Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The training room was silent except for the steady rhythm of Fang’s fists striking the practice dummy.

Shadows clung to him like old friends, stretching and curling with each movement, his powers responding instinctively to his will. Sweat dripped down his temple, soaking into the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t stop. He never stopped.

The bruises on his arms throbbed with every strike, but he welcomed the sting. Pain meant he was still here, still in control. Pain kept the darker thoughts at bay. It was easier to bleed from training than from his own hands.

His breath came harsh, uneven. He should’ve stopped hours ago—his body begged for rest—but stopping meant thinking, and thinking was worse. So he pushed harder, faster, until his fists shook with the force of each blow.

“You’ll wear yourself out like that,” he muttered under his breath, a hollow joke meant only for himself. No one was here to laugh.

And that was how he preferred it. Alone, he didn’t have to fake a smile or reassure the others that he was fine. Alone, he didn’t have to see their concern and feel the guilt twisting in his chest.

The copper sting of blood filled the air as his knuckles split open. He hissed softly but didn’t stop. He was an omega—his body always the first to give out, always weaker, always seen as fragile even when he wanted to be more.

The ache should have bothered him. Instead, it soothed. At least this pain was on his terms.

His mind betrayed him, unspooling memories. Battles. Losses. Rescues. Times when the others had saved him because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn't strong enough.

Yaya’s shield shimmering around his trembling frame.

Ying’s hand grabbing his wrist before a blast claimed him.

Gopal’s laughter hiding fear as he dragged Fang back to safety.

And always, always Boboiboy—shouldering the battlefield like a leader born. Carrying what Fang could not. Carrying him.

Each recollection landed harder than his fists ever could.

Useless.

Weak.

Burden.

He remembered that first time on a battlefield when he had thought it would be easier to die than to be saved again.

The plasma strike bearing down on him, his shadows sluggish. He had accepted it—until Yaya’s barrier crashed into place, nearly breaking her in half just to protect him. He had almost hated her for it.

Another time, Ying’s terrified grip had dragged him up from a fall he hadn’t even tried to resist. Gopal’s reckless grin hid the truth: he had been seconds from death, and someone else had saved him again.

And Boboiboy… blinding light, Retak’ka’s crushing power, Fang’s shadows torn apart while Boboiboy rose higher, burning himself raw.

Fang had collapsed, and it hadn’t been his doing that brought them victory. It had been Boboiboy’s strength, not his own.

Every memory whispered the same thing: an omega’s place is behind, shielded by others, carried when he falls.

His fists slammed harder into the dummy, blood smearing with each strike.

And then, Kaizo’s face surfaced. His captain.

The older brother, who used to be Abang until the word was corrected, stripped away. “Call me Captain.” A title, a distance.

The bond of brothers buried beneath rank and discipline.

Fang’s chest tightened. Would Kaizo have preferred it if he had died that day? If the weakling omega had been the one taken, instead of their parents? Kaizo had forged himself into steel to keep Fang alive, to protect a sibling who could never match him.

Kaizo, the alpha everyone looked to.

Fang, the omega dragging behind.

'If I weren’t here,' Fang thought bitterly, pressing his bloodied fists to the dummy, 'maybe he could have lived free. Without me. Without the weight of a useless younger brother chained to him.'

His throat burned, shadows curling desperately around him like they could shield him from the truth. He would never measure up. No matter how much he trained, the gap between them would never close.

His mind whispered the darkest thought again, 'If I can’t be worth something living, can I at least be worth something dying?'

The words came sharp, steady, terrifyingly calm.

He could imagine it, throwing himself between his friends, his packmates, and danger, taking the final hit so they wouldn’t have to. They’d mourn, of course. They’d cry.

But then they’d move on. Stronger without him. Free without him.

The shame and longing twisted together in his chest, dragging him deeper than he dared admit.

For the first time that night, his breathing eased. The idea of an end—one that mattered—was almost comforting.

His worth, maybe, could be found there.

Behind him, unnoticed, the sliding door opened. Light spilled in from the hallway, and someone entered.

Boboiboy lingered at the entrance of the training room longer than he meant to.

The sterile glow of the simulators bled across the steel floor, pale and unfeeling compared to the warmth of the common halls.

Inside, Fang moved like a shadow against the projections, his powers lashing out in precise bursts that left the air rippling with distortion.

