Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lingering echoes of laughter in the cafeteria clung stubbornly to the walls like spilled syrup, making Sai groan theatrically as he hauled himself upright, rubbing his forehead like Kaizo’s spoon had left a permanent dent in his skull.

Shielda was practically vibrating with suppressed giggles, Gopal looked like he might collapse into hysterics at any moment, and Lahap muttered something about “never signing up for this circus,” while Yaya and Ying leaned against each other, smirking in quiet, conspiratorial delight.

The scents of vanilla, honey, cocoa, roasted peanuts, and cinnamon swirled together with the sunlight streaming in, creating a warm, chaotic cloud that made every Alpha-Omega tension in the room practically electric.

The lingering smell of BoBoiBoy—sunlight, cinnamon, and just a hint of adrenaline—made Fang’s Omega instincts twitch, igniting that mix of embarrassment and involuntary flutter that only intense Alphas could provoke.

Then, as if the universe were not done punishing them with order after chaos, their communicators buzzed simultaneously. The high-pitched whine made everyone jump like startled cats.

“This is Commander Kokoci,” barked the crisp, no-nonsense voice. “Both packs, report to my office immediately.”

A collective groan rolled through the cafeteria like a badly timed wave. Lahap muttered under his breath, “All I ask is a day off after five days of hell, but nope, we get THIS.” BoBoiBoy pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing fervently that he could evaporate mid-bite.

Rules were rules. Chaotic or not, the military never slept. Slowly, with sighs audible enough to be registered as low-frequency groans, the packs pushed back from the table, chairs scraping, utensils clanging, and the occasional plate wobbling like it was about to bolt.

Captain Kaizo moved like a storm contained in measured steps—precise, deliberate, and impossibly authoritative. The moment Fang rose, Kaizo’s large hand rested firmly on his Omega’s shoulder, an unspoken reminder of protection and control.

The faint scent of iron, cedarwood, and jasmine seemed to wrap around Fang like a cloak, and the Omega, though confused, leaned into it almost instinctively. Sweet carrot and lavender tingled in the mix, along with the subtle warmth of Kaizo’s presence—comfort, but also a warning. You’re not leaving my sight right now.

BoBoiBoy noticed immediately. His cinnamon-and-sunlight scent flared in low, simmering warning. Another Alpha stepping between him and his Omega? Unacceptable.

But a hallway showdown wasn’t the place for a third full-blown Alpha clash—not with the Betas hovering like excited sparks waiting to ignite the chaos.

So BoBoiBoy settled on a slow, smoldering glare instead, one that could have set alarms off, melted metal, or at least made Kaizo reconsider the wisdom of standing that close.

Kaizo met the challenge with unflinching intensity, his own scent—iron, cedar, jasmine—pressing into the space, mingling with his authority. The silent standoff was almost tangible, and Fang’s Omega instincts hummed along, confused and slightly scandalized at how naturally he found himself caught in the crossfire.

Meanwhile, the Betas were in full speculative overdrive. Sai leaned toward Gopal, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ohhh, look at them! This is a full-on Alpha face-off. I’ll take bets on how long it takes before the two fight again.” Burnt paper and dry sand drifted faintly from him like an olfactory exclamation point.

Gopal snorted, the scent of cocoa and roasted peanuts mixing with Sai’s. “BoBoiBoy’s glare is basically a flare, but Fang… he’s twitching. Totally giving in to the Alpha vibe, I’m calling it.”

Shielda leaned forward, spark-granite scent tangling with the rest of the corridor’s chaos. “Captain Kaizo is so serious, you can smell it. Alpha authority is dripping off him like it’s his job.”

Yaya giggled, vanilla and honey swirling around her. “Do you think BoBoiBoy even realizes how deep he’s in? Look at him—he’s burning for our dear Omega.”

Lahap, ever the unwilling participant in chaos, muttered, “I’m going to need a new nose after this.” Charred oak and leather followed him down the corridor like a warning.

Fang’s heart fluttered despite his best efforts at indignation. He might have been leaning just slightly into Kaizo’s shoulder, but his Omega instincts were quietly purring approval.

Meanwhile, BoBoiBoy’s scent—sharp cinnamon, sunlight, faint tinge of nervous adrenaline—pressed on him, protective and possessive in ways Fang wasn’t ready to admit.

“Shh, watch,” Ying whispered, steel and crisp mint scent slicing subtly through the tension. “It’s like watching two lions over a particularly delicious bunny.”

“FANG IS THE BUNNY,” Sai hissed, barely holding back a laugh.

Fang shot him a glare, but his lips betrayed him, twitching upward despite his best efforts. BoBoiBoy noticed immediately, scent flaring with a faint possessive spike.

The Alpha’s protective instincts hummed low, almost comforting, even if Fang’s embarrassment was boiling over internally.

Shielda, still smirking, whispered to the group, “If they survive this hallway without either of them killing each other, I say Captain will be the one to kidnap Fang first.”

Snickers and quiet laughter echoed as the packs finally reached Commander Kokoci’s office, trailing a perfectly chaotic blend of Alpha dominance, Omega surrender, and Beta mischief.

BoBoiBoy exhaled slowly, glare softening just enough to acknowledge there was no way he could intervene without creating a scene that would startle Fang and earn himself a real punch to the face this time.

At the same time, Fang leaned a fraction closer to Kaizo’s hand, tiny bursts of relief and warmth threading through the embarrassment.

Sai muttered under his breath, the amusement in his scent drifting in waves, “Popcorn might be mandatory for this next part.”

Shielda snorted. “Definitely. Front-row seats for the Alphas showdown, and an Omega caught in the middle. Can’t wait.”

And as the two packs moved toward the Commander’s office, the hallway behind them buzzed with lingering tension, mischief, and the intoxicating scent of chaotic social instincts—every step a dance of authority, comfort, and hidden amusement.

The double doors of Commander Kokoci’s office slid open with that familiar soft mechanical hum that always seemed to announce doom dressed as bureaucracy. The two packs filed in, boots clicking sharply against the polished floor, each step carrying a subtle rhythm of tension and excitement.

The air was immediately saturated with the chaotic symphony of TAPOPS scents: Kaizo’s iron, jasmine, and cedarwood anchored the room; BoBoiBoy’s sunlight-and-cinnamon scent flared with restless energy; Fang’s sweet carrot-and-lavender essence wove a quiet calm through the storm; Lahap’s charred oak and dark leather declared frustration before a word was spoken; and the betas trailed their layered chaos like a mischievous, olfactory fog—cocoa and roasted peanuts, vanilla and honey, steel and crisp mint, sparkling granite-dust, and burnt paper mixed with sand-dry air.

It was like stepping into a living, breathing orchestra: a little off-key, utterly chaotic, but somehow, impossibly perfect.

Admiral Tarung and Commander Kokoci stood at the far end of the office, statuesque and rigid, radiating authority that pressed down like gravity. Even the most seasoned Alphas felt their presence in the pit of their stomachs, a silent warning that this was no place for antics… at least not until someone dared push the limits.

The packs snapped to attention, the sound of synchronized movement echoing sharply off the walls. Alpha tension surged, Omega instincts hummed beneath the surface, and Beta mischief practically sparkled in the air.

“At ease,” Commander Kokoci said, the ozone-grey stone scent in his voice cutting through the room like a low, brewing storm. “I won't beat around the bush, the two packs will be deployed to—”

But before he could finish, chaos detonated.

“Wait! Wait, no, hold up!” Sai squeaked, bouncing on his heels with arms flailing like a hyperactive windmill. His burnt-paper-and-dry-sand scent practically crackled with protest and panic.

“Absolutely not!” Shielda’s voice rang like steel striking metal, sharp and inflexible. Sparks of granite dust practically danced around her in indignation.

“You can't do that! We deserve a vacation!” Gopal barked, his cocoa-and-peanut scent puffing out in agitation.

“And Fang is still under medical leave!” BoBoiBoy’s sunlight-and-cinnamon spikes of frustration cut through the room like warning flares. Protective, insistent, impossible to ignore.

Kaizo’s hand rested on Fang’s back, steady and grounding. The Alpha’s iron, jasmine, and cedarwood mixed into a stabilizing aura that showed his silent displeasure.

Fang, for his part, had no problem with the deployment itself, thinking it's high time he returned to the field; his lavender and carrot scent mingled quietly with the calm of acceptance. The outburst of his packmates was amusing, though. His lavender-and-carrot scent radiated that amusement as he watched his family explode into chaos over his “safety.”

“ENOUGH,” Admiral Tarung’s single word thundered through the room. The Beta protests evaporated instantly, the sharp intake of collective breath vibrating through everyone’s bones.

Even the Alphas stiffened under the oppressive weight of his commanding presence. Fire and blood scents of dominance layered the air, Alpha tension tangible enough to make anyone’s hair stand on end.

“Let me finish,” Kokoci’s voice added, firm, annoyed, ozone-grey, edge sharp. “Before you continue your… chorus of objections.”

The room froze entirely. Even Sai’s flailing arms hung mid-air, Shielda’s sparks dimmed in suspense, and Gopal looked like he might melt into the floor.

“You will be deployed tomorrow morning,” Kokoci continued, tone clipped, practical, like someone detailing a list of chores rather than announcing a mission. “Your destination will be Earth. You will oversee the near-complete construction of TAPOPS HQ under Tok Aba’s shop for the next 2 weeks. Consider it… a mission and a vacation.”

For a heartbeat, stunned silence reigned. Then the room erupted. Laughter, whoops, teasing whispers, and the sudden rush of Beta chaos filled every corner, layering over Alpha scent and Omega calm like whipped cream over espresso.

