Chapter Text
Something was wrong. Ronald could feel it in his guts. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, like a storm brewing just beneath the sea surface. His left eye twitched, and for a fleeting moment he wondered if it was a warning sign. He tried to dismiss the thought, as well as the urge in his stomach to throw up, but it clung to him like a dying man. Just nerves, he told himself, Everyone gets nervous before stepping on stage, especially for their first big role.
But this……This felt different.
Lights in the powder room, bright and casting no shadow on his chiseled face, were of no help chasing away the lingering gloom. He could already hear the low hum of the audience settling into their seats, blending with the freshly polished wood floor and faint traces of sweat from the last rehearsal this afternoon, all captured by his advanced alpha senses. His fingers tingled, as if urging him to crush his own knuckles. Something’s going to happen.
He should have dealt with his long-term paranoid mind, or whatever you call it, a long time ago. He could still remember the unshakable nightmares: the memory of Lachesis, the former female lead, falling off the stage lift during a performance. His father had been the mechanic in charge of maintaining it—and had been accused of negligence. It never happened, indeed, but the fear, the unsettling sense of fate closing in, had never quite let go. His father no longer worked as a machenic years ago, and Lachesis had broke into the show business, leaving with the arrival of Lady Bella. Nothing ever came of it. It had been the first year Norton Campbell stepped into the theater as an apprentice, and, for all the world, nothing had happened. Still, he couldn’t shake the thought: Maybe something did happen. Maybe it’s still happening.
He took a deep breath. His sharp, foxlike nose twitched, catching the mix of scents hanging thick in the air. There was a tangible heat in the powder room, the tension of dozens of performers and crew members smelling like a boiled pot of nerves.
He probably needed another pill of suppressant: His inner alpha was extraordinarily restless today. The scent of a panicked Kroto, the second female lead, who sat nearby, was sharp and fresh like cut citrus, clearly fidgeting but pretending to be perfectly composed—enough to anchor her stature in front of Bella on stage as an unmated omega—not yet, but Ronald could also smell the bouquet she just received from the persistant suitor named Joker. Well, it was never his concern as long as it didn’t attract bees; Normally nothing abouth hiscolleagues concerned him besides their performance, but today it felt like any trace of a new scent was getting under his skin.
At first Ronald had pitied Kroto, but not anymore, not after he took the male lead and felt the full force of Lady Bella’s temper. Bella was a lot. Everyone in the theater knew this. Not just as a female lead but also as a strong, unpredictable, talented alpha with as many issues as he did, if not more.
Usually, Ronald wouldn’t risk his life provoking her, terrified of setting off one of her landmines and the following chain reactions. The last thing he wanted was to trigger an impromptu from her on stage that would embarrass a less-experienced performer in the opposite role— something that, as he liked to whisper into the ladies’ ears over drinks, had allegedly traumatized his early career.
Yes, he had survived it, but now, as he let his elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped together, and realized that he wanted to challenge her. Not just as a male lead in the play, but as an alpha.
Calm down, Norton Campbell, he told himself. You need to calm down. You have to calm down.
Then, like an instinctual pull, he caught the scent of… tobacco? Almost caused a sting in his nose so that his face scrunched up. His make-up artist gave him a cold look, as expected from the Fragrance Queen, which he waved off with a smile. So she didn’t smell it. Vera was a beta, with a relatively lower sensitivity in scents despite her proficiency in perfumery, but Kroto didn’t react to it either. There’s no one in the room that he could seek out for validation.
It couldn’t be. No one dared smoke here, or anywhere near, in a moment like this or not. It lingered in the air—faint and sweet, clinging to the hair at the back of his neck, like an invisible hand brushing his chest. In a moment it was around him, another moment it was gone. It left so fast that his buzzing mind couldn’t capture anything but had to annoyedly let go.
“Mr. Campbell,” Fragrance’s voice cut through the hum of the dressing room, cool and sharp as the icy lavender scent that seemed to trail gracefully around her. “Touch your nose one more time, and you can finish the rest of your makeup yourself.”
Norton froze, hand halted mid-air, inches from his face. The sting in his nose flared again, defiant, as if daring him to scratch. “My bad, my bad,” he muttered with a fake sigh, letting his hand drop. His gaze flicked to her reflection in the mirror. “Ahh. I really need to keep it together. Guess I’m acting like a rookie, huh?”
Her brushes moved with precise swipes, never faltering. “And your scent,” she said flatly, without a glance in his direction.