Tendrils of darkness snapped forward, wrapping around the training dummy in relentless strikes before dissolving into smoke. His fists followed—hard, fast—slamming into the dummy’s chest with a force that rattled the floor. He moved with the rhythm of obsession—shadow, punch, shadow again—as though the world might crack apart if he dared to stop.

Boboiboy’s hand hovered over the console that would deactivate the program.

He told himself he was giving Fang space, but his instincts clawed at him, restless. An omega wasn’t supposed to drive himself like this—not until he bled, not until his scent soured with exhaustion and hurt. Every strike Fang threw grated against the part of Boboiboy that wanted to steady him, shield him, stop him.

He watched, hoping Fang would stumble, take a breath, laugh it off like old times.

But Fang didn’t stop. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw clenched, sweat dripping into eyes that refused to close. His scent—usually cool and grounding, like rain on stone—was frayed tonight. Bitter at the edges, thin enough that it made Boboiboy’s throat ache.

It had been like this for months—no, even longer than that, with Fang pushing harder, past limits even TAPOPS medics warned against. Skipped meals, muttered excuses that didn’t fool anyone. Fang said he was “fine,” but no alpha instinct in Boboiboy would ever believe that. 

And still, he had stood on the sidelines. Watching. Waiting. Afraid that pressing too hard would make Fang recoil deeper into the shadows, he already clung to.

Finally, Boboiboy stepped forward. The words came quieter than he meant, softened by something he couldn’t hide.

“Fang.” His voice brushed against the hum of the simulator, careful, but the thread of command that came naturally to him as an alpha slipped through. “It’s late. You should stop.”

Fang didn’t look at him. His teeth ground together as he muttered, “Just a little longer.” Shadows coiled defensively at his sides, his fists tightening as he drove another blow into the battered dummy.

But Boboiboy saw it—more than saw it, felt it. The way Fang’s body stilled for half a second, his instincts flinched under the alpha timbre that had threaded into Boboiboy’s voice. His shadows flickered, pulling back like they weren’t sure whether to obey or resist.

The response was instinctive, primal. Fang’s body wanted to yield, to sink into the safety.

But just as quickly, his pride lashed back. His jaw tightened, and the sour bite of frustration seeped into his scent.

Boboiboy’s chest pulled tight. That stubbornness—the omega’s desperate need to prove he wasn’t weak—it was eating him alive.

He tried again, firmer. “When was the last time you ate?”

That made Fang falter. His shadows hesitated mid-strike, curling uncertainly before they dissolved. His shoulders dipped almost imperceptibly toward Boboiboy—drawn by instinct to the grounding weight of an alpha’s presence. The air shifted between them, his cinnamon-sunlight scent trying to settle, to calm, to get Fang to rest before Fang's pride clawed it apart again.

“I’m fine,” Fang rasped, the lie ragged. His next punch landed clumsily, weakly against the dummy’s surface.

It was enough. The faintest break in his perfect rhythm, and Boboiboy’s alpha instincts surged hot and sharp. He felt it, the urge to step forward, close the space, steady Fang’s trembling fists in his own hands, and press his scent into Fang’s skin until the bitterness bled away. To anchor him. To keep him from unraveling.

But Fang’s shoulders squared, shadows bristling like hackles. His pride screamed Don’t touch me, even as his body swayed almost unconsciously toward the comfort he refused to take.

Boboiboy froze at the edge of that pull, fighting his own instincts. Every bruise Fang had brushed off, every injury dismissed, every reckless hour spent training instead of resting—it all weighed on him now. Fang had always been their steady shadow, their quiet strength. But shadows thinned when stretched too far. They frayed, they broke, they vanished when the light behind them burned too hard.

And Boboiboy knew, with the ache of an alpha recognizing what his omega refused to admit, that it was only a matter of time before Fang did too.

His patience snapped when his gaze dropped to Fang’s fists. The dark fabric of his gloves was peeling, torn from strain, and his knuckles—raw, split, bruised—stained faintly red against pale skin.

“Enough.”

The command tore from his throat sharper than he meant, his alpha timbre rumbling beneath it. It hit the air like a whip, laced with the burn of sunlight and cinnamon that flared from his scent before he could reel it back.