BoBoiBoy practically glowed, sunlight-and-cinnamon flaring as he was already plotting in his head ways to wrangle Fang into their real first date during this mission/vacation. Fang’s lavender-and-carrot scent tickled with warmth and amusement, leaning just slightly into Kaizo’s jasmine-and-cedarwood anchor, a private smile exchanged between the brothers at the cheers.

But the fun was only beginning. Kokoci’s raised hand snapped everyone to silence with the authority of a hammer striking steel.

“But first,” he said, voice like gravel sliding across metal, “Cadet BoBoiBoy and Captain Kaizo will provide reports on the Vexen warship incident. Additionally, one remaining member of the two packs will report on the events on Earth after Captain Kaizo, Cadet BoBoiBoy, Private Pang, and Dr. Vexen vanished to the warship, while the rest will later file written reports, which were delayed due to the internal attack on TAPOPS HQ caused by Vexen.”

Kaizo and BoBoiBoy nodded solemnly, their scents tightening with gravity, serious and undeniable even amid the lingering excitement.

Before Admiral Tarung could decree which unfortunate soul would stay behind, Sai and Gopal exchanged mischievous glances, their scents practically sparking. Without warning, they lunged at Lahap and started pushing him forward with a dramatic, almost theatrical force.

“Your turn, Alpha!” Sai hissed, eyes alight with barely-contained glee.

“Step up!” Gopal added, practically bouncing in anticipation, cocoa-and-peanut, burnt-paper-and-sand blending into a chaotic cheer.

Lahap stumbled, arms flailing, leather and charred oak scent spiking in sharp bursts. “WAIT! WAIT, NO, SERIOUSLY! I AM NOT—I CAN’T—YOU TWO ARE—THIS IS—HOW—DO YOU EXPECT ME TO—WHAT ARE YOU THINKING!”

His words tumbled out like a barrage of popcorn kernels, punctuated by dramatic gasps, muttered curses, and intermittent groans. “YOU CAN’T JUST PUSH ME FORWARD LIKE THIS! I AM AN ALPHA! I HAVE RESPONSIBILITIES! I HAVE—HEY, YOU TWO, I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR—I MEAN, REALLY! THIS IS UNFAIR! I—UGH!”

Sai and Gopal grinned wider as they continued to push him forward, one beta on either side, laughter practically vibrating in the air like an electric current.

Ying, Yaya, and Shielda caught on immediately. Their steel-and-mint, vanilla-and-honey, and sparkling granite-dust scents mingled in amusement as they elegantly dismissed themselves from the task, dragging Fang along in one smooth, fluid motion. The Omega’s lavender-and-carrot scent spiked with confusion and protest.

“Wait! What—no, seriously—stop dragging me!” Fang’s voice trembled between exasperation and bewilderment.

“Sorry, Fang, but we’re not letting you stay behind,” Shielda whispered, tugging him gently yet firmly, the scent of sparkling granite-dust wrapping him in a teasingly protective bubble.

Lahap’s protests continued like gunfire, voice carrying his charred oak and dark leather scent in sharp bursts of frustration. “STOP! I SWEAR I WILL—DON’T YOU DARE!” he shouted, voice cracking halfway through a lungful of air, charred oak and leather spikes shooting out in every direction. “I HAVE HONOR! I HAVE DIGNITY! THIS IS—UGH, BETAS! YOU ARE THE DEFINITION OF CHAOS!”

Fang’s confusion was tempered by the slight leaning into Kaizo he’d done earlier, lingering with the Alpha’s scent and touch. It was a gentle warmth against his nerves, a reminder that he was not alone, that even in the chaos, his two packs were looking out for him. BoBoiBoy’s scent flickered in amusement at Fang’s silent surrender to the subtle affection.

The packs, minus their Alphas, left the office in a swirl of teasing, laughter, and interwoven scents. Fang’s lavender-and-carrot scent blended with the betas’ playful fragrances as they drifted down the hallway, a living tapestry of TAPOPS energy in motion.

And somewhere behind them, Kaizo and BoBoiBoy exchanged brief glances, understanding without words that this vacation-mission might finally allow them to catch a breath—and maybe, just maybe, for Fang to let himself enjoy it too.

The distant echo of Lahap’s continued muttering and the Betas’ gleeful cackling promised only one thing: TAPOPS was never, ever boring. Sunlight, iron, lavender, and chaos were on the move, and the adventure was just beginning.

Shielda, Ying, and Yaya didn’t so much escort Fang to the Rebel pack’s ship as they paraded him like a captured cryptid they found in the wild. Fang’s toes barely grazed the floor—sometimes not at all—as the three betas carried him by the arms, shoulders, jacket collar, or whatever was closest.

To anyone watching, it looked like a trio of cheerful smugglers abducting a very confused, mildly offended Omega.

“I CAN WALK, YOU KNOW!” Fang barked, kicking uselessly in mid-air.

“We know,” Shielda replied, her granite-dust scent glittering with smug affection. “We simply don’t trust you with your own health anymore.”

“I can take care of myself just fine,” Fang growled.

“No, you can't,” Ying reported, tone flat enough to iron clothing.

Fang opened his mouth to argue—right as Sai and Gopal sprinted into the hallway behind them like two hyenas escaping a zoo. They were half bent over, hands on their knees, gasping between wheezes of laughter.

“HAVE YOU—HAVE YOU HEARD—LAHAP—OH MY GOD—” Sai wheezed, collapsing against the wall. “He screamed so loud the security sensors thought someone triggered a plasma bomb!”

“He sounded like a steamed bao bun coming to life!!” Gopal howled. “A STEAMED BAO BUN WITH FEELINGS!”

Shielda nodded solemnly. “A steamed bao bun in emotional crisis.”

Fang attempted dignity.

Failed spectacularly.

By the time they reached the Rebel pack’s personal ship, Fang’s emotions were a simmering stew of resignation, mortification, and desperate longing for the floor to swallow him whole.

The moment the doors opened, he froze.

There it was.

The nest.

The colossal, multi-layered, over-fluffed, absolutely absurd nest. A monument of blankets, pillows, jackets, plushies, heated pads, and the occasional suspiciously fluffy towel—formed by two packs who’d panicked, united, and built something even their ancestors would disapprove of.

Fang inhaled sharply. Five betas instinctively froze.

Then—

Fang spun on his heel, lavender scent puffing like an offended cloud. “ABSOLUTELY NOT. No. No, no, no. If you’re going to force me into nests like some feral woodland creature, YOU NEED TO AT LEAST KNOW HOW TO DO IT RIGHT.”

Five betas blinked, processing what was happening.

Then five betas glowed like Christmas lights attached to an electrical surge.

Gopal gasped. “YOU’RE—YOU’RE GONNA TEACH US??? HOW TO NEST???”

Yaya squealed. “I’ve been WAITING FOR THIS MOMENT MY ENTIRE LIFE.”

Sai saluted. “Omega nesting training—BEGIN.”

Shielda grinned. “Lead us, Teacher.”

Ying simply stood ready, scent sharp and focused, like she’d been training for this moment her entire life.

Fang groaned in defeat. “Fine. First rule: STOP building it like a collapsing Jenga tower.”

“That was Lahap,” Gopal said instantly.

Sai pointed aggressively. “IT WAS.”

“It was,” Ying confirmed.

Shielda nodded. “One hundred percent Lahap.”

Chaos ensued. Blankets flew. Pillows were reordered into a hierarchy system nobody agreed on.

Yaya had to be prevented twice from adding glitter.

Fang confiscated three laser blasters because, “No, Shielda, this is a nest, not a tactical compression bunker.”

Long-suffering Omega huffs filled the air as Fang reorganized layers with surgical precision—soft fabrics on top, textured warmth below, heat pads evenly distributed, plushies arranged in comforting clusters, scent-soakers placed for maximum soothing effect.

Ying followed directions as if she were defusing a bomb.

Fang blinked at her in awe. “How are you so good at this?”

“I listen,” she replied simply.

Fang’s Omega bristled—unwilling to show approval, yet undeniably impressed. His shoulders sank a little, tension easing despite his best attempts to stay indignant. He hated how his instincts reacted to a well-executed nest: the quiet hum beneath his sternum, the subtle warming in his scent, the part of him that whispered this is safe.

And unfortunately for his dignity, the nest was smelling like his packs—warm, steady, grounding. His Omega gave a pleased little flutter.

Absolutely shameful.

He cleared his throat loudly, trying to smother the instinctive trill rising in his chest. “A-Anyway. Rule two: layering. Proper layering. That thing you five attempted was… an architectural war crime.”

Five betas nodded with grave seriousness.

Sai straightened. “Explain, Teacher.”

“Stop calling me that,” Fang hissed—then pointed sharply. “First, we separate by purpose. Comfort layer, warmth layer, structural layer—GOPAL IF YOU THROW ANOTHER PILLOW LIKE THAT I SWEAR—”

“It was slipping!” Gopal squeaked.

“It was not slipping,” Fang snapped. “You yeeted it.”

The pillow in question had, in fact, flown with alarming speed past Ying’s face. She didn’t even blink. She simply adjusted the next blanket with clockwork precision, following Fang’s instructions like she’d downloaded a nesting manual directly into her brain.

It made something warm flicker in Fang’s chest.

He ignored it.

“Heat pads—” Fang plucked one from Shielda’s hands “—are not weapons.”

“In my defense,” Shielda said, “they’re large, rectangular, and throwable.”

“NO.” Fang shoved it gently onto the correct pile. “Warmth layer. Middle. Never top.”

Yaya raised her hand. “Can I add sparkles now?”

“NO.”

The refusal was so immediate and unified that even Yaya stepped back.

Fang climbed halfway into the collapsing mess of blankets to reorganize from the center outward, muttering under his breath about “oversized children with no survival instincts.”

