Chapter Text
Phainon should have known his day was going too smoothly. When Ms. Aglaea summons him to her office, he half expects her to finally offer him the cover story for the upcoming movie featuring Robin and rising co-star Boothill. Instead, her first words pull the rug out from under him.
“Phainon, you’ve been scheduled to interview Ms. Gorgo this Thursday,” she announces steadily as he frowns.
“Ms. Gorgo?” he echoes, briefly searching his memory for the name—and her role. “That scientist from Irontomb?”
Aglaea nods, shuffling the papers on her desk. “It seems the corporation has been reporting significant advances in its research lately. Ms. Gorgo is playing a major role and offered to speak with us directly.”
Phainon’s frown deepens. Didn’t they have anyone else available? Still, with most of his department busy, he supposes it shouldn’t come as a surprise.
Even so…
He can’t say he’s excited about the assignment. Phainon disagrees with many of Irontomb’s corporate practices and its stance on their work. But as a journalist, he must remain impartial while on the job. He sighs and waits for his boss’s instructions.
On a cloudy Thursday, he pulls into the enormous parking lot of Irontomb’s headquarters. Up close, the structure is even more unsettling—like a giant CPU brought to life, all sharp edges and strips of neon light. Everything is too clean, too geometric, too sterile.
The reception area is vast and echoing, his footsteps clicking against polished floors. An enormous desk stands alone at the center. Behind it, big screens flood the space with shifting light, casting sterile blues and whites across the walls while a feminine, mechanical voice loops from hidden speakers.
Project Chrysos — the next step in artificial intelligent life.
Unrestrained by gender limitations.
Phainon fights back a wince at the words, jaw tightening. The receptionist scans his ID and authorizes his entrance, redirecting him to the tenth floor. As he steps toward the elevators, the faint hum of electricity follows him, constant and low—like the building itself is thinking.
He doesn’t pass a single soul on his way there.
The tenth floor opens onto an all-white corridor lined with identical doors, the sterile ambiance pressing in on him. The air smells faintly of disinfectant. When he spots the door labeled Meeting Room just beside the elevator, he exhales in quiet relief and steps inside.
There’s a small oval center desk, along with two cushioned chairs and a glass partition at the side. On the back, the view of Okhema sheds light onto the room.
Since there’s no one there yet, Phainon takes a seat. He places his bag on the table and begins pulling out what he’ll need for the interview: his notebook, a pen, his phone. Aglaea said it was alright to record it, so he lets his phone ready on the recording screen.
After a few minutes—though it feels like an eternity—the door finally opens, and a tall woman in a white coat steps inside.
Phainon rises immediately, smoothing his jacket before offering his hand.
“Ms. Gorgo, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says cordially, taking her in.
He has seen her on television before, but up close, she is striking. Her long golden hair is half tied back, and her sharp golden eyes assess him with a glint of curiosity as she shakes his hand, her grip firm. Her hand is warm—the first thing in this building that feels remotely human.
“Is that so?” She withdraws her hand and slips it into her coat pocket, her lips curving faintly. “You don’t look pleased to be here, Mr. Khaslana.”
Her gaze lingers on him, unblinking.
Well. He supposes that no matter how carefully he schools his expression, something must betray him. His shoulders, perhaps. Or—more tellingly—his scent.
“I apologize,” he says with a controlled breath. “It won’t interfere with the interview.”
The scientist studies him for a long moment before moving toward one of the vacant seats.
As she passes him, a faint scent drifts through the air.
Phainon frowns instinctively.
It’s subtle—too subtle to identify. Not quite floral. Not perfume, either. Something warmer. Something… sweet.
Weird.
From what Aglaea told him, Ms. Gorgo is a beta. She shouldn’t carry any noticeable scent at all.
“Mr. Khaslana?” Gorgo prompts, bringing him back to reality.
“My apologies,” he says quickly, irritated at having let his distraction show. He takes his seat and starts the recording. In his haste, he fails to notice the peculiar glint that flickers in her golden eyes.
The interview is about the Chrysos project, obviously.
It has been one of the most discussed topics across Amphoreus for the past decade. Irontomb Corp claims to have discovered a method of replicating life, some whisper with the aid of an ancient Propagation remnant. From that breakthrough came the synthetic beings they call Heirs.
Though artificially created, Heirs are nearly indistinguishable from humans in appearance. Nearly, because Irontomb ensured there would always be a way to identify them.
