bypassed a Level 4 security lock. You traveled three miles through a high-density civilian zone. And then you returned. Voluntarily. That suggests the Omega isn't just a physical outlet, but we’ve yet to meet any assetwho can guide your essence, Jorak."
The word asset sends a strange ripple through my blood. I don't like the way Mercer says it, like he’s found a new piece of gear for my tactical vest. "He’s off-limits, Mercer. Don't look for him."
"Don't look for him?" Mercer laughs, a short, sharp sound devoid of any humor. "Jorak, you are the most expensive, most dangerous asset this city has. If there is a person capable of bringing your stabilization levels down to manageable parameters without medical intervention, that person is a matter of national security. We will find him. We will evaluate him. And then we will pair you officially."
The air in the room drops five degrees as my current surges. The monitors beside my bed begin to whine, their screens flickering with lines of erratic data. I stand up slowly, and the guards at the door both reach for their sidearms.
"You won't touch him," I growl out. I can feel the power coiling in my knuckles, ready to shred the glass, the guards, and Mercer’s smug certainty. "If you go near him, if you even senda scout to his door, I’ll stop cooperating. I’ll let the current take Redbrook. See how well your career handles a city-wide blackout and a thousand flare-deaths."
Mercer stops pacing. He looks at the flickering monitors, then back at me. He sees the crack in my control, the way my eyes have gone dark with the entropic pull of my power. He doesn't look afraid but he’s obviously realizing this isn't just the lingering pheromones of a successful knotting.
"Possessiveness," Mercer muses, adjusting his cufflinks. "Interesting. We’ll table the search for now. But only because Redbrook is currently trying to eat itself, and I don't have the luxury of chasing ghosts while the suppression nodes are failing."
Before I can respond, a sharp, high-pitched alarm cuts through the medical wing. A red light begins to pulse over the doorway. Dr. Rue immediately turns to his tablet, his fingers flying across the screen.
"District Seven," Rue says, his voice tightening. "The university campus. We have a massive flare signature near the old library node. It’s a Grade 3 rupture, Mercer. If we don't suppress it in the next hour, it’ll cascade into the residential zones."
Mercer looks at me, a thin, predatory smile touching his lips. "Well, Jorak. It seems you’re getting your wish. You’re leaving the facility. Your university placement is being moved up to today. You’ll be embedded in the graduate program as part of our 'stability' initiative. It puts you on site for any further flares near the campus nodes."
I don't care about the university. I don't care about the nodes. I just want to be out of this sterile box. I want the wind on my face and the feeling of something other than concrete under my boots. "Whatever. Just give me the coordinates."
Mercer hands a tablet to Rue, who taps a few buttons to sync it with my internal HUD. "You’ll be reporting to the Department of Applied Mathematics. It’s the closest building to the rupture point. Here is your schedule and your primary contact."
I take the tablet, my eyes scanning the briefing material with bored indifference. Names, titles, office numbers. It’s all administrative static. Then, I see the name at the top of the student roster for the advanced design theory seminar I’m supposed to attend for cover.