“My scent?” His brows furrowed as he searched her face in the mirror, but she remained steadfast, her lashes low. There were performers sneaking a glance or two in their direction.
“Your scent,” Fragrance repeated, her tone unchanging as she finished the last stroke of eyeliner with a decisive flourish, before turning to another performer. “Keep it together.”
The unspoken words hung in the air—If she ever wanted to call him a stupid alpha, she didn’t let it show in her voice.
Good, Norton thought, leaning back slightly. It seemed like everyone wanted to challenge him today, but what could he say to the director’s confidant, the second authority in this entire theater?
And then there was the unmistakable scent of belladona—from Bella of no doubt—that instinctly caused a rush of hostility that prickled up his spine, which took him one second to soothe his inner alpha down. Outside their closed door passed by “The Bloody Queen”, even patched, as the aggressive, dominant belladonna sneaked in under the door, followed by Phonograph, her trusted beta maid, who smelt like a gin island refresher. In the reflection of the mirror, Norton caught a glimpse of Kroto, visibly tensing. He licked on his fangs, pressing a hand on the patch on his neck gland, to make sure his slight sweat didn’t cause any turn-ups. Nothing special, he assured himself, it’s not my nose.
In the muddle of emotions and chaos in his mind, the production manager, Commander called them out for backstage.
Finally, this is it, Norton thought. A strange, bittersweet relief swept over him, rippling from his chest to the tips of his fingers. For a moment, he stilled, his hand brushing over the golden rose pinned to his chest. He adjusted it one last time, the petals gleaming faintly under the dim backstage lights.
It’s now or never.
The weight of the night settled squarely on his shoulders. He inhaled deeply, tasting the electric bite of adrenaline, sharp and metallic on his tongue, like blood before a fight. Fame—it was close enough to touch. It shimmered just beyond the curtain, blinding and brilliant, pulling him forward like gravity itself.
His pulse quickened, pounding in his ears, racing ahead of his thoughts. The world outside faded; only the stage and the promise of what waited for him beyond its wooden planks remained.
Tonight, he told himself, I’ll take what I’ve always wanted.
But as the warmth of the lights finally began to creep in from the stage, casting his reflection in the backstage mirror, Ronald’s breath hitched. The sting in his nose flared again. Maybe this moment wasn’t just about performing. Maybe it was about…..Who knows?
Something’s going to happen, he thought again, tonight, and he had no more time to think about it.
“You see, Doctor, I’ve been on a higher dosage for six years straight. That’s what my previous prescription allowed.”
“The only reason you had been prescribed with more dosage was because your previous physician was not as professional, Detective,” The doctor’s voice was calm but firm, “No disrespect, but I feel like this discussion to be very essential for your well-being. I’m not……in any good conscience, providing suppressants for you at that level.”
“Yeah, I totally get where you are coming from, Doctor. My concern is that, you know……it has been affecting my ability to function, especially at work. I really need to perform, you know my job. An increasement won’t kill me.”
“It will kill you, Detective.” Ada Mesmer responded bluntly, her hands clasped on the desk in front of her, brows knitting together, “And it wouldn’t be an easy death.”
Naib Subedar didn’t give way, not showing a flicker of unease, “I understand, Doctor. But so far I believe my body can handle a little pain……”
“It is not ‘a little pain’ we are talking about, Mr. Subedar. Sorry for the interruption. The pain you are experiencing now isn’t even one in a thousand,” Emphasized the doctor, her tone firm. She pulled out his file and turned it so he could see the data displayed on the diagrams.
“Your hormone levels are already sky high, as you might be aware of. Years of suppression have pushed your body to its limits. If this continues unchecked, we risk not only irregular cycles or hormonal disorders—The worst-case scenario?” She paused, letting her words sink in. “They may have to remove your glands entirely.”
For a brief moment, Naib wondered how much he wouldn’t mind that.
The detective’s gaze dropped to the papers in front of him, where the steadily rising trend line was unmistakable—which was never a good sign in a patient’s case—he had learned it form his own experience. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes again.
“I see your point,” Naib finally said, his voice subdued, giving up. He removed his monocle and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply: “Gosh……I feel like a crackhead bargaining for another fix.”
Ada allowed a small smile to break through the heavy air in the room. “Too harsh, Detective. A spoiled kid asking for more candies would be better.” she quipped.