In other words, the Heirs bore subtle animal characteristics like ears, tails, and even scales.
Still, that did not stop the corporation from branding them as a product.
Genetically engineered bodies, designed not only to be immune to illness and age slower, but optimized to eliminate what Irontomb publicly calls “biological inconveniences.”
Heirs produce no natural scent and cannot conceive.
Alphas experience no ruts—effectively removing the risk of pheromone-driven violence against a partner. They’re also toned down on territorial behavior.
Omegas do not enter spontaneous heats; instead, their cycles can be induced and regulated through controlled pheromone exposure.
They can still be marked.
But unlike in natural bonds, the process carries no physiological repercussions for their human mate. No dependency. No hormonal backlash. No vulnerability.
Over the years, numerous associations have demanded for the program’s shutdown, condemning it as a violation of fundamental life rights.
But with a product tailored exclusively to the highest-paying clientele, it always fell on deaf ears.
Heirs were not human, so why should they care?
Those are only one of the few reasons Phainon dreads having to be there, talking to one of the employees right now. He'd better just do his job and leave.
Consulting his notebook, he draws in a breath before starting.
“About the recent allegations regarding the Chrysos project—”
“Before we proceed, Mr. Khaslana,” Gorgo cuts in, making him lift a brow. Her voice remains steady as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I would like to ask you a question.”
The longer he stays in the room with her, the less it feels like she’s the one being interviewed. He leans back slightly and nods.
“Go ahead.”
Gorgo’s smile is still faint, almost measuring. She taps one finger lightly against her arm.
“What is your stance on the Heirs?”
Phainon frowns. Why is she asking about his opinion on the hybrids rather than the project itself? He knows better than to expose his personal views—especially to an employee, and in her own workplace.
And yet, something in Gorgo’s expression feels sincere. As though she isn’t addressing the journalist, but the man beneath the title.
“They’re living beings,” Phainon hears himself say, the words spilling out as if they’ve been pressing against his ribs since he first stepped into the building. “Like everyone else. Their origin doesn’t matter—they can feel, just like we do. And they deserve to be treated with respect.”
Gorgo tilts her head, and somehow it urges him to continue.
“What Irontomb chooses to label them is despicable.” He shakes his head, silver bangs swaying with the motion. “Heirs are as human as we are. They tell jokes, they laugh, they cry. How can anyone reduce them to a product?”
In fact, Phainon even has a Heir friend. He’s grateful she ended up with someone kind enough to let her live as freely as possible—even if some places still insist on reminding her of her origin.
Gorgo studies him for a long moment. Then, something shifts. Her shoulders ease, as though an invisible weight has slipped from them, and the change unsettles him more than her scrutiny did.
“I see,” she says at last, a faint note of satisfaction threading through her voice. “It’s a beautiful perspective. I joined Irontomb because I once held a similar view of the Heirs.”
Strange. It feels less like an interview now and more like a conversation between acquaintances. The initial unease he felt around her begins to fade, replaced by confusion.
If she disagrees with Irontomb’s practices… why is she still working there?
“Did that change along the way?” Phainon finds himself asking out of pure curiosity, truly trying to understand her for once.
Gorgo offers him a faint, almost melancholic smile.
“Never,” she replies softly. “But thoughts like that aren’t allowed to flourish here.” Her gaze drifts toward the window at the back of the room, where Okhema stretches beyond the glass. “…Still, that still didn’t stop me from trying.”
Phainon squints his eyes at her, totally lost.
“What do you mean?”
The scientist closes her eyes and draws in a slow breath, as though picturing something just out of reach. He can’t begin to guess what it is. When her molten-gold eyes meet his again, they seem to glimmer beneath the sterile lights—radiating a warmth that reminds him, unexpectedly, of the way his own mother looks at him.
“Even in barren soil, a beautiful flower can still bloom, Mr. Khaslana.” The corners of her eyes crinkle gently. “It’s my duty to make sure it doesn’t wilt.”
◢◤◢◤◢◤
Her words still don’t make sense to him, even a few minutes after leaving the building. Once their brief talk ended, Gorgo slipped back into her scientist persona, allowing the interview to proceed without further interruption—professional and direct, as if the woman he had spoken to moments earlier had never existed.
It unsettles him.
The interview itself wasn’t particularly revealing. Just updates on newly successful tests in the creation of winged hybrids. The concept wasn’t new; it simply hadn’t been achieved before.