His Omega, however, was traitorous to the bitter end—thrumming with satisfaction as he pressed softened fabrics into place, scenting the air with a faint lavender-and-carrots note he couldn’t fully control.

The betas noticed.

Oh, they noticed.

Their scents warmed, cushioned, softened—instinctively encouraging, instinctively supportive. The pack dynamic shifted subtly, settling around Fang like a protective circle even though none of them touched him.

Fang’s ears heated violently.

“Stop that,” he grumbled without looking up.

“Stop what?” Yaya asked innocently.

“Your scents. They’re— they’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?” Gopal tilted his head.

“The— the pack thing!”

Sai perked. “Is that… bad?”

“It’s embarrassing!”

Shielda snorted. “So… normal Omega reaction?”

Fang made a strangled noise and shoved a pillow at her face.

But the nest was coming together—beautifully, actually. Soft fleece on top. A stable base underneath. Heat was distributed evenly. Plushies positioned like comforting sentries. Scented blankets and pillows placed with maddening care.

And Fang’s Omega, despite himself, purred.

Very quietly.

A tiny sound.

Barely audible.

But the betas heard it.

All five froze.

Slowly, they turned toward him, eyes wide and dangerously close to sparkling.

Ying whispered reverently, “He purred.”

“I DID NOT—!” Fang yelped, flushing hard enough to warm the entire room. “NO ONE HEARD ANYTHING—NOW MOVE THE PLUSH DRAGON SIX INCHES TO THE LEFT BEFORE I JUMP OUT THE AIRLOCK.”

And the betas scrambled, suddenly the most obedient pack the galaxy had ever seen.

That was when Gopal, Ying, and Yaya exchanged looks, smirking.

Then they enacted Phase Two of Operation: Keep Fang Resting At All Costs.

Gopal popped upright like a jack-in-the-box. “SNACK TIME! Who wants snacks?!?”

"ME!" Every beta answered simultaneously.

Fang sighed. “You JUST ate breakfast.”

“Yes,” Sai said gravely. “And now we require more.”

Gopal clapped. “Requests?”

A flurry of snack names erupted through the room.

Then Gopal turned to Fang with the most smug grin an Omega had ever been victimized by.

“And YOU, precious Omega? What would you like?”

“I’m not—”

“Carrot Crunch Spiral Bites!” Gopal declared triumphantly.

Fang’s jaw clenched. “I just said—”

“I know what you really want,” Gopal said darkly, as if he’d studied Fang’s soul, then marched to the kitchen area.

Yaya and Ying pounced.

“We should do something fun!” Yaya chirped. “Games, movies, anything distracting!”

“We can do a card game,” Ying suggested. “Preferably one that emotionally destroys Sai.”

“I LIKE THE LAST ONE,” Shielda declared without hesitation.

Sai placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me—”

Ying stared. “Not yet.”

Fang tried for sanity. “Guys—we need to write our reports for Commander Kokoci and Admiral Tarung.”

“Wrong,” Yaya said.

“Incorrect,” Ying added.

“No,” Shielda deadpanned.

“Denied,” Sai chimed.

“This is now time to start our break,” Gopal called from the kitchenette. “I will throw away the carrots if anyone disobeys.”

Everyone gasped. That threat was illegal in the presence of one of the carrot siblings.

Fang blinked at them all, surrounded by five determined scents—iron-warmth, mint-steel, granite-dust, citrus-electric, and sweet caramel-smoke—all radiating protective Beta instinct so intense it could knock over an Alpha.

Then Yaya used her gravity manipulation to gently but firmly shove him into the nest.

He fell backward with a surprised squeak.

The nest swallowed him in immediate warmth.

Five betas jumped in after him like affectionate wolves claiming their Omega, surrounding him in a fortress of warmth, scent, and smug triumph.

Sai flopped beside him. “See? THIS is pack bonding.”

Shielda nodded. “And Omega enrichment.”

Gopal shouted from the kitchen, “AND CARROT ENCOURAGEMENT.”

Fang buried his burning face into a pillow and cursed the universe.

The nest seemed to inhale him. Fang’s ears twitched, nostrils flaring involuntarily as the swirl of Beta scents hit him like a tidal wave: Shielda’s sparkling granite-dust, sharp and playful; Sai’s burnt-paper-and-sand, mischievous and teasing; Gopal’s cocoa-and-peanut mix, warm and encouraging; Yaya’s vanilla-and-honey, soft and comforting; and Ying’s steel-and-mint, precise and subtly commanding.

His Omega instincts twitched, part of him (his pride) wanting to flee in embarrassment, part of him (his Omega) wanting to sink in and stay, utterly undone by the protective, adoring swarm around him.

“I—this—no!” Fang gasped, wriggling, only to find Shielda draping a blanket over him like a living tent.

The scent-soaked fabric clung to him, absorbing some of the tension he didn’t even know he carried, and he immediately hated it.

And yet, a shiver of contentment betrayed him.

Sai grinned, plopping down beside him. “Omega officially secured. Alpha-level protocols for pack bonding engaged.”

“Do you even know what you just said?” Fang wheezed, trying to wiggle free.

But with Yaya draping herself on one side and Gopal on the other, the nest now resembled a five-pointed star of Beta chaos radiating control.

Fang’s Lavender-and-carrot scent mixed turbulently with theirs, setting off an instinctive response he could not name, let alone suppress.

Gopal’s voice boomed triumphantly from the kitchenette. “CARROT CRUNCH SPIRAL BITES ARE IN PRODUCTION! NO PROTESTS ACCEPTED!”

The aroma of roasting carrots, a hint of cinnamon, and melted chocolate swirled through the common area, and Fang’s Omega instincts twitched.

He squirmed, sniffing anxiously, because yes—he wasn't really hungry, but he was also the Omega, and his body wanted to rest after the chaos he's been through.

“Fang,” Yaya cooed, leaning in, “you’re allowed to rest. This is literally a mandatory Omega rest session.” She pressed a soft hand to his shoulder.

Her scent was warm, protective, wrapping around him like a honeyed shield. His chest involuntarily lifted in response.

“I’m NOT—“ Fang began, voice cracking halfway through, but Shielda interrupted with a teasing laugh and a gentle nudge of her granite-dust-scented elbow against his ribs.

“You are. We know it,” she said. “Pack instincts don’t lie.”

He froze. Yes. They did not lie. The thought made him curl in on himself instinctively, seeking the tiny blanket haven they’d built.

It was humiliating. It was comforting. It was… entirely him. And the best part? He didn’t get to choose.

Sai flopped his head against Fang’s shoulder. “See? This is the best part. I get to supervise your rest, which is… officially part of pack bonding. Rules are rules.”

His burnt-paper-and-sand scent drifted lazily over Fang’s head, teasing, mischievous, and just the tiniest bit brotherly affectionate.

Ying, the usual stone-cold Beta, knelt meticulously at the edge of the nest, fluffing a blanket corner with precision.

Her steel-and-mint scent cut sharply into the warmth of the surrounding Betas, enforcing a subtle order that only an Omega could recognize subconsciously.

Fang’s Omega senses twitched—Ying was good, better than anyone else at following his directives perfectly, and he felt that traitorous little purr rise in his chest again.

He promptly buried his face in a pillow to hide it.

“Gopal! Are they done yet?” Fang croaked, but Gopal’s booming laughter was already in motion.

“Never done,” Gopal called, waving a whisk dramatically in the air. “And snacks are almost ready, Omega! No objections allowed—your pack has spoken, and the carrots have been mandated.”

His cocoa-and-peanut scent wafted like a warm, heady cloak, pressing against Fang’s own lavender layers, mixing the scents in a way that made his chest tight in all the wrong and right ways simultaneously.

Yaya and Ying were now leaning over him conspiratorially, plotting future fun, whispering about card games, movies, and ridiculous challenges specifically designed to test Sai’s dignity.

Fang tried to object, tried to remind them of the reports they needed to write, but Shielda had already looped an arm on the Omega's back.

Her scent enveloped him, warm and assertive, and with the Omega instincts of safety, care, and belonging kicking in, his protests became little more than muffled squeaks.

Fang’s arms flailed, yet the nest, reinforced by precise pillow placement and blanket layering, held him securely.

Sai looped an arm around his shoulder, Yaya’s warm vanilla-and-honey scent pressed into his chest, Gopal hovered with carrot treats at the ready, and Ying’s steely focus ensured no blanket corner would collapse.

The Omega mind raced. Part of him(his pride) wanted to escape, the other part(his instincts) of him wanted to melt completely into this fortress of care.

And when the first batch of Carrot Crunch Spiral Bites arrived, steaming and sweet, Fang sighed, utterly defeated.

He reached for one with the smallest, most undignified groan, leaving him. Sai’s eyebrow rose, Shielda grinned knowingly, Yaya’s eyes sparkled, and Ying… well, Ying just nodded, perfectly satisfied.

Fang buried his face again into the nest, surrendering completely. The five Betas settled around him like a living shield, their scents and movements syncing seamlessly with his Omega instincts, forming a chaotic, affectionate, protective cocoon.

And somewhere deep in the corner of his mind, Fang knew—he would never get used to being spoiled like this. But, secretly, he didn’t want to.

So Fang let himself breathe. His Omega instincts twitched in relief, in part from the comfort, in part from the simple knowledge that he was being cared for without conditions, without questions, without expectations beyond simple, chaotic love.

The betas didn’t speak at first. They merely watched him, each one exhaling small, unnoticed breaths, their scents mingling in quiet, protective harmony.

And in that quiet, they felt it—the tiny, creeping relief for their worry they had worked so hard to hide behind jokes, teasing, and endless banter.