That drew a faint chuckle from the detective. Despite the brief two months he’s been under Ada Mesmer’s care, he sometimes felt like she was an old acquaintance of him.
“You’re a true doctor, Dr. Mesmer. I mean that. Thank you,” he said earnestly.
“Come on, Detective,” Ada raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise, “I have no doubt you could find more suppressants elsewhere in this city with your connections. Yet here you are, consulting me. That says something.”
Naib adjusted his monocle, accepting the prescription she handed him. “Sometimes, I feel like you’re the only reason I still trust the healthcare system in this city,” he said wryly, which Ada responded with an amused yet sympathetic laugh.
He glanced down at the paper. “I suppose that previous dosage really did mess with my head.”
“And I’m here to help. As I’ve mentioned before, Detective, physical treatment can only do so much in your case,” Ada said gently, “Which you see clearly more than anyone else.”
As Ada’s professional demeanor returned, Naib straightened in his chair. He knew what was coming. This was the part of the session he dreaded—where the questions were leading him into.
Naib signed and closed his eyes. The only solace in the room was the faint comfort of Ada’s understanding. He lit his tobacco pipe and took a long drag, letting the fleeting sense of relief sink into his lungs.
“And I am good at what I do,” Ada continued, her tone teasing but grounded in truth. “The best in my field.”
“For now,” Naib muttered, his lips twitching into a half-smile before self-reproach set in. He felt childish for the retort but couldn’t take it back.
Ada chuckled softly, brushing off his comment with ease. “For now, yes—at helping you deal with this hormonal mess.”
PTSD from the loss of a mate. That was what she said during their first meeting, but as Naib insisted he had never lost a mate, she didn’t mention it again, but the implications still lingered, though. Naib guessed there were a psychological term for this.
He took another drag from his pipe. He was looking out of the window.
“Let me know when you are ready to talk.” Ada hauled out a notebook in the organized chaos of files and books on her side desk.
London. Two months back, and it still felt foreign in its familiarity. He had walked these streets before—once as a soldier, later as a man in search of nothing but distance. Now, he was here again, unraveling the threads of a story he wished he could leave behind.
Seven times. Seven sessions with Doctor Ada Mesmer, each one pulling apart the carefully stitched scars he thought had hardened over the years, dissecting his life, recounting fragments of memories that seemed sharper with every retelling. Seven, a number he had always liked—born in July, it had always felt lucky.
But today would make it eight.
He wondered briefly if it would be easier to make something up each time—an easier story for both of his doctor and him, something that didn’t cut so deeply. But he was no child any more. Truth would be the only friend he knew, even when it hurt.
And so, here he was, perched on the edge of his thoughts, trying to piece together memories that refused to stay still, like shards of glass he had to hold in his bare hands.
Another sigh escaped his lips, quieter this time. He tipped the ash from his pipe and stared out of the window into the foggy London streets.
Let’s get this over with, he thought. One more hour of digging through the wreckage.
“I knew you were an omega the first time I smelled you,” Norton murmured, his eyes closed as he rested in Naib’s arms. His voice was soft, almost dreamy, as though he were letting a secret slip out unintentionally. “But you introduced yourself as a beta, so I didn’t say anything.”
It took Naib several seconds to process the words. The fact that he had been feeling so comfortable around Norton struck him. Here and now, with Norton’s head heavy against his chest, his breath warm and shallow, Naib felt only a quiet ache.
“You’re a good kid,” he said after a moment, his hand absently running through Norton’s unruly hair. He felt the younger man shift slightly under his touch, leaning into it. “It’s just……easier to accommodate myself in the army. Not like I’m against or sorry for being an omega. Besides my scent level is low, and my cycles are steady.”
Norton nodded in understanding, “With my help.”
“……With your help.” Naib admitted because Norton was spoiled by him. As if recalling something fun, Naib let out an amused chukle. “Now that I think about it… I guess I had the sense you’d become an alpha when we first met.”
Norton’s eyes snapped open, sharp even in his fatigue. “How do you know?” he demanded, though his voice betrayed his exhaustion. “And you didn’t tell me?”
Naib huffed, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “It was just a feeling. What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, nice to meet you, buddy. By the way, I think you’ll become an alpha someday’? That’s like, sexual harassment.”
Norton squinted at him, suspicion mingling with amusement. “It’s not sexual harassment, Naib! It’s flirting. A really bad one, though.”