Which only raises more questions. Why would someone as important as Ms. Gorgo waste her time reiterating information to The Deliverer? There were also other big journals in Okhema, yet she chose specifically them: a journal focused more on culture than genetic advancement.
The questions keep piling up, one after another, even as he transcribes the recording on his laptop later that night. The scientist’s voice filters through the phone’s speakers—measured, clinical, stripped of warmth. Nothing like the woman who spoke of barren soil and blooming flowers.
A beautiful flower can still bloom.
The phrase lingers, stubborn as a seed lodged in his thoughts. If Irontomb is barren ground, then what exactly is she trying to grow? And why tell him?
When his vision begins to blur and his eyelids grow too heavy, Phainon exhales and leans back in his chair. He’ll ask Ms. Aglaea tomorrow. Maybe she knows why Gorgo was so intent on speaking to them today.
Phainon doesn’t expect Aglaea herself to wake him up on the very next morning, after he missed close to four calls at seven a.m.
“Ms. Aglaea…?” he answers the call, voice raspy as he rubs the sleep off his eyes.
“Phainon. Turn on the TV. Now.” Her tone is low, almost tinged with urgency.
Alarm bells ring in his mind.
Fully awake now, he throws the covers aside and hurries to the living room. He grabs the remote and switches the television on. It’s already tuned to the news. He barely has time to focus on the screen when his breath catches, and he almost drops his phone.
Prominent Irontomb Scientist Found Dead at Corporate Headquarters
Authorities Investigating Possible Cause
He reads the headline once. Twice. Again. As if staring at it long enough might force the words to rearrange themselves into something else.
On-screen, a reporter stands before Irontomb’s headquarters, delivering the breaking news in a steady voice.
“Ms. Gorgo was leading critical research on the Chrysos project. Her body was discovered on the corporation’s first floor this morning after a fall of more than ten stories. Coworkers report she had been acting completely normal prior to the incident—”
Phainon stops listening.
His blood turns to ice as he tries to comprehend what he’s hearing. His eyes remain fixed on the screen—unseeing. All he can picture is Gorgo sitting across from him, only a few hours earlier.
Breathing. Warm.
The lone spark of humanity in that damned corporation.
“Phainon.”
Aglaea’s voice cut through the phone. Only then does he notice his knuckles are turning white from how firmly he’s gripping the device against his ear.
“Y…yes?” he manages, still reeling from the shock.
“I need you to remain calm,” Aglaea says. The brief pause that follows makes his pulse pound in his ears. “According to the information we’ve received, you were the last person to see her alive.”
“Wha—what?” he stammers. The interview had been in the late afternoon. Surely someone else saw her after that.
Right?
The memory of the building resurfaces with uncomfortable clarity: its long corridors, its unnatural silence. How did he not cross paths with a single person on his way.
“Hand over all the interview material to the police,” Aglaea instructs. “And…”
She hesitates before continuing.
“If there’s anything else about your meeting that you think they should know, be honest.”
◢◤◢◤◢◤
It takes less than an hour for the police to knock on his door.
The time is just enough for him to change out of his pajamas on autopilot and gather his laptop along with the materials he brought to the interview, though he’s still struggling to process what’s happening.
“Mr. Khaslana,” the officer at his door greets with a curt nod.
Only then does Phainon notice the muted cloudy weather beyond her shoulder, as if rain could begin at any moment.
Her long purple hair is pulled into a ponytail, her expression neutral as she studies him. The badge pinned to her chest bears a familiar name: Acheron.
“Would you accompany us? We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
He should feel relieved that the case has been assigned to someone he knew in high school. She doesn’t comment on the sharp, distressed scent clinging to him, even as her partner—Black Swan, if that is indeed her real name—visibly winces.
The ride to the station passes in tense silence.
Once there, he’s offered a coffee, which he absent-mindedly accepts. He hasn’t eaten yet, but hunger is the last thing on his mind. The station buzzes with movement—officers crossing paths, hushed conversations weaving through the air about the city’s latest high-profile case. Phainon catches a few curious glances.
He isn’t being treated as a suspect.
Not yet.
But the air around him carries a quiet expectation. That he knows something, that he must have seen something.
It all feels unreal.
The truth is far less dramatic... he has nothing of importance to offer.
Acheron soon guides him into her office.
The room smells faintly of peaches mixed with peonies, unexpectedly soothing. It shows careful control, especially for someone standing this close to a visibly distressed alpha.