Sai’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly, while Shielda’s grin softened, her eyes lingering a fraction longer on Fang’s tucked hands. 'He's going to be okay.'

Yaya’s fingers twitched as she smoothed a blanket over him. 'No one will ever let him be hurt again.'

Gopal’s peanut warmth hovered like a shield. 'We actually did it.'

Even Ying—sharp, analytical, normally so precise and controlled—felt a flicker of emotional release in her chest. Her mint scent softened slightly, blending with the others.

The moment stretched, and then, without warning, memories erupted like sparks in each of their minds, a joint flashback that all five shared instinctively, their senses linking in Beta synchronicity, thankfully hidden from Fang.

The first memory struck like a whip. Commander Kokoci’s office. Cold stone, ozone scent with Blood, fire scent, and the sterile chill of authority pressing down.

The betas had been standing stiff, trying to appear composed while Captain Kaizo stood in front of them like a sentinel, shield raised, glaring at the wall.

They hadn’t understood then—hadn’t wanted to believe it—but Tarung and Kokoci’s voices had been sharp, deliberate: Fang had been drugged for nearly five months.

The drug hadn’t just dulled the Omega; it had drowned him, muting the bright, confident Fang they had known, making their pack Omega think he was a burden.

The physical exhaustion, the mental torment, and the terrifying helplessness—the weight of it had been staggering.

Kaizo’s shielded stance had been his attempt to keep the secrecy contained, yet his glare had been sharp, almost accusing—was it at himself for missing the signs? Or at the scientists who did this? The betas couldn’t tell then.

All they could do was listen to the explanation, feeling powerless to do anything but follow orders.

BoBoiBoy and Fang had left for Earth shortly after that meeting, and the others couldn't bid them farewell, leaving the Betas with panic-stricken uncertainty and the lingering, nagging guilt that they had failed their Omega.

The second memory followed immediately, as if the universe had demanded that the betas never forget.

Vexen’s warship.

The sudden, suffocating terror as the ship reappeared in TAPOPS’ docking bay with Fang—small, trembling, unconscious—was in Duri's arms.

The collars still pressed metal needles into the base of his skull, and the faint smoke of the lingering toxins stung the Betas’ nostrils. But the worst of it all was the blood that slowly dripped from Fang's neck.

Kaizo had sprinted ahead, every Alpha instinct on red alert, eyes scanning, teeth gritted. The sight had been incomprehensible: their steadfast, unshakeable Alpha—terrified.

BoBoiBoy refused to leave Fang, glaring at anyone who dared intervene. Kaizo barked orders for the medics, the sheer panic in his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Fang’s small body in BoBoiBoy’s arms, collar still embedded, the Omega utterly broken—physically, mentally, emotionally—had left the Betas paralyzed.

Never had they seen Captain Kaizo, the Legendary Rebel, look so utterly human, so powerless, so shattered.

And yet, in that raw fear, there was a strange, unspoken beauty. The Alphas’ terror had been borne of care, love, and responsibility.

BoBoiBoy’s refusal to leave had been love in motion. Kaizo’s shaking hands, rigid stance, and angry growls had been devotion personified.

Back in the present, Fang’s quiet, half-flopped position in the nest brought all five betas back from the depths of memory.

Their shared scent-mix now carried relief, and unspoken promises—threads of protection, care, and chaotic love.

Sai, usually so brash and teasing, let a small exhale escape him as he nuzzled against Fang’s shoulder.

Shielda’s grin softened into something maternal, unguarded, and her hand stayed just above his back.

Gopal hovered, carrot treats momentarily forgotten, simply basking in the warmth of the Omega’s safe presence.

Yaya nestled close to Fang's side, steadying him with calm purpose, while Ying adjusted a blanket corner over him, her eyes softened with approval and quiet pride.

Fang, oblivious to the full weight of their shared relief, snuggled further into the nest.

Lavender and carrot scents mingled with the protective chaos around him, and the Omega allowed himself to feel completely, utterly, and unapologetically cared for.

The nest wasn’t just comfort anymore—it was a fortress, a sanctuary, a monument to the pack’s devotion.

And the five betas, watching their Omega breathe, rest, and silently vowed: nothing, no force in the galaxy, would ever threaten him again.

And in the quiet hum of the Rebel ship, the five betas and their surrendered Omega remained in that bubble of chaos and care, letting the scents mingle, the warmth settle, and the bonds grow stronger in the aftermath of trauma—laughter and snacks, care and mischief, wrapping Fang completely in the packs he had always belonged to.

Later, In Commander Kokoci's Office

Commander Kokoci’s office looked less like a workplace and more like a bureaucratic warzone that had lost the war weeks ago and was still pretending it hadn’t.

Datapads leaned in unstable stacks against walls. Files were scattered across the desk in what Kokoci optimistically called “organized chaos” and what everyone else simply called a cry for help. A mug of something brown and questionable sat beside his elbow, radiating the hopeless scent of caffeine that had given up.

Kaizo, BoBoiBoy, and Lahap stood at attention—not by discipline, but because sitting would give Kokoci an excuse to make them keep talking.

They had just finished giving their reports.

Or, more accurately, performing three different genres of psychological torture.

BoBoiBoy's anxious rambling. Lahap's exhausted melodrama. Kaizo’s disturbingly calm I am two seconds from homicide tone.

Tarung massaged his temples in small, pained circles. His Alpha scent now carried a faint note of Please let me retire early.

Kokoci sagged in his chair, his Beta scent thinned with overworked resignation and the unmistakable tang of I need a vacation.

“So,” Tarung said, as if trying to piece together a mystery with missing pages, “none of the damage that happened in Vexen's ship and on Earth was your fault?”

Kaizo nodded with perfect confidence. “Correct.”

BoBoiBoy raised a hand weakly. “Define ‘fault.’ Hypothetically.”

Lahap drooped. “I apologized for breathing too loudly, sir.”

Kokoci inhaled sharply. Regretted it. Exhaled like he was deflating.

He opened his mouth—

The doors slide open with enough force to make the walls tremble.

All four Alphas and one Beta in the room instinctively straightened—hackles raised, shoulders tense, pheromones shifting. Kokoci nearly threw his datapad. Tarung’s hand went to his belt like he expected an attack. BoBoiBoy jumped a full inch into the air.

Pian—Admiral Maskmana, living nightmare, Alpha with a reputation feared across multiple galaxies—strode in with murder in his eyes and frost in his voice.

Coffee with cardamom. Warm leather. Alpha fury sharpened into a blade.

The scent hit the room first, thick and commanding, sweeping every instinct into instant alert. Even Kaizo took half a step back—quietly, carefully—because Pian’s Alpha presence could make a solar flare reconsider its life choices.

“You incompetent, empty-brained, system-clogging IMBECILES—”

Kokoci’s Beta scent flooded the room with panicked, frantic submission. Tarung, who once punched a meteor, genuinely blanched.

Pian didn’t care. Pian never cared when he was angry.

Behind Pian came Admiral MechAmato—fused with Mechabot, the heavy hum of machinery echoing through the floor. His scent carried warm cedar mixed with electric ozone, grounding and stormy at once.

BoBoiBoy stopped breathing.

Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Just—stopped. His breath hitched. His heart stuttered. 'Ayah…?'

He went rigid, every Alpha instinct torn between wanting to bolt, wanting to snarl, wanting to collapse. His heartbeat pounded through the room like a distress signal.

Five years.

Five years of silence.

Five years without a father at his back.

And now the said father was standing in Commander Kokoci’s office as if he hadn’t disappeared at all.

Pian was too busy eviscerating Kokoci and Tarung to notice his nephew's distress.

“For SIX MONTHS I have been on a rotating nightmare of a mission with THIS IDIOT—” he pointed behind him without looking, Amato winced, “—and finally, FINALLY, we come back to the station so I can have ONE DAY to relax—AND WHAT DO I FIND?”

Kaizo inched toward the side wall. Lahap followed.

BoBoiBoy stayed frozen, eyes huge and glassy, staring at Amato as if the man might vanish again.

Pian continued, voice glacial, “I find out that in the last FIVE MONTHS—LITERALLY FIFTY-ONE HOURS AGO—the station was infiltrated and internally attacked, two casualties, most of our agents received injuries going beyond physical, Fang was kidnapped, injured, COLLARED, AND DRUGGED. AND SOMEHOW NONE OF YOU THOUGHT TO INFORM ME?!?”

Kokoci cleared his throat. “It was, ah… classified—”

“CLASSIFIED?!” Pian barked. “So is my BLOOD PRESSURE, and yet HERE WE ARE.”

Tarung massaged his temples. “Maskm—”

“No. Don’t ‘Maskmana’ me.” He pointed accusingly at both of them. “You two deserve to be thrown into an unmapped wormhole, and I will GLADLY VOLUNTEER TO PUSH.”

Amato stood behind Pian, looking at his best friend with an expression halfway between fond exasperation and help me restrain this man before he commits a felony.

Kaizo tried a subtle sideways shuffle toward the door. He moved with the grace of a guilty housecat trying not to be seen. He almost made it.

Before Pian slowly, slowly turned. His gaze landed on Kaizo first. On the bruises across his jaw. The bandages that were hidden under his uniform collar. The faint tremor in his left side.

Then Pian noticed Lahap—awkward, fidgeting, looking like he wanted to dissolve into the floor. The purple alien had a few bandages of his own and a black eye that looked like it had been personally sculpted by the universe to be dramatic.

Then Pian saw BoBoiBoy properly; the young Alpha had a few bruises and cuts with bandages on his face and arms, along with a swollen shoulder.

His pack instinct shifted instantly. Predatory fury evaporated. Replaced by horrified concern.