“It is harassment, Campbell. Something I won’t say to an unpresented at our first meeting.” Naib shot back, his tone dry, “And I didn’t want to flirt with you.”
“You didn’t want to?” Norton exclaimed in a dramatic dismay. “Wow! I’m offended. Harsh. Here I thought eighteen-year-old me was at least a little attractive.”
“You were just a pup.” Naib’s expression softened as he adjusted his hold on Norton, mindful of the bandages wrapped around his torso. “And don’t move so much.”
“Hey, hey, hey, a pup has ego. Say what you like about me.”
“What?” Naib was either busy with adjusting his bandages or pretended to not hear him.
“What do you like about me?” Norton pressed; he never gave up.
“Your face.” Naib stated bluntly, without looking up.
“My face!”Norton signed dramatically, feigning despair. “A cover judger, I see. But now it’s ruined. Oh, what a life of Norton Campbell.” His hand brushing over his bandaged left face.
“Indeed. Now don’t move.”
“Excuse me?” Norton would have jumped if not pressed down by Naib (Why is my omega so strong?). “Isn’t it the part for you to say, ‘I’ll still love you even if you are not beautiful anymore’?”
The words stunned him for a second. Love. They didn’t talk about that, or future. Not once. Slightly unnerved, he decided to dodge the topic. Testing the waters, he returned the question: “Save that line. I was going to ask if you’d still love me when you’re rich and famous.”
“Me? Rich and famous......” He reached his good hand towards the ceiling—an imaginary sky—and grasped at the air.
“I’ll take what I want,” Norton declared firmly. “And give you what you want.”
Naib watched in bemusement. He was not sure what that was supposed to mean. But they were still young, right? Perhaps too young to talk about the future and everything.
“But now all I can give you is a good head, since you see, my wounds are bad; or if you want more you are more than welcome to help yourself, ride me like you did yesterday—”
“Campbell!” Naib was burnt red again, he gave a not-so-humble pinch on his bandaged hand, making him yelp in protest. Naib was still shy about openly talking about sex, after being teased for so many times by Norton.
“Ow, ow, okay, okay! I’ll stop, don’t be mad!” Norton raised his good hand in surrender, though the teasing lilt in his voice hadn’t quite disappeared; Naib clearly wasn’t mad, betrayed by his own scent. “At least I still have my talent, and my voice. Do you like my voice? Do you want me to sing for—”
As if on called, Norton broke into a violent coughing fit. Naib sighed, thoroughly unimpressed, and handed him the water bottle. His voice indeed got a little hoarser after the incident. “Save your voice. Here, drink.”
Norton straightened up just enough to take a sip. “You still take care of me,” he muttered with a grin, settling back against Naib’s chest. “I know. I’m irresistible.”
“Debatable,” Naib replied, though the faint blush creeping up his neck betrayed him.
“Say what you want,” Norton said with a dramatic sigh, nuzzling against Naib’s chest like the spoiled puppy he was. “But at least call me by my name? You’ve been yelling it all night, after all.”
“You’re insufferable,” Naib muttered, avoiding Norton’s smug gaze.
“And you love it.” Norton shot back, his voice dripping with mock innocence.
Naib sighed, knowing he’d lost this round. “Fine, fine. Norton. Satisfied?” His tone was soft, almost hesitant, but as the name left his lips, it carried a warmth he hadn’t expected.
Norton stilled for a moment, his grin softening into something more genuine. “Much better,” he murmured, his voice growing drowsy.
After I recover from this, he thought, I’ll ask you out for a date. I’ll court you properly when I become somebody, when I make a name for myself. And then I’ll propose to you like a true alpha.
Nestled against Naib, Norton felt his heartbeat—steady and grounding, like the rhythm of a song only he could hear. The weight of Naib’s arms around him, the warmth of his touch, felt like the safest place in the world.
When I become somebody, you’ll be mine, Naib Subedar. Whether you like it or not.
They stayed like that for a while, the quiet settling over them like a blanket. Norton’s breathing grew softer, his body relaxing further into Naib’s arms. Naib glanced down at him, his fingers still absentmindedly combing through Norton’s hair. He should have felt relieved, happy even, to see him at peace.
Maybe it was the intuition that this moment couldn’t last forever. Maybe it was the way Norton fit so perfectly against him, like he belonged there, and yet Naib couldn’t imagine what that might mean for them. They weren’t dating, weren’t anything official—just two people stumbling into something neither of them dared name.