“Unfortunate timing for a reunion, isn’t it?” she says in her usual monotone, though there’s a trace of sympathy in her gaze as she leans against her desk.
“Yeah…” Phainon agrees absent-mindedly.
A moment later, her partner steps in. She’s still watching him with quiet suspicion, positioning herself beside Acheron as she offers her a donut from a small paper bag. Phainon can’t detect any scent from her at all.
A beta, then. Like Gorgo was.
Acheron accepts one, giving him a moment to sit before continuing.
“Can you tell us why you went to see Ms. Gorgo yesterday?”
“I went to an interview,” Phainon answers. His voice is steadier now, a professional reflex. He recounts everything, from the moment he arrived at Irontomb to the interview in the meeting room.
Black Swan now sits behind the desk, taking notes discreetly. After a while, she lifts her gaze from her notebook.
“Did you two discuss anything outside the interview?” she asks. “Anything at all. The weather, the time…”
Phainon’s cerulean eyes shift to her. Gorgo’s words resurface in his mind. The way she had spoken before the interview, the quiet implication she left him with.
“She asked me what I thought about the Heirs.”
Acheron and Black Swan exchange a brief look.
“Can you elaborate?” Black Swan presses.
Phainon recounts their conversation. But when he reaches her final remark—the one about the flower—the words form a lump in his throat.
Somehow, it feels like a secret. Something Gorgo had chosen to entrust to him, though he has no idea what to do with it now. It feels too personal in a way that he can’t explain.
“Is that all?” Acheron asks, brushing sugar from her fingers after finishing her donut.
Phainon nods, grateful for his practiced composure. He can’t control the distress clinging to his scent, but it’s been there since he woke. Hopefully, it won’t raise further suspicion.
“Please hand over the interview materials,” Black Swan says as Phainon crouches to retrieve his bag and places it on the desk.
“Is there any copy of the audio file?” Acheron asks.
“No. I only had time to transcribe it after I got home. I haven’t made a backup or sent it to the journal yet,” Phainon replies.
Acheron nods once.
“Swan, could you bring the form from the front desk? We’ll need his signature for evidence retrieval later.”
Black Swan closes her notebook and excuses herself with a small sigh.
The door clicks shut behind her.
Phainon immediately senses the shift in Acheron’s posture. Her scent takes on a faint, rain-soaked edge, as though something heavier has settled over her mood. Though unsettling, he doesn’t feel threat from the fellow alpha.
If anything, it feels like a warning.
“Phainon.” She begins, her only visible eye narrowing slightly. “Are you sure Ms. Gorgo didn’t say anything else besides what you told us?”
It feels like a test of trust. Acheron may be an old friend, yes, but she’s also just doing her job. And while Phainon knows he should confide in her with Gorgo’s remark about this mysterious flower, he can’t.
“I don’t have anything else,” he reiterates steadily.
Acheron falls silent for a long moment before lowering her gaze to the floor.
“You’ve always been too kind for your own good.”
The remark catches him off guard. He isn’t sure what she means by it.
After a brief pause, she adds, quieter now, “Something is happening at Irontomb that we still don’t understand.”
Perhaps it’s the journalist in him speaking, but he can’t suppress the flicker of curiosity that briefly cuts through his turmoil.
“What do you mean?” he inquires, shifting slightly in his seat.
“Beyond the report of Ms. Gorgo’s death, the corporation also filed an internal notice regarding a missing asset—one they’ve kept from the press,” Acheron says sternly, her tone tinged with mourning. “One of the Heirs under Ms. Gorgo’s supervision disappeared moments before her body was found.”
Phainon’s thoughts grind to a halt. His eyes widen, and the room suddenly feels suffocating as his breath falters.
“What?” he echoes, his fingers pressing too tightly into his palms.
Acheron’s silence is confirmation enough.
It means that Irontomb already has a prime suspect for their case.
But if that implication ends up proving true—if a hybrid is accused of murder—it could lead to the corporation's downfall. Worse, fear would spread faster than facts. It may deepen the prejudice surrounding Heirs and even lead to ostracism.
They wouldn’t let that narrative reach the public that easily. More likely, Irontomb is already hunting the runaway Heir. Not to present them as a suspect… but to silence them. To erase their involvement and control the fallout before it can spiral beyond containment.
It doesn’t sound fair.
And yet, nothing about this situation feels accidental.