Amato followed his friend's line of sight and froze, staring at his pup like he was seeing a ghost of the past five years, broken and bleeding right in front of him.

“Kaizo.” Pian’s voice cracked like an axe. “What. Happened.”

Kaizo froze mid-step, guilty in every line of his body. “Admiral Maskmana—sir—I was just—uh—going to check on something—”

“No.” Pian stepped toward him. “You’re injured.”

Kaizo froze mid-step, spine going straight, expression settling into one that said: If I don’t move, maybe the predator won’t see me. His Alpha instincts screamed retreat, evade, hide, but Pian’s were older, stronger, and furious.

“Why do you look like you fought a plasma tornado?” Pian demanded.

Kaizo’s pupils tightened. He tried to stand at attention. Tried to hide the shake in his stance. “It was—situational complications—”

“BULLSHIT.”

Lahap yelped. BoBoiBoy flinched but still didn’t move.

Pian stalked forward, the temperature rising with every step. “WHY are you injured? WHY-WAS-I-NOT-INFORMED? WHO LET THIS HAPPEN? WHO LITERALLY FAILED AT THEIR ONLY JOB?”

Tarung exhaled, preparing to speak.

Pian’s head snapped toward him. “Shut up! Every time you open your mouth, I age ten years.”

Kokoci blinked.

Pian pointed at him. “And you—sit. Don’t breathe aggressively.”

Kokoci—already sitting—shrank into his chair like a scolded puppy. His Beta scent flattened into pure terrified obedience.

Pian turned to the trio again.

Pian’s scent shifted—sharp fury softening under a thick layer of instinctive protectiveness. His Alpha instincts blazed hotter, fuller, heavier. It wasn’t just anger. It was care. Territorial. Pack-driven.

The kind he’d never admit he felt. Especially not toward Kaizo. Or Fang. Or anyone really.

But he cared. Too much. More than he felt comfortable with.

Kaizo might as well have “my idiot child” stamped on his forehead.

Who did this? his instincts snarled. Who touched my pups? Who hurt what’s mine?

“Who,” Pian growled, “did this?”

Silence slammed through the room. Not the peaceful kind—this was the we-are-all-going-to-die kind.

BoBoiBoy’s scent spiked—heartbreak, anger, confusion, longing—so sharp it crackled in the air like a lightning storm.

Amato inhaled sharply, guilt thickening the ozone around him. “BoBoiBoy…” he said softly.

BoBoiBoy flinched. “Why are you back now?” His voice broke. “Ayah…”

Everything froze.

Kaizo stopped breathing. His mind short-circuited. 'Ayah? Ayah? Admiral MechAmato?' His hero—his silent idol—was a father? And no one knew? His brain spiraled with the knowledge that he had beaten up his idol's son at least four times now. Two when they first met, and the other two in just the past five days.

Lahap nearly passed out. 'I knew he was scary, but he made a whole secret pup?!' His soul left his body and refused to return. Admiral Tarung blinked once, twice, then stared at Amato like he had just discovered a black hole operating without a license. Of all the things he expected to find out in this hellish day, parenthood was not one of them.

Commander Kokoci silently screamed. 'Paperwork. There will be paperwork. Unknown dependents. Heritage protocols. LINEAGE FILES.' He silently planned to fake his death.

Amato’s breath hitched. His scent wavered. Pian didn’t look at him, but his stance radiated pure threat. If you mess this up, I will break the universe over your head.

The tension was a living thing—heavy, raw, impossible to ignore—as father and son stared at each other, the truth finally uncaged.

Pian turned back to Kaizo. “You,” Pian said, stepping closer, “look like you dove into a trash compactor during rush hour.”

Kaizo cleared his throat. “It was only partly—”

“Do you hear yourself?”

Kaizo closed his mouth.

Pian’s scent flared again—coffee, cardamom, leather, Alpha dominance, and a warmth he tried desperately to smother.

The room held its breath.

BoBoiBoy was trembling and torn between instincts. Amato stood frozen in pain and longing. Kaizo, who was too exhausted, tried not to lean instinctively toward Pian’s stabilizing scent. Lahap was trying to disappear into the walls. Kokoci was wondering if early retirement was an option. Tarung looked like he was planning a vacation he’d never take.

And Pian stood in the center of them all—protective, furious, powerful, and unbearably soft beneath his Alpha rage.

He exhaled again, slower this time, letting the weight of his Alpha presence settle over the office like a storm cloud with espresso undertones.

The kind of exhale that suggested if anyone breathed wrong, blinked wrong, or so much as looked like they were enjoying themselves, he might rearrange the station’s entire command hierarchy by sheer willpower.

Then, as if the universe demanded punctuation, Pian clapped once. “OUT.”

The command cracked like thunder. Every Alpha in front of him jumped.

BoBoiBoy stiffened, fingers twitching as though they might need to wrestle invisible threats.

Kaizo blinked, calculating escape vectors in his head, ignoring the faint whine trying to rise in his chest.

Lahap squeaked—a sound that betrayed far more terror than any Alpha should ever admit.

Amato nearly jolted despite Mechabot’s stabilizers, his body thrumming with tension.

Pian leveled them with a glare so potent it rearranged instinctual hierarchies midair. “All four of you. Out. Now.”

Kaizo attempted a diplomatic, “Maskmana—”

“Do not test me,” Pian warned, voice low and steady, eyes narrowing to slits. “Especially not when I'm at the end of my patience. Or your excuses.”

Kaizo wisely shut his mouth.

Pian pivoted like a predator circling its prey, slowly, deliberately, toward Admiral Tarung and Commander Kokoci.

Both straightened so violently that their vertebrae audibly filed formal complaints.

“When I return,” Pian said, each syllable cutting through the recycled air like sharpened titanium, “both of you better have a VERY good explanation for why everything descended into absolute chaos the moment I left. A very good explanation.”

Kokoci nodded so quickly it looked like he might break his neck. Tarung merely exhaled through gritted teeth, already writing the obituary for his patience.

“Excellent,” Pian said lightly. Too lightly. The faint click of impending doom hung over the office like a neon warning sign.

“Now,” Pian said as he turned back toward the other four Alphas, voice rising a fraction, “get out before I decide to personally recalibrate the galactic hierarchy with my bare hands.”

The four Alphas obeyed instantly, scuttling toward the doors like squirrels who just realized they were being watched by a predator who also smelled vaguely like coffee beans.

The office doors slid shut with a hiss behind them.

Inside, Kokoci and Tarung sagged in tandem, letting out the most exhausted, traumatized sighs ever recorded in the history of the station.

Outside the office, the chaos softened into something warmer, layered with protective instincts and Alpha tension that could have been measured on the Richter scale.

Pian turned his attention to Lahap first. “You’re dismissed,” Pian said crisply.

Lahap bolted. Instantly. So fast that for a fleeting second, it seemed like he might spontaneously combust into the warp field outside.

Someone further down the corridor screamed—either in terror or admiration, nobody could tell. Lahap didn’t look back, or so it seemed. He wasn’t planning to stop until he reached a galaxy not currently under Pian’s direct supervision.

Pian’s gaze shifted then, softer now, almost imperceptibly, landing on BoBoiBoy.

Alpha instincts flared—not outwardly, not like a warning—but inwardly, protective, grounding. The scent of coffee with cardamom and warm leather radiated from Pian, weaving around the boy’s sunlight and cinnamon like a weighted blanket.

Pian stepped closer, hand landing firmly yet carefully on BoBoiBoy’s hat. The touch was deliberate, a subtle anchor of calm and safety amidst all the adrenaline and lingering terror.

“I’m glad you’re okay, and I can't wait to catch up with you properly, Boi,” Pian murmured, voice low, imbued with a warmth he would never admit out loud. “But… perhaps it’s best you and your dad talk first. Just the two of you. Father and son.”

BoBoiBoy’s chest heaved. His scent flared in hesitation, a mix of old hurt, static tension, and longing. His Alpha instincts twitched like a caged creature ready to leap, but tethered by respect—and fear—of Pian.

Amato’s frame froze, Mechabot humming quietly in sympathy. Ozone and cedar mingled with guilt and uncertainty, thick enough to taste in the air.

Pian’s attention flicked to Amato, the one idiot of a best friend, disaster, and hero, and emotional coward rolled into one.

“And you will speak honestly,” Pian instructed, eyes locking on Amato. “Exactly as I told you before you left on that three-year mission. No omissions. No excuses.”

Amato swallowed hard. “I… I will.”

Mechabot’s speakers whirred. “I will ensure he tells ALL the truth.”

Pian inclined his head in approval, the movement subtle but absolute.

Then he turned to Kaizo, who had instinctively taken a half-step backward, calculating escape vectors and possible exits.

Kaizo froze. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Pian’s hand landed deliberately on Kaizo’s shoulder, spreading warmth, stability, the scent of his scent in a silent, grounding message that Kaizo needed but would never voice aloud.

Kaizo’s own scent—jasmine, iron, cedarwood—stuttered, then steadied under the steady, enveloping calm.

“Come on,” Pian said, softer now, a rare crack of gentleness threading through the steel. “You and I need to talk.”

There was no argument left in Kaizo’s mind. No room. No fight.

With Pian’s hand still steady on his shoulder, Kaizo followed, obedient, silent, guided by an Alpha he trusted more than he’d ever admit—even to himself.

That left BoBoiBoy and Amato.

Two Alphas, father and son, standing in a charged silence thick enough to make the nearby walls hum.

BoBoiBoy’s hands twitched. His chest rose and fell too fast. Instincts warred inside him—rage, yearning, fear, longing.

Amato’s scent of cedar and electric ozone flickered, betraying the emotions he felt.