But as Norton drifted into a soft sleep, Naib couldn’t help but murmur, almost to himself, “You’ll be okay, Norton. You always are.”
The words hung in the air, quiet and unacknowledged. Norton didn’t stir, lost in whatever dream had claimed him.
Naib tightened his hold on him, allowing himself to feel the moment fully—just this once. Tomorrow wasn’t promised, but tonight……this was enough.
“And the next day, after returning to headquarters, I was expelled… from the army, for no reason,” Naib let out a short, wry laugh, his eyes tracking the swift movement of Ada Mesmer’s pen. “I was furious at the time. I even wondered if it had something to do with him.”
He paused, a shadow flickering across his face before he continued. “No, it can’t be. He was as much a nobody as I was back then. They cut me off from the army completely. My comrades were retired, demoted or transferred to other departments. But we never mated. No marking, no commitment. We weren’t a thing.”
“Did you try to reach out to him?” His therapist asked.
“……No, I guess I was occupied collecting my pieces together. I didn’t realize it would affect me……this much.”
Ada’s pen paused mid-stroke, and she looked up, her neutral gaze settling on him. “And how does that make you feel?”
Naib blinked, as if the question pulled him out of some fog. “Make me feel?”
“The unfinished bonding. The lack of marking. How does it make you feel?” Ada repeated, her tone clinical yet patient. She didn’t bother faking warmth, holding instead the practiced neutrality of someone who had dealt with countless patients’ traumas. It made Naib feel a little better.
“I…” Naib’s throat felt dry. He swallowed hard. “Thank God. That’s what I thought. Thank God we didn’t mate. Thank God I didn’t get pregnant......We were both so young.”
With a little gesture of exaggeration, he continued: “The last thing I wanted was to become, you know some broken, alcoholic, pathetic omega, spending my life crying over a faceless alpha.”
Ada nodded, scribbling a note. “That would indeed be difficult. Many alpha-omega pairs struggle to survive the loss of a bond, often facing mental and hormonal breakdowns. And just to clarify—was there anything uncomfortable about the intimacy you shared with him?”
Naib’s brows furrowed as he dug into his memory, trying to find something the thector asked for. Nothing surfaced. “I don’t remember anything unpleasant, physically......” He shifted in his seat, the edgy, nameless sensation gnawing at him again.
"But mentally?"
"But mentally, I just......couldn't get rid of the feeling of......exposing myself to something heavy. Like everything was already decided, but I was carrying the unknown."
“It’s probably just my memory,” he added quickly, “or some psychological effect. Or maybe my hormonal disorder started at that time.”
Ada’s brow arched slightly, but her tone remained steady. “It’s not always just hormones,” she said, almost to herself.
Naib frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn't sound like anxiety or paranoia induced by hormonal disorders......Let’s come back to that,” she said smoothly, flipping to a new page in her notes. “You referred to him as ‘faceless.’ You don’t remember his physical appearance?”
He sighed, visibly shrinking into himself. “It was five… six years ago. I’ve never seen him since. And I’m not good at remembering faces.”
Ada considered this, her pen gliding once more. “Would you recognize him by his scent?”
“...I don’t think so,” Naib admitted after a long pause. “I don’t even remember his scent…...Okay, that would be a lie, though I’ve been blunt with scents for years now, as what they said.” He gestured to his files, hesitated, then added quietly, “But sometimes… sometimes it feels like his scent never left.”
Ada looked up at him.“Never left?”
Naib gave a short, humorless laugh. “It’s weird, right? I can smell him—right here, right now. It’s like my brain’s playing tricks on me……It doesn’t make any sense.”
Ada humed slightly in agreement, her tone contemplative. “The whole concept of sub-genders doesn’t make much sense if you think about it. There’s no historical event that necessitated this kind of evolution. Scent glands, secondary sex organs, specialized hormonal systems controlled by our brains… they’re almost like vestigial appendices.”
Naib snorted softly, though the sound held no amusement. I wish my whole brain were an appendix, he thought bitterly.
“What about his voice? Or any other distinguishing features?”
“No,” he said, his voice subdued. “Nothing.”
A beat passed before he added, almost reluctantly, “If there’s anything… it would be his scar. It ran down his left cheek and neck, his whole left body.”
But if he were a man of promise, he’d be an actor by now, he thought. And what actor would leave a scar like that visible? Scars are only a badge of honor to people like me.
“...No. Nothing I remember much,” he repeated.