Gorgo’s melancholic words cut through him like a knife.
Is that the flower she was talking about? The one that may have cost her life?
No.
She wouldn’t have spoken so warmly about someone capable of murder. There’s still a piece missing. Something in all of this that he doesn’t understand.
“I’m telling you this because I trust your judgement, Phainon,” Acheron says, her voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts, grounding him. “If, somehow, you happen to cross paths with what they’ve lost…”
She pauses briefly.
“I’d be willing to overlook it.”
◢◤◢◤◢◤
By the time Phainon is released from the station, a few hours have passed. The sky has darkened, heavy rain pouring down as he calls for a taxi home.
In the back seat, his shoulders finally sag.
This day still doesn’t feel real.
As the car moves through the city, he replays the events over and over, his chest heavy. Acheron hadn’t explained much, yet the fact that she chose to tell him about the runaway Heir—despite him being a journalist—speaks volumes.
She doesn’t trust the system either.
Maybe that fragile thread of trust had come from their shared past. From the familiarity of who he used to be before titles and uniforms separated them.
It makes him feel… less alone.
But what can he actually do? Even if he decides to help—to look for the Heir—they could be anywhere in Okhema. For now, all he can hope is that wherever this hybrid has gone, Irontomb doesn’t find them first.
Through the rain-streaked windows, the buildings of the town center blur past. Giant screens flicker between propaganda and breaking news about Ms. Gorgo’s death. The press is still treating it as an accident.
His stomach tightens. For now, that may be the best possible outcome.
Trying to distract himself, he pulls out his phone.
So far, the only person aware of his involvement is Ms. Aglaea. Given how worried she sounded earlier, he should at least let her know he’s no longer at the station.
Phainon: Hey, Ms. Aglaea.
Phainon: I’ve been released. They just wanted to ask a few questions.
Her reply comes quicker than he expects.
Aglaea: That’s great to hear, Phainon.
Aglaea: I’m sure this situation has been taxing. Please take the rest of the day off and try to rest.
Aglaea: If you need anything, let me know.
Phainon: I will. Thank you.
A faint smile tugs at his lips. His boss acts like a mother sometimes. He’s grateful for her kindness.
Soon after, the cab drops him at his doorstep. Rain pours mercilessly as he fumbles through his coat pockets for his keys, already soaked by the time he finds them.
With a sigh, he nudges the door shut with his foot and shakes the water from his frame like a drenched dog. He’ll deal with the mess later.
He barely has time to hang up his coat before it hits him—
A faint scent lingers in the air.
No one has visited him in days, meaning it can’t be from anyone he knows.
Awareness ripples through his body.
Someone has been there.
And as the scent grows stronger while he moves cautiously down the corridor, a colder realization settles in.
Someone is still here.
He feels his canines sharpen. The alpha in him bristles at the intrusion. What kind of lunatic would enter a home clearly marked with an alpha’s scent and linger as if it were nothing?
He’s about to step into the darkened living room when his question is answered.
It moves swiftly as a shadow. He barely has time to react before the figure surges toward him, hooded and shrouded by the darkness. Phainon throws his arms up instinctively, but the intruder doesn’t hesitate.
He’s slammed back against the wall with startling force with a loud bam. The impact knocks the air from his lungs. A forearm pins him in place, and he feels the unmistakable press of sharp claws against his throat threateningly.
From the corner of his eye, he catches the rain dripping through shattered glass—the intruder’s entry point.
A growl rips from his chest, primal and furious, ready to retaliate… then the figure tilts its hooded face toward him.
And in that instant, Phainon forgets his anger and how to breathe all at once.
If the stranger weren’t pressed so solidly against him, he might have thought he was staring at a ghost.
Those eyes, sharp and feline, carry the same deep gold hue as Ms. Gorgo’s.
And then it clicks.
That scent. Warm and sweet. Steady. Up close, he can separate its layers: honey and pomegranates. Not threatening, yet clinging to this stranger like a second skin. It’s the same fragrance that lingered around the scientist the day before.
Strangely enough, though it resembles an omega’s scent, it’s heavily muted. Some alphas do smell sweet—Acheron being the closest example he can think of right now. But if the invader were an alpha, their scent should have gone haywire after being in another’s territory for so long. And it should be heavy with threat, especially now, with Phainon pinned to the wall.
Not to mention, if this is who he thinks it is…
They shouldn’t have a scent at all.