“…Would you like to go somewhere private?” Amato finally asked, voice low, tremulous, weighted with the pull of unspoken years.

BoBoiBoy hesitated. Then nodded. Small, quiet.

The two began walking side by side toward the Outlook Room. The vast, open room where the galaxy stretched out in quiet rebellion against their tangled emotions, and where truths—long buried, twisted, and raw—were impossible to hide.

The corridor was quiet now, except for the rhythmic sounds of father and son, walking side by side, carrying the weight of years in every step.

Lahap did not run so much as he fled reality.

He tore through the corridors toward the Rebel pack’s ship like a man being chased by existential dread, near-death paperwork, and at least three Admirals’ worth of emotional trauma.

His boots pounded against the floor in a frantic rhythm that screamed I am done, please let me live, his lungs felt like they were trying to escape his ribcage, and his scent smelled like Alpha panic mixed with I deserve hazard pay.

By the time he reached the loading ramp, he skidded to a stop so violently that a nearby maintenance bot swiveled around, scanned him, and rolled away in what could only be interpreted as robotic judgment.

He doubled over, hands on his knees, wheezing as if the universe had personally offended him.

He had survived Commander Kokoci’s office, which was essentially the bureaucratic version of a battlefield.

He had survived Admiral Tarung’s sighs, which carried the emotional weight of a dying star.

He had survived Pian’s wrath, which was like standing five centimeters away from a supernova.

And he had survived Amato’s emotional implosion, which was… honestly, Lahap still didn’t have words for that one.

He deserved a break. The universe, naturally, said: lol no.

Instead, when he reached the door outside the common area, it gave him laughter. Soft, warm, relaxed laughter.

Lahap’s entire body froze. His instincts bristled. His dignity hissed.

He slowly straightened—and the scents hit him like a scented freight ship.

Omega comfort. Beta calm. The sugary sweetness of snacks. The fizzy sparkle of drinks.

And sitting atop all that?

The harmonious, velvety scent of pack contentment.

It was the olfactory equivalent of betrayal.

He marched into the common area, fully prepared to scowl at whoever had dared to be happy without him—and stopped dead.

There they were, Sai, Shielda, Gopal, Ying, Yaya, and Fang—All sprawled in the newly-improved nest, a nest so luxurious it could’ve been featured in a home décor magazine titled Nesting Instincts but Make It Glamorous.

Blankets everywhere. Fluffy cushions piled in decadent mountains. Soft lighting. A holo-screen playing some bright, cheerful comedy. And snacks. So many snacks.

Carrot Crunch Spiral Bites. Buttery popcorn. Chilled fizzy drinks. Chocolate in several morally questionable quantities.

And not a single one of them looked remotely stressed.

Lahap stared.

If his face had been a datapad, the words ERROR — UNAUTHORIZED COMFORT DETECTED would have flashed across the screen.

Fang noticed him first—of course, he did. Omegas were living emotional radars.

Fang’s eyes widened, his scent shifting to gentle guilt. “Lahap?! You’re back. Uh… how was the report? Also… where are BoBoiBoy and Captain?”

The betas jolted upright, paused the movie, and turned around like children caught stealing sweets.

Shielda looked sheepish. Ying tried to look innocent. Yaya was apologetic with a hint of please don’t yell. While Gopal and Sai—the absolute traitors—had zero shame, grinning like hyenas.

Lahap inhaled, regretted it immediately, and answered Fang with another question in a perfectly flat tone. “Fang. Gopal. Ying. Yaya. Did any of you know that Admiral MechAmato is BoBoiBoy’s father?”

Silence.

Immediate. Deafening. Frozen silence.

Fang’s jaw dropped. Ying made a sound between a gasp and a malfunction. Yaya’s eyes widened to saucer size. Shielda went stiff as steel. Gopal’s snack bag—in his hand—crinkled so loudly it might have been screaming. Sai’s entire soul left his body for a moment.

None of them knew.

How could the four know? The humans had joined TAPOPS a year after MechAmato left on a long, classified mission. And all they ever knew about BoBoiBoy’s father is that he travels a lot for ambassador work.

Nobody—nobody—knew that Admiral MechAmato had a child.

The emotional shock hit like a round of synchronized explosions.

Sai and Gopal gasped so loudly that the noise probably pinged on the ship’s radar.

The others reacted more quietly, but no less intensely—widened eyes, tense scents, pure oh-no energy radiating off them.

Lahap exhaled the sigh of a thousand exhausted Alphas and stepped into the nest.

Then, in the blink of an eye, he plucked Sai’s fizzy drink straight out of his hand before stealing Gopal’s snacks.

“I’m taking these,” Lahap declared. “This is compensation for you abandoning me.”

“Hey!” Sai spluttered.

“That popcorn was emotionally important to me!” Gopal cried.

“You left me to die,” Lahap replied, cracking open the drink. “You pay in snacks.”

Fang, bless his soft heart, scooted over to make room. His scent wrapped around Lahap like warm blankets.

“Are you okay?” Fang asked softly. "What happened?"

Lahap flopped into the nest like gravity had doubled. “Oh, you want to know,” he said flatly. “You really want to know?”

The pack leaned forward collectively like gossip-hungry ducks.

And so Lahap—emotional victim, administrative survivor—began.

He told them everything.

Kokoci’s haunted stare. Tarung’s attempt to retire on the spot. Admiral Maskmana’s dramatic entrance while dragging Admiral MechAmato right behind him. Maskmana materializing like anger incarnate. BoBoiBoy calling MechAmato Ayah. The father-son reveal. The explosion of scent signatures that was so intense, Lahap was sure he had lost a year of his life. He even reenacted Pian’s death-glare.

By the time he finished, the pack stared at him as if he’d just walked out of a burning battlefield carrying three wounded comrades and the shredded remains of his pride.

Fang whispered, eyes huge, “…you survived?”

Lahap raised Sai’s stolen drink in a solemn toast. “Barely. I think Tarung tried to retire in front of me twice.”

Gopal stuffed popcorn into his mouth with the frantic speed of someone absorbing drama through calories. “I knew, I sensed something dramatic with my instincts. I told Sai—didn’t I tell you?! You sensed it with me, too!”

“You did not,” Sai replied, offended. “You said—and I quote—‘Lahap sounding like a steamed bao bun coming to life.’”

“IT WAS TRUE,” Gopal insisted with a mouthful of popcorn, gesturing at Lahap like he was Exhibit A in a museum of suffering.

Ying snorted. “Yours and Sai's instincts just didn’t want to work. Again.”

Sai pointed at her with the aggrieved dignity of a man wronged by fate. “My instinct works perfectly. It told me to leave before emotional chaos happened.”

“That’s not instinct,” Yaya said mildly. “That’s cowardice.”

Sai gasped. “I AM STRATEGICALLY CAUTIOUS.”

Shielda hummed thoughtfully. “Mm. Cowardly.”

Sai dramatically clutched his heart.

Before he could reply, Lahap’s gaze flicked toward the holo-screen.

The movie was still paused on the last frame: a ridiculously cheesy romcom scene where two characters were mid–near kiss, surrounded by sparkles, confetti, and something that looked suspiciously like animated flowers.

He stared.

He blinked.

He pointed. “You guys were watching THIS? While I was out there risking my life in the emotional trenches?”

Gopal perked up instantly, shoving popcorn toward him. “It’s actually really good! There was a food fight scene. With noodles. And someone got hit with a ladle.”

Sai added helpfully, “And the main couple is in denial for like 70% of the movie. It’s hilarious. Very relatable.”

“You mean YOU are relatable,” Ying said. “You can’t even pick up on flirtation if someone writes it on your forehead.”

“That happened ONE TIME,” Sai cried.

Yaya gave him a raised eyebrow. “Sweetie, it happened five times.”

Lahap groaned into his hands. “I’m surrounded by disasters.”

Shielda grinned so widely it might have split her face. “Says the man who burst into the ship smelling like pure panic and regret.”

“EXCUSE ME for having a difficult day,” Lahap snapped.

Sai leaned back smugly. “We all had a difficult day. You just had a… premium level one.”

Gopal nodded sagely. “Like deluxe edition suffering.”

Lahap gave them a flat look. “I hate all of you.”

“You stole my snacks,” Gopal reminded cheerfully. “You deserve teasing.”

Fang, ever the soothing Omega presence through the pack bond, nudged him gently, scent sweet and calming. “Take a break. Also, the movie is at the part where the guy falls into the fountain while trying to confess.”

Lahap’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

Gopal immediately hit play.

Sure enough, the movie jumped into a chaotic love confession—complete with dramatic background music, someone tripping over a bench, and a slow-motion fall into a glitter-lit fountain.

Lahap stared in deadpan horror. “This is what you were doing while I was being emotionally waterboarded by Admirals.”

“Yes,” Sai said proudly. “And we were having snacks. Without you.”

Gopal added, “We also expanded the nest without you.”

Ying chimed in, “Fang picked the movie.”

Fang’s cheeks warmed. “It has a very interesting plot.”

Lahap rubbed his face. “I left for one hour. ONE.”

“Forty-nine minutes,” Shielda corrected.

“Even worse.”

Fang nudged him again, a soft puff of comforting warmth drifting around the nest. “You can rest now.”

And Lahap… melted. Just a little.

The nest shifted automatically to make room, blankets bundled over his lap, snacks pushed toward him, though Gopal guarded the chocolate protectively like a fire-breathing hoarder dragon, but he still offered Lahap the popcorn.

The movie resumed. The fountain confession got even worse. Someone slipped on soap bubbles. Sai laughed so hard he nearly fell off the nest. Yaya threw a pillow at him. Gopal blamed Ying for breathing too loudly. Shielda muttered that the movie’s physics were illegal.