Ada didn’t press further. If she saw through his deflection, she didn’t let on. She simply observed him, giving him space to speak when he was ready.
“It seems,” she said carefully, “like your brain is trying to erase this figure from your memory, as a coping mechanism.”
Naib didn’t respond, his focus drifting to the dimming tip of his pipe.
“How did you feel,” Ada asked softly, “when you left and lost contact with him? Take your time. There’s no rush.”
Naib’s muscles tensed at the question. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as if the physical act could guard against the emotional weight of his memories.
How could he forget? The half-fainting spells, his body battered and exhausted. The desperate urge to claw at the temporary mark on his neck until it bled, until it finally faded away. The cursed loss of sensitivity to scents, forcing him to learn how to read emotions through facial expressions and body language. He realised how he learned everything new in a bitter way in the past six years.
And the cycles… God, the cycles. The unbearable cramps that knocked him out the first few times until he learned to endure the pain. He’d come so close to turning to drugs. Instead, he drowned himself in suppressants, praying nightly that his heat would never come.
“Mr. Subedar?” Ada’s voice pulled him back, her tone gentle but insistent.
He blinked, realizing not only had he been silent for long but his scent had gone sour. Swallowing thickly, he gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry. I… zoned out.”
Ada’s expression didn’t change, her pen moving steadily across the page. “It’s okay, we can always come back to this when you feel like talking about it. There are some other details I’d like to confirm with you.”
“Did you try spending your cycles with other partners?”
Naib shifted uncomfortably in his chair, gripping the armrests. “I didn’t, no,” he said after a long pause. His voice was low, almost defensive. “I couldn’t… Ahh, his damn scent. Besides, it never felt right. I mean, I thought about it, but the idea of being that close to someone again…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to put anyone through that. It’s better this way.”
Dr. Mesmer’s pen paused briefly, and she tilted her head slightly, her tone measured but gentle. “Better for you, or for them?”
Naib let out a dry laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Both, I suppose? I’m not exactly a catch, Doctor.” Who wants a broken omega who bears the scent of another alpha? Even though the omega is the only one who can smell it? …… He stopped himself, his jaw tightening. “It’s not like my body allows it, anyway.”
“By ‘not allowing it’, you mean?”
Naib preferred to stay silent, which Doctor Mesmer could smell from his scent, so she continued with a comforting smile.
“It’s okay, Mr. Subedar. As we’ve discussed, no rush at all. Let’s go back to……supressants for your cycles. Were there times when they didn’t work, or when the pain became unmanageable?”
He hesitated, the silence stretching between them before he finally answered. “There were… a few times. When the cramps hit harder than usual, or when the heat broke through, even with the amount of suppressants I’ve taken. I’d just… ride it out. Alone.” He swallowed hard, his voice lowering. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“That must have been incredibly isolating,” Ada said gently. “Did you ever feel like you wanted to reach out to someone during those times, even if you didn’t?”
Naib gave a short, bitter laugh. “Who would I have reached out to, Doctor? The army didn’t want me. I left London. My so-called comerades either died or disappeared. And him? He probably moved on with his life, living it up while I was crawling through hell.” His tone grew sharper, turned into a self-mocking bitterness. “It’s always easier for alphas, isn’t it?”
It took the doctor several seconds to give an honest answer. “Satistically……Yes, it’s always easier for alphas. But I don’t think it applies to your case.”
Naib didn’t take it as a console, he simply deflated. “No. I didn’t turn to anyone.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “It’s strange,” he began, his voice carefully measured. “His scent… it doesn’t appear during my cycles. Not even once.”
Ada tilted her head, watching him closely. “But it does appear out of your cycles?”
He nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. “When I… when I think about being with someone else. When I try to… connect, physically.” His voice tightened as he forced the words out. “It’s there. Clear as day. It’s like he’s standing in the room, between me and anyone else.”
Ada’s pen stilled, and she set it down gently. “How does that make you feel, when his scent appears in those moments?”
Naib hesitated, the question hanging heavy in the air. “Like a warning,” he said finally. “Like I’m doing something wrong. Betraying him, even though…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “Even though I know he’s gone. Even though we were never really anything.”
Ada nodded slowly, her expression neutral, though her tone carried steady reassurance. “It sounds like his scent has become entangled with feelings of guilt—or perhaps unresolved emotions about what happened between you two.”