The contradiction only deepens his confusion.
His guard lowers before he can stop it.
The figure studies him in silence. Every line of their body remains taut, muscles coiled and ready to strike if necessary. Their jaw is tight, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing him against some invisible scale. Then a voice, deep and rough, cuts through his thoughts, sending a shiver down his spine.
“Are you the Deliverer?”
Phainon blinks, startled by the question.
“Deliverer?” he echoes, but the figure offers no clarification.
The claws press a fraction deeper into his throat, just enough to make him swallow carefully.
“I—I work for The Deliverer journal,” he manages, keeping his voice steady despite the position he’s in. “My name is Phainon.”
The reaction he expects—hostility, perhaps another shove—doesn’t come.
Instead, the invader leans closer.
And… sniffs him.
Phainon stiffens, heat creeping up his neck despite the circumstances. Of all the ways this confrontation could unfold, this was not one he had prepared for.
He really shouldn’t find the person currently threatening his life even remotely cute.
“…You reek,” they mutter, nose scrunching in clear displeasure. The comment breaks their stance; they straighten and withdraw their claws from his neck. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Is that supposed to be an insult?
Then again, after spending eight hours in a police station, surrounded by stressed officers and their pheromones while being distressed himself… he probably does smell like a walking disaster.
But… Why is this figure talking to him like they know him?
“Do I know you?” Phainon asks, fingers brushing the shallow dents left on his neck just above his tattoo. The claws hadn’t pierced skin, proof of controlled strength.
“Not yet,” they reply, their voice quieter now. “Mother did. She told me to find you. After…”
The words falter, dissolving into silence. All Phainon can see are those golden eyes, luminous in the dark, and the hesitation that confirms more than any explanation.
“Are you talking about… Ms. Gorgo?” His voice softens, careful, as if gentleness might bridge the distance between them.
Golden irises flicker. Phainon recognizes the emotion swimming there. Grief.
The scent of honey and pomegranates shifts faintly, tinged with something raw beneath the sweetness.
They answer with motion. Only the faint lights of the rainy evening from the street illuminate the dark room. When they finally pull the hood off their head, Phainon’s breath catches.
Soft blond hair, rain-drenched and clinging to his face. Unlike Gorgo’s, his carries crimson-dyed tips, and a thin braid falls along one side. Though the resemblance to the scientist is uncanny, subtle differences sharpen his features. Red ink under his eye, and…
Fluffy golden cat ears rising from the crown of his head.
They twitch faintly, adjusting as if reclaiming their natural shape after being flattened beneath the hood for hours.
Phainon’s fingers twitch. The urge to touch them is dangerously strong.
Titans, read the fucking room, he scolds himself.
This is not the time.
“That’s right,” the stranger murmurs, raising a hand to his lips. He licks the back of it, smoothing over the damp fur until the ears perk upright again. Phainon prays the high-pitched sound he imagines doesn’t escape aloud.
Apparently satisfied with his now-perked ears, the stranger fixes him with guarded scrutiny.
“She said,” he continues, voice rough with restrained emotion, “that if anything happened to her… the Deliverer would help.”
Phainon can’t begin to fathom why Gorgo would refer to him as Deliverer. But that’s what this Heir seems to be attached to calling him already, so he lets it pass.
More importantly, he needs to address the real issue—the runaway hybrid standing in the middle of his living room, expecting help from a stranger. He’d suspected it earlier, but now it’s undeniable: Gorgo had been planning this from the start.
That interview that felt pointless. Her question about his stance on Heirs. Her cryptic words about the flower.
That same flower now stands before him, rain-soaked, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie. Lost. With nowhere else to go. With one of the most powerful corporations in the country searching for him.
She had been seeking a safe haven long before things spiraled beyond her control.
Looking at him, Phainon begins to understand. He sees why Gorgo would protect him, even at the cost of her own life.
His chest tightens as the reality settles in.
The decision is made before Phainon can fully think it through. He pushes himself off the wall and straightens. The cat-like Heir tenses at the movement, but Phainon slowly raises his palms in reassurance. His scent has likely faded enough not to come across as a threat.
“I’ll help you,” he says earnestly, one hand pressed to his chest. “You don’t have to run anymore.”
The stranger studies him in silence, ears twitching faintly, as if testing the weight of his words. Phainon exhales, knowing trust will take time.
“Can you at least tell me your name?”