Lahap slumped deeper into the cushions, surrounded by warmth, bickering, and scents he trusted.

And finally—finally—his own scent settled.

Exhausted. Relieved. And wrapped in the chaotic comfort of the two packs he desperately needed.

At The Same Time, With Kaizo and Pian

Pian and Kaizo continued down the quiet, dimly lit corridor toward the Rebel Pack's ship after Kaizo told Pian that Sai, Shielda, Gopal, Ying, and Yaya probably took Fang there to rest.

The hum of the station’s engines filled the gaps between their steps, a constant reminder of the world moving on outside the fragile cocoon they inhabited.

Pian’s hand remained firm on Kaizo’s shoulder, a steadying presence that Kaizo wanted to lean into but refused, his pride a stubborn wall against instinctual comfort.

Still, each step seemed slightly easier under the older Alpha’s steadying grip.

Kaizo’s mind raced, replaying the events of the past two days like a film he could never fully erase. He could feel Pian’s scent—coffee, cardamom, warm leather—rolling over him, heavy but grounding.

His own scent, jasmine threaded with iron and cedarwood, seemed to stutter at the edges, betraying the tumult of fear, exhaustion, and guilt that had taken up residence in his body.

Every nerve was taut, every muscle waiting for the next catastrophe, but Pian’s arm on his shoulder whispered a different message. It's safe now. I got you.

They passed the lifts. Kaizo’s brows knitted. “We’re going the long way,” he muttered, half to himself.

“Yes, we are,” Pian said simply.

“…Why?” Kaizo asked, tentative, unsure if he wanted the answer.

“Because you need time,” Pian replied, tone low, calm, certain. “And because you talk more when you walk.”

Kaizo stiffened. “I-I don’t—”

“You do,” Pian interrupted, not unkindly.

For several silent steps, Kaizo’s mind wandered. He remembered BoBoiBoy’s panic in the infirmary, Fang’s blood-stained clothes, the sickening knowledge that Fang could have died if they had hesitated a moment longer.

The memory tightened his chest, made it hard to breathe. He tried to push it away, tried to mask it beneath the stoic exterior he always wore, but it clung, sticky and raw.

“…What did you want to talk about?” he finally asked, breaking the silence.

Pian didn’t answer immediately. He let the quiet stretch, filling the hall with the subtle authority that only he could carry. His hand stayed solid on Kaizo’s shoulder, guiding them.

“When Amato and I first arrived,” Pian said at last, voice deliberate, “we saw the injured in the infirmary. A lot of them.”

Kaizo’s face twisted into something that would seem like a sympathetic grimace. “…You interrogated someone, didn’t you?”

“I spoke gently,” Pian corrected.

Kaizo gave him a sidelong glance.

“…Gently enough,” Pian amended, voice tight with amusement. “I asked a medic what happened. And they told me everything. Everything that happened while I was away.”

Kaizo nodded slowly. He could imagine the rage simmering under Pian’s calm, the way he must have cornered the medic like a predator with teeth bared. 

“As soon as we understood the full situation, I dragged Amato with me to the Commander’s office.” Pian continued.

Kaizo tried to keep his face neutral. He couldn't forget Pian’s entrance, how the air seemed to warp around him, how every Alpha in that room, including himself, had frozen under the gravity of his presence. He remembered the fear in his superiors’ eyes, the tension so thick it almost hurt to breathe.

They rounded another corner. Pian’s scent—coffee, cardamom, warm leather—rolled out deliberately, trying to settle Kaizo’s unsettled instincts. The younger Alpha’s spine loosened a fraction.

Then Pian finally asked, “…Kaizo. Are you okay?”

Kaizo inhaled sharply. “My wounds will heal—”

“That’s not what I asked,” Pian said gently, cutting him off. “I asked if you are mentally okay.”

Kaizo’s steps faltered.

“The medic told me,” Pian added quietly, “how panicked you were two days ago. When you and BoBoiBoy brought Fang in. Unconscious. Bleeding.”

Kaizo opened his mouth.

He meant to lie. He really did.

But Pian’s expression—steady, patient, not judging, simply there—cut right through the shield he tried to throw up. Firm. Steady. Unwavering. And somehow… safe.

The lie died before it could form.

Kaizo lowered his eyes as a long, trembling silence passed.

Pian kept his hand on Kaizo’s shoulder, anchoring him in the moment. Kaizo’s pride bristled, but beneath it, his instincts relaxed fractionally.

He still remembered every detail—the frantic blur of their flight back to TAPOPS, the autopilot, BoBoiBoy’s panic, Fang’s unmoving body, the flash of crimson against the pale skin at the base of the Omega’s skull.

Kaizo’s steps faltered as a memory crashed forward.

He was back in the cockpit of Vexen’s warship. Fang lay in Halilintar's arms, impossibly still, the soft weight of the Omega pressing into him.

Kaizo’s hands were on the controls, every muscle focused on getting to the station. He had almost lost control of the ship when BoBoiBoy’s voice, desperate and shaking, broke through the silence.

“Captain—he's—he’s not waking up!”

Kaizo had left the autopilot to manage the ship as best it could and moved toward them, heart hammering, stomach twisting. He had knelt beside them, trying to wake Fang up, trying to keep the younger Alpha from crushing the Omega with his own panic.

And then he had seen it—the blood on the needles. Small, cruel, metallic intrusions at the base of Fang’s skull, blood slowly seeping from them.

His hands had been shaking as he told BoBoiBoy, “Change into Duri. Hold him steady. Try to stabilize him.” He had rushed back to the controls, flying the ship to its full speed.

Every second felt like an eternity. The engines roared, and the hull vibrated under the strain, but nothing was as sharp, as frightening, as Fang’s silent, unmoving body.

When they landed, Kaizo had bolted, adrenaline blinding him, moving with BoBoiBoy at his side, carrying Fang as if the Omega’s weight could anchor him to reality.

Medics had swooped in, but even then, the explanation had been horrifying: Vexen’s chemicals, the collar, the slow death Fang had narrowly avoided.

Kaizo had felt rage, terror, guilt, and something that felt dangerously like failure twist together in his chest, almost choking him.

Back in the corridor, Kaizo’s voice broke the silence. “…He wouldn’t wake up,” he whispered, small, almost inaudible.

Pian tightened his hold, not to hurt, but to steady, to say without words. I am here.

Kaizo exhaled shakily. “Two days ago, when we were on Vexen's warship… BoBoiBoy was holding him. Pang looked peaceful. I thought… finally he’s safe, finally it was going to be okay.” His voice cracked.

“I piloted us back to TAPOPS, but when we got close, I told BoBoiBoy to wake him gently, just to prepare him for landing. He didn’t wake. BoBoiBoy yelled, panicking, that Fang wasn't waking up. I tried to help, but then… blood. Blood dripped from the needles in the collar. I told BoBoiBoy to change into Duri and try to stabilize Pang. I ran back to the controls. We pushed the ship to land. We ran to the infirmary. Fang’s blood—” His hands trembled.

Pian’s presence held him, anchored him, kept him from crumbling.

“They said Vexen’s chemicals, while they healed Pang, they had taken his energy and weakened him, but the collar…” Kaizo’s voice faltered. “…it had a hidden mechanism; it would have killed him. Slowly. Painfully. If we hadn’t acted—he’d be dead.”

Kaizo’s fists clenched, knuckles white. “…And the medic said he avoided becoming ‘collateral casualty’—” His voice broke. “…I would have punched him if Sai and Lahap didn't restrain me.”

Pian didn’t scold him. Didn’t lecture. Didn’t pity. He simply tightened his hand slightly, guiding Kaizo forward, his scent of coffee, cardamom, and leather anchoring Kaizo’s frayed instincts.

“Kaizo,” Pian said softly, steadying his voice, “you did everything right. You acted. You saved him. You carried what needed carrying, and you did it well.”

Kaizo’s chest rose and fell rapidly, breath unsteady. For the first time in those long two days, the weight he carried was shared.

“And you need to understand something,” Pian continued, voice low, unwavering, a quiet authority threading through every word. “It's over. You are not carrying this alone.”

Kaizo blinked. The tremor in his shoulders eased fractionally under Pian’s steadying presence.

“Now,” Pian said, resuming their slow walk toward the ship, “let’s go check on Fang. Together.”

Kaizo’s pride still bristled, still whispered that he should be able to stand alone, but for the first time, he let it fade. Step by step, he allowed himself to be guided, protected, and understood. The weight of fear, guilt, and panic lessened—just enough to breathe.

With BoBoiBoy, Mechabot, and Amato

Amato and BoBoiBoy stood in the Outlook room, a few feet apart—close enough that their Alpha auras brushed, far enough that neither dared close the distance. Each of them radiated the subtle, insistent pull of Alpha energy, instinct humming beneath restraint.

The air was thick with it.

BoBoiBoy’s scent hit first—sunlight, warm and golden, carrying calm, happiness, and a deceptive softness. It should have been comforting. It should have soothed.

But beneath it, threaded like hidden rivulets and coiled wire, was cinnamon: sharp, burning, bitter with anger, frustration, and sorrow.

The unmistakable bite of abandoned-pack fury. It flared and withdrew in restless pulses, a pup bristling without realizing it, every measured inhale a challenge he hadn’t consciously chosen to issue.

Amato felt it immediately.

His own Alpha scent responded before thought—clinical metal and electric ozone crackling to life, cedar warmth rising instinctively to shield, to claim, to pull his pup in close and check for wounds, to tell him in both scent and words You’re safe now. The urge was violent in its suddenness.

He strangled it down hard.

Five years of absence had forfeited him that right.