“Unresolved?” Naib let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “It’s been six years, Doctor. I’d rather he were dead. I’ve tried everything to move on—suppressants, work, distance—it doesn’t matter. He’s still there, in my head. In my lungs.”
Ada leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped loosely on the desk. “And yet, during your cycles, his scent doesn’t appear. What do you think that means?”
Naib frowned, his brow knitting as he grappled with the question. “What do I think? I don’t know. Cycles are about survival. Instinct. They’re different.” That’s what he had learned in the army.“But when I think about… being with someone else, that’s deliberate. A choice. And that’s when he shows up. Like my mind—or my body—won’t let me make that choice.”
Ada tapped her fingers lightly against the desk, her gaze contemplative. “It’s possible your mind has associated intimacy with him so strongly that it’s created a barrier. Although…” she trailed off, her brow furrowing slightly, “I’ve never encountered this happening through an unfinished bond. It might be your mind’s way of protecting you, even if it’s not what you consciously want.”
Naib’s jaw clenched, his gaze hardening. “Protect me?” he echoed, the edge of exhaustion in his voice. “It doesn’t feel like protection. It feels like punishment.”
Ada’s tone remained calm, unfazed by his frustration. “Sometimes, the mechanisms our minds create to shield us from pain can feel like punishment—especially when they outlast their purpose. But they’re not permanent. They can be unraveled, understood, and eventually overcome—if that’s what you want.”
Naib didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached for his pipe, lighting it with practiced ease. The thin curl of smoke softened the tension in the room, though his expression stayed guarded.
“And if I can’t?” he asked at last, his voice low. “What if I don’t want to let go of him? What if letting go means losing the only thing I have left?”
Ada regarded him in silence for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle between them. “Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting him,” she said gently. “It means freeing yourself from the grip this memory has on you. So that when you think of him, it’s not with guilt or pain—but with acceptance. Maybe even gratitude for what you shared.”
Naib’s lips tightened into a thin line as he stared into the swirling smoke. “I don’t know if I can do that,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.
“You don’t have to decide that now,” Ada assured him. “This isn’t something you have to face alone, Mr. Subedar. We’ll take it one step at a time. For now, it’s enough to acknowledge what you’re feeling and how his memory still affects you.”
Naib nodded slightly, though the tension in his posture remained. “I’ll think about it,” he said quietly, echoing his earlier words.
Ada offered him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s all I’m asking.”
As the session wound to a close, Naib rose to his feet, adjusting his monocle before turning toward the door. But as he reached for the handle, Ada called his name.
“Mr. Subedar.”
He glanced back at her, curious.
Ada stood, meeting his gaze steadily. “Have I ever mentioned my current research to you?”
“No,” Naib replied, puzzled.
“It’s personal,” she said after a brief pause. “Unfinished, unpublished, unproven. The only case study I have is… me and my husband. I call it the concept of a ‘fated pair.’”
Naib blinked, unsure where she was going with this. “A fated pair?”
“A perfect match,” she explained. “For the rest of their lives, they respond only to their mate’s scent—mind and body alike. No one else.”
“Oh,” Naib said, his tone flat. “Sounds like a curse to me.”
Ada’s lips curved into a bitter smile, her eyes shadowed with an emotion Naib couldn’t quite place.
“Indeed,” she said softly.
Naib gave her a curt nod, and the two exchanged a polite farewell.
As he stepped out of the therapist’s office, the door closing with a soft click behind him, he lit his pipe with practiced precision, letting the curl of smoke rise into the gray sky of London. His fingers brushed against the bottles of medicine in his coat pocket—a tangible reminder of his fractured self. The gloom of the city, heavy and eternal, matched the weight in his chest. If it were fate, he thought, we’d meet again, and something would happen. His lips curled into a bitter smile.
Please, no. In his life, if something could go wrong, it always did.
He decided to take a walk along the Thames, the sluggish river reflecting the slate clouds above. His boots clicked against the damp cobblestones as he wandered aimlessly, dragging on his pipe and watching the city churn around him. It was routine, his way of grounding himself, of keeping the past at bay.
The lively hum of a crowd caught his attention as he passed the Golden Rose Theater. A long, eager line snaked along the pavement, their excited chatter cutting through the dull roar of the city. A part of him—a detective’s instinct honed by years of experience—warned him to move on, to keep walking. Don’t stop. Just keep moving.
But he did stop.
Curiosity, or perhaps something deeper, made him glance across the street.
And there it was.