For a moment, something shifts in those feline eyes. A flicker of curiosity, cautious but present. As if he’s still trying to decide what kind of man stands before him. Then, with a slight nod, the answer comes.
“I’m Mydeimos.”
Mydeimos. Phainon repeats the name silently. The flower Gorgo refused to let wilt. It’s beautiful and fitting. He suspects she was the one who gave it to him.
There are many questions left unanswered, the most obvious one being how Mydeimos refers to the scientist as his biological mother. That’s something Phainon isn’t ready to unravel just yet.
Especially when his living room is almost underwater thanks to the gaping hole in the window.
“Right, Mydeimos,” Phainon begins, offering a tired smile to show he isn’t angry—just exhausted. “You did quite a number on my window. Once the rain stops, do you think you could help me fix it?”
At the reminder, Mydeimos glances back at the shattered glass. His fluffy ears droop slightly in clear guilt. Phainon bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at how adorable it looks.
“…Sure,” comes the quiet reply.
Not even an apology? Someone clearly has pride intact despite breaking into houses and shattering windows. Phainon is about to speak again when something else catches his eye, stopping with his mouth open.
Golden.
Fuzzy.
Swaying lazily behind Mydeimos’ broad silhouette.
For a split second, his brain refuses to process it.
Then it hits him full force.
A tail.
A long, unmistakably feline tail.
It moves with quiet autonomy, curling slightly at the tip before swishing once in slow, fluid irritation—likely at the rain, the situation, or perhaps at Phainon himself.
Phainon’s gaze locks onto it, following each hypnotic sway with alarming focus.
Some long-dormant, deeply embarrassing part of his brain lights up like a fucking festival.
Do not stare at it.
He stares at it.
He has known this Heir for less than ten minutes—the same Heir who pinned him to a wall and nearly slit his throat. And yet here he is, locked in a silent war with himself, battling the absurd urge to—
No.
Absolutely not.
Something is very wrong with him. He’s already been close to other Heirs before, and not once has his composure been thrown out of the window that easily. He’s not even particularly fond of cats; he’s been a dog person since childhood. Then again, no Heir has ever been remotely as gorgeous as the one standing before him now.
Still.
This is not the time to feel endeared.
This is not the time to find anything charming. Nothing about this should be cute. He’s just spent the entire day at the police station, giving testimony over a possible murder. Mydeimos has just lost his mother and is being hunted by Irontomb. His living room is flooding. Everything about this moment should feel heavy and unsettling.
Yet…
The tail swishes again.
Phainon turns abruptly toward the hallway.
“Bathroom’s that way,” he blurts, too quickly, not leaving space for an answer. “I’ll get you something dry to wear.”
Heat creeps up his face, pure embarrassment settling in. He doesn’t allow himself to look back and see what kind of expression Mydeimos is making at his sudden clumsiness.
Titans.
If things were complicated before… they just became significantly worse.
◢◤◢◤◢◤
The day before – 8:49 PM
As usual, he was watching his favorite show, The Astral Express. It followed a group of small, cute animal trailblazers setting off on wild adventures across the cosmos. It had become a comfort habit—most of what he knew about the world outside came through the big screen in his room.
The large glass window that cast light into his room was nothing more than a projection. At first, being able to choose between a mountain sunrise or a beach at dusk had seemed fascinating. But eventually, the sterile LED glow and the absence of anything truly alive turned hollow.
At least, in the show, the trailblazers resembled real beings.
As always, the room was too cold. The building’s climate was perpetually controlled, leaving the air unnaturally chilled. He curled beneath the sheets, clutching his oversized chimera plush close to his chest as he waited for sleep to claim him.
His ears perk up at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. The rhythm is familiar, and he sits upright, stretching as the flat door slides open with a faint hiss of propulsion.
“Mydeimos,” his mother greets.
He tilts his head. It’s unusual for her to visit this late. She’s still in her work clothes, a long white coat drifting behind her as she steps inside and sits on the edge of the bed. “How are you?”
“Same as always,” he replies, rolling his eyes. It’s not like he has much choice—his days are spent confined to this room or summoned for endless tests and carefully supervised bonding sessions with other Heirs. Most keep their distance anyway.
It took him time to understand what that truly meant. But when The Astral Express crew visited a world that turned out to be a prison disguised as a dreamland, something clicked.
He finally understood his own predicament.
Gorgo was the exception. His mother was the only human in the building who truly saw him. Ever since he first woke in that chamber, she never spared the effort to make him feel… normal. Loved.