The stars beyond the viewport shimmered like scattered diamonds, distant and cold. Blue nebula light painted their shadows long and fractured, emphasizing the vast distance they had somehow crossed—not in space, but in time.

Five years stretched between them, soaked in silence, missed calls, and unspoken instincts denied their outlet.

Mechabot hovered nervously between the two Alphas, optics flicking rapidly as if trying to calculate the emotional turbulence hanging thick enough to taste. Its thrusters whined in short, anxious bursts.

“Probability of reconciliation… twelve point three percent if left unchecked,” he announced. “Emotional stress levels… catastrophic. Suggest intervention: immediate conversational contact.”

BoBoiBoy’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled around the railing, gripping so hard his knuckles shone white. A low, unconscious growl vibrated in his chest—not directed outward, but inward, confused and furious, his instincts clawing for acknowledgment.

Just when the chaos of the past few days had finally settled down, the reappearance of his father dragged something primal to the surface.

His Alpha instincts demanded confrontation. Answers. A fight or flight. But the other half of him, the thinking part that had learned survival without his father, hesitated.

Five years of absence. Five years of silence. One postcard. One.

And yet Amato stood there now, alive, exuding ozone and cedar like he hadn’t missed a beat. Like he hadn’t shattered the structure BoBoiBoy had been forced to rebuild alone.

Amato swallowed. His throat worked. He cleared it once. Twice. A third time—softer, quieter, almost fragile.

Still, nothing came.

BoBoiBoy stared forward, refusing the comfort his instincts screamed for—the grounding warmth of his father’s familiar scent. The man who had left a cavity in his chest was suddenly here, unfamiliar and dangerous in a way BoBoiBoy hadn’t anticipated.

Mechabot’s patience finally snapped.

Its small arms flailed dramatically, thrusters spinning. “THAT’S IT! Silence level: intolerable. Emotional pressure: unbearable. Risk of spontaneous combustion: high. You need to talk. NOW.”

BoBoiBoy’s scent flared instinctively, cinnamon tang sharp enough to sting. “I’m not the one who needs to talk, Uncle Mimi,” he spat, voice low and dangerous, layered with every shred of betrayal and indignation he’d carried for five years.

Amato inhaled slowly. The ozone in his scent rippled outward in controlled waves as he tried to meet his son without overwhelming him. One cautious step forward. Then another—measured, deliberate.

“BoBoiBoy,” he said, voice low and resonant, vibrating with Alpha authority but threaded with tentative vulnerability. “I know that ‘sorry’ is meaningless after this long. I’m not here to demand your forgiveness. I’m here because you deserve—no, you need—an explanation. I owe you that much.”

He could feel BoBoiBoy’s sunlight-and-cinnamon press against him, sharp, sweet, and bitter all at once. Every inhale was a battle not to surge forward and claim him by instinct alone.

BoBoiBoy’s eyes flickered, storm-grey beneath hooded lashes. “Why now?” he demanded. “After five years?” The scent of betrayal was thick, almost physical, cinnamon curling like a warning tail, sharp enough to draw blood.

Amato stepped again, careful, the cedar warmth in his scent brushing against BoBoiBoy’s senses. “Because I failed you,” he said simply. “And I can’t change that. But I want to change what comes next. I want to be present. I want to earn your trust.”

BoBoiBoy’s chest tightened. Sunlight flickered violently as cinnamon spiked—rage, hurt, longing, love tangled into a heady, overwhelming storm. “You could have called,” he snapped. “Once a week. Once a month. Even once a year would have been better than nothing!” His voice cracked under the weight of victories and defeats faced alone.

He had been eleven when the postcard arrived. Sixteen now—a Head Alpha of his own pack forged early by necessity.

Amato’s shoulders sank fractionally. His ozone tinged with guilt, cedar reaching out instinctively. “I know,” he said hoarsely. “And I would give anything to undo the distance. To answer every call. But—”

“Why didn’t you?” BoBoiBoy cut in, scent flaring again. “Umi called every week. Why didn’t you answer me?”

The instinct behind the words slammed into Amato like a physical blow.

His ozone faltered.

Instinct screamed, close the distance, lower your scent, reassure your pup, apologize. Guilt locked him in place.

“I—” He stopped.

Mechabot spun abruptly between them. “Answering that question requires disclosure of classified mission parameters,” it said briskly. “However… partial explanation authorized.”

BoBoiBoy’s gaze snapped to the red Power Sphere with something like desperation. “Tell me.”

A static-laced holo flared to life—signal maps, fractured and unstable. “For the last five years,” Mechabot explained, “Admiral MechAmato was embedded in long-term deep-space missions involving entities capable of tracking Alpha blood signatures across star systems.”

Amato inhaled sharply.

“Any direct communication risked triangulating not only his location,” Mechabot continued, “but yours. Alpha-to-Alpha blood bonds are traceable. Father-to-son bonds even more so.”

BoBoiBoy froze. Sunlight wavered. Cinnamon stuttered.

Amato finally spoke. “Every time I drafted a message… every time I imagined your voice,” he said roughly, cedar folding inward, “I stopped. Because answering once could have led them straight to you. To your grandfather. To your pack.”

“You could have sent something,” BoBoiBoy whispered.

“I did,” Amato replied softly. “The postcard. Analog. Untraceable. And it nearly cost me the mission.”

Mechabot added quietly, “After that incident, all outbound contact was prohibited. Admiral MechAmato chose mission failure risk over endangering his offspring.”

The cinnamon dulled—reshaping into grief instead of rage.

“You chose the mission over me,” BoBoiBoy said.

“No,” Amato said immediately, Alpha dominance flaring just enough to carry certainty. “I chose you by staying away.”

Silence fell heavily.

“…I didn’t feel protected,” BoBoiBoy admitted, voice small. “I felt abandoned.”

Amato stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough that their scents mingled—sunlight brushing ozone, cinnamon winding around cedar.

“I know,” he said softly. “And I will carry that. But I’m here now. And you will always be my pup. I will always answer now.”

Mechabot whirred, exasperated. “Okay! Enough! Emotional processing… still incomplete. But we can proceed to the next phase: sustenance and motherly bonding. Suraiya is here. Cooking. She insisted on seeing her son before anything else.” Its voice, while mechanical, carried an odd enthusiasm that nearly fractured BoBoiBoy’s mounting tension with absurdity.

BoBoiBoy’s scent twitched. The cinnamon wound tighter around his sunlight, sharp and impatient, but under it, a layer of longing shivered through him—memories of Umi’s weekly calls, her voice comforting him when he thought the universe was collapsing.

He had counted on her digital presence like a lifeline, the only reason he hadn’t turned entirely against his father. “She… she’s here?” His voice wavered.

“Yes,” Amato said quietly, the cedar warmth in his scent brushing against BoBoiBoy’s nervous sunlight, the ozone steady, grounding. “She wanted to be here. She’s cooking on my ship. And… she couldn’t wait to see you.”

BoBoiBoy’s chest tightened, the sunlight-cinnamon blend burning with frustration and hope, anxiety and yearning all at once.

The presence of his mother, of warmth he hadn’t felt in years, pressed against him like gravity—the memory of Umi’s warmth, her light presence, her weekly calls threading like safety lines through his years of confusion and anger. He exhaled slowly, the cinnamon still sharp, the sunlight tempering, curling with longing and cautious hope.

“…Let’s go,” he whispered, voice small, raw. He stepped forward, permitting himself to move toward what had been missing all these years.

Amato mirrored him, careful, giving space, his Alpha presence steadying, ozone and cedar weaving a path that promised protection without smothering, guidance without domination. Mechabot zipped ahead, a blur of whirring metal, already calculating routes to ensure he takes the curry puffs first.

They turned together, scents brushing—tentative, restrained, but undeniably connected. The bond wasn’t healed.

But it had been acknowledged.

BoBoiBoy’s chest eased fractionally with each step. The emotional weight had not lifted entirely, but it had shifted. Shared now, anchored, not crushing him alone.

And with each step toward that ship, toward Suraiya, toward answers, toward tentative healing, the young Alpha allowed himself a flicker of hope that perhaps the universe had not abandoned him entirely.

Back with the Packs

The movie’s credits finally rolled, soft music fading into playful behind-the-scenes bloopers. The room, which had been filled with dramatic gasps, outraged commentary about unrealistic fountain physics, and Gopal screaming “KISS ALREADY” at the holo-screen, descended into chaos again once the screen dimmed.

“Okay, next movie—” Sai announced, already opening the streaming list like a man on a mission.

“No more romcoms,” Ying declared, voice flat with trauma. “I lost brain cells.” 

Gopal sat up defensively. “You can’t lose what you never had.”

Pillow. Right to the face. Courtesy of Ying.

Shielda leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Action film. Something with explosions. Lots of explosions.”

Yaya sipped her juice box, unconcerned. “No. We’re watching the one with the magical talking cat prince.”

Sai stared at her. “We are not watching an anime musical about a cat prince struggling with taxes.”

“It has character development.” Yaya countered.

“It has a ten-minute duet about paperwork.”

Gopal gasped loudly. “I VOTE FOR THE CAT PRINCE.”

Lahap stared at all of them, drained beyond mortal comprehension. “I hate everything.”

“No, you don’t,” Fang said softly. 

Lahap deflated further. “…Fine. I hate 90% of things.”

Fang giggled—quiet, warm, soft.

But while the pack bickered like unsupervised siblings, Fang’s eyes drifted to the corridor.

The laughter was warm, but exhaustion tugged behind his eyelids, gentle as waves pulling toward shore.

The nest was cozy, yes, but his body ached for silence, for a moment alone to breathe through the last few overwhelming days. 

He rose carefully, slipping free while the others argued over whether the cat prince’s singing voice was superior to the dragon general’s.