A towering, opulent poster stretched across the theater’s facade, its golden-red hues catching the dim light. For a moment, Naib stood frozen, the world narrowing to that single image. His chest tightened as his lie to Doctor Mesmer came rushing back to mock him.
I don’t remember his face .
How can he forget?
There he was—Norton Campbell, or rather, Ronald of Ness. The man he thought he’d never see again.
The actor’s face dominated the poster, his left side scarred but displayed boldly, unapologetically. It wasn’t hidden; it wasn’t softened. The scars only sharpened his aura, granting him an audacious, magnetic charm. A Norton he didn’t know—sharp-edged, confident, and untouchable—was alive in that image. The elegant font of “Atropo’s Ropes,” seemed almost secondary to the intensity of the figure it framed.
Naib’s breath hitched. Norton’s eyes seemed to pierce through the glossy surface, meeting his own with a mocking intimacy. His lips, curled into a faint smile, seemed to say, I’m here. Come back to me, Naib Subedar. I’m right here.
He took a deep drag from his pipe, trying to steady the tempest raging inside him. His mind screamed at him to walk away, to leave before the wounds of the past ripped open again. But his legs felt rooted to the spot, his heart warring between anger, longing, and despair.
Damn it. He muttered under his breath.
The crowd moved around him, unbothered by his turmoil. Naib stared at the poster for another long moment, his jaw tight. Then, with a bitterness that threatened to drown him, he turned and walked away, the scent of smoke and medicine clinging to his coat.
Behind him, Norton’s face loomed, unyielding and eternal, as if waiting for him to look back.
Two hours later, in the shadowed hallways of the Golden Rose Theater, a distraught Ronald stormed out of the lounge during intermission, his frustration barely contained. The first act had been flawless on paper. His lines delivered with precision, his movements choreographed to perfection. But something vital was missing.
The challenge? The fire?
It gnawed at him like a splinter under his skin. He had felt this emptiness before but refused to name it. His performance was adequate—more than enough for most. But not for him. Not tonight. He needed a moment away from the suffocating crowd and his damn colleagues.
Clenching his fists hard enough to feel the bite of his nails, Norton shook his head against the crazed whisper in his mind. Another hour and a half, he told himself. Pull yourself together. Get through it.
He reached for his pipe, fingers trembling. Perhaps the scent of tobacco would ground him, even if only for a fleeting moment. The hallway led him to the arcaded courtyard at the rear of the theater, where a sharp sting of tobacco met his nose, startling him. He wasn’t alone. So someone did smoke here.
As the scent grew stronger, he quickened his pace, rounding the corner with agitation—and nearly collided with a figure slumped against the stone wall.
“Long time no see, Ronald of Ness,” came the hoarse voice.
Norton froze, his breath catching. There, barely upright, was Naib Subedar, his face slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. He looked feverish, as though he were fighting something far greater than exhaustion.
For a moment, the world tilted. His mind reeled, the theater courtyard blurring at the edges.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Naib’s trembling hand rose to his collar, unbuttoning the first clasp of his shirt. He tilted his head, revealing the patched scent gland on the back of his neck. The sight was enough to make Norton’s pulse hammer in his ears.
“Can you do me a favor?” Naib rasped, his voice thin and strained.
Is this a joke? The scent of tobacco surged, thick and intoxicating. But it wasn’t just the smoke—it was him, Naib’s scent, sharp and raw beneath the artificial mask. The scent Norton had thought he’d long forgotten. His inner alpha was cheering and chirping, while his mind was boiling in rage. Is this a joke?
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The air felt heavy, electrified.
“Please?” Naib murmured, the plea trembling on his lips as his knees nearly gave way.
Norton’s fists tightened at his sides, nails biting into his palms. His throat constricted as he forced the words through clenched teeth. “Naib Subedar,” he growled, his voice rough and coated with disbelief. “Are you here to ruin my life again?”
Naib’s lips curved into a faint, bitter smile, his eyelids fluttering as if even holding his gaze steady was a battle. “I suppose,” he whispered, “……it wouldn’t be the first time.”
And with that, Naib’s legs buckled, and he slumped forward. Norton moved instinctively, catching him before he hit the ground.
The weight of the man in his arms—solid, familiar, painfully real—staggered him. Memories he had buried, desires he had denied, all came flooding back in a torrent he wasn’t ready to face.
He should have let him go.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he held on, his hat clattering to the ground as the storm of emotions he’d suppressed for years threatened to consume him whole.