She told him stories, and brought him small gifts from the outside world—sometimes plushies, sometimes sweets that tasted vastly different from the meals they served daily. Her hugs were warm, a welcome contrast to the room’s cool air. And when he started to drift off with his head resting in her lap, she would braid his hair.
She didn’t treat him like a specimen. She treated him like a person.
Something he knew he wasn’t.
The name plastered outside his door was proof enough.
From the books he read and the shows he watched, she behaved no differently than a mother. So that’s what he decided she was to him. It was only natural that he grew attached.
As Gorgo smiles tenderly at him, his nose itches.
Huh?
He inches closer. There’s an unfamiliar smell circling her—a very unusual thing since the building was constantly bathed in disinfectant.
Gorgo chuckles.
“Do I reek?” she asks gently, and he frowns.
Mydeimos shakes his head. “No.” He sniffs again, lighter this time. “But there’s a strange smell around you.”
“Oh?” Gorgo’s smile deepens, amused by his seriousness. “What does it smell like?”
His tail swishes as he concentrates, trying to decipher it. He closes his eyes and lets his mind chase the images the sensation stirs up.
Some layers are familiar—wheat. He envisions a vast field, golden stalks bending gently beneath prairie winds. Then comes the sweetness of apricots, weaving through the air like a forest of trees encircling the horizon. It is… pleasant.
Yet beneath it lingers something else, elusive, shadowed by a grim undertone.
He never smelled it before, but somehow, his mind recognizes it.
Burnt… ashes?
A sudden jolt cuts his mind—as if the thought was charged with electricity. His tail’s fur fizzles, ears flattening against his head. He opens his eyes, frowning.
What was that?
“So?” Gorgo asks, watching his reaction closely, choosing not to comment on it.
“…It’s strange,” Mydeimos admits at last, still unsure of what to make of it. “But… not entirely unpleasant.”
Gorgo hums softly.
“That’s good to hear,” she replies with a note of relief that only deepens his confusion. Her eyes drop for a fleeting moment, as if searching for the right words. “Mydeimos, I need you to promise me something.”
His ears twitch, alert.
“What is it, Mother?”
Her smile returns, but this time, it carries a trace of sorrow he doesn’t understand.
“If anything befalls me, and I can’t take care of you anymore,” she begins, sliding off the golden ring she always wears. From what Mydeimos knows, it symbolizes marriage—something important in human society, though Gorgo has never once mentioned being married. “I want you to find the owner of this scent. He’s the Deliverer—he’ll help you. Give him this ring, and he’ll know what to do.”
Mydeimos lets her place the jewel in his palm. It’s still warm. He rolls it between his fingers, testing its weight.
“What do you mean?” Even as he senses the distress pouring off her, he can’t make sense of it. “What’s going to happen to you?”
Gorgo pulls him into a tight embrace, wrapping her arms around his larger frame. The Deliverer’s scent still clings to her, strong enough to leave him slightly dizzy before he steadies himself and rests his hands at the small of her back.
“Hopefully, nothing,” she whispers, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “Still… if it does, promise you’ll do what I said.”
Mydeimos’ tail sways slowly, his ears lowering against his head. He doesn’t understand what troubles her, but the moment carries almost seems like a farewell. Is she going to leave him?
The thought sparks a dreadful feeling, though he forces it down. If Gorgo is upset with him somehow, he doesn’t want to make it worse.
He has no idea how he’s supposed to find this Deliverer. Did she forget he’s trapped in a cold metal prison, watched day and night? What she’s asking feels impossible.
Even the cheerful background noise of The Astral Express can’t loosen the knot in his chest.
Yet he cannot bring himself to deny her.
With his face buried in the softness of her hair, he murmurs quietly,
“I promise, Mother.”
There are no more words exchanged after that. Gorgo lingers, holding onto the moment until she finally disentangles herself from Mydeimos and wishes him good night.
The cat-like Heir watches from the bed as she heads for the door. When it slides shut behind her, he doesn’t hear her footsteps for a long while.
Out in the corridor, Gorgo remains rooted in place, her fingers curling into tight fists at her sides. The name carved into that door stares back at her, a grim reminder of the burden she carries.
POLEMOS600
All she has left now is the fragile hope that she has entrusted the right person to protect him.
Drawing in a deep breath, she turns and walks down the corridor, never once looking back.