Fang’s head jerked, shadows faltering for a split second as his omega instincts flinched toward compliance—then recoiled just as quickly, pride rising hot and bitter like smoke. His scent spiked, lavender threaded with the sharpness of carrot greens, a defensive mix that screamed Don’t you dare pity me.

Boboiboy didn’t let him argue. His hand slammed the panel, the simulation stuttering and blinking out of existence.

Silence followed, too heavy.

“Boboiboy—” Fang’s voice was low, warning, but it carried no weight. The stubborn defiance in it rang hollow under the tremor of exhaustion.

Boboiboy crossed the space in a heartbeat, his alpha instincts now thrumming too loud to ignore. He caught Fang’s hand before he could shove it behind his back.

Hot skin. Trembling muscles. Wounds glaring at him up close.

“Don’t.” Fang tried to tug free, but Boboiboy’s grip tightened, anchoring his wrist with unyielding strength. His scent burned hotter, cinnamon-spiced and sharp, pressing down against Fang’s frayed lavender until resistance faltered.

“Don’t what? Don’t notice that you’re hurting yourself?” Boboiboy’s voice was rough, anger snapping at the edges, but underneath it, fear bled through. His thumb brushed over one of the cuts, and his chest twisted when Fang flinched despite trying to mask it. “Why didn’t you stop?”

Fang’s jaw locked, eyes shadowed. “I… had to finish the set. I was almost done.”

“Almost done?” Boboiboy echoed, incredulous. His scent flared again, sunlight pressing into every corner of the room until Fang’s own curled tighter, strained. “You’re bleeding, Fang. When was the last time you took—”

But the words were cut short.

Because Fang swayed.

It was subtle, the kind of falter anyone else might have missed—but Boboiboy felt it in the slackening of Fang’s hand against his own.

His pulse spiked. “Fang?”

Fang smirked faintly, bitter and tired, lavender fraying at the edges into something thin and unmoored. “I’m fine.” The lie soured the air, carrots sharp and overripe beneath the failing sweetness of lavender, like his voice, almost no strength left.

If Boboiboy’s instincts weren't loud before, now they roared. He stepped closer, grip tightening, his free hand bracing Fang’s shoulder. Cinnamon flooded instinctively, wrapping hard around the faltering lavender like a shield.

“You’re not fine,” he whispered, the words rough with something he couldn’t hide.

Fang’s smirk wavered. His pride fought back—his scent spiking sharp again, refusing to yield. But his body betrayed him, shoulders slightly trembling, shadows flickering weakly. “I said… I’m fine. You don’t need to—”

“Yes, I do.” The words came out raw, soaked in command. His scent surged, thick and steady, trying to anchor Fang’s unraveling one. “I can’t just stand here and watch you do this to yourself anymore.”

Fang’s eyes narrowed, lavender buckling beneath the weight of that command, but his pride snapped back like barbed wire. “You don’t understand. I have to keep training. I have to—”

“No, you don’t!” The flare in his voice snapped sharply, sunlight blazing through the room. “You’re going to kill yourself, Fang! You need rest—”

“You don’t get it!” Fang hissed, trying to yank free again. His lavender flared bitter, carrot sharp enough to sting, but the note of desperation in it betrayed him. “If I stop, I’ll fall behind. If I fall behind, someone gets hurt. I can’t let that happen.”

Boboiboy’s chest ached, his own scent trembling unsteadily now with fear. “And what about you? Do you think it doesn’t hurt us to watch you destroy yourself like this?”

The words struck. Lavender faltered, crumpling into something broken, something that smelled too much like guilt. His mouth opened as if to retort, but nothing came. His lashes fluttered, his breathing hitched unevenly.

“Fang…”

“I’m—” His voice cracked. Then he surged forward.

“Whoa—hey!” Boboiboy caught him just in time, Fang’s forehead collapsing against his shoulder. Lavender and carrots washed over him, faint and threadbare. Too faint.

Panic surged hot through Boboiboy’s veins. He tightened his arms around him, scent spilling thick and frantic into the air, trying to hold Fang together when he couldn’t hold himself. “Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes. Please—just stay awake.”

“I’m… not…” Fang mumbled weakly, the words slurred. His body sagged heavier against Boboiboy as his knees buckled, lavender dimming like smoke fading from a candle.

They went down together, Boboiboy lowering him to their knees, refusing to let go. His scent burned strong, pressed tight around Fang like a blanket, willing him to stay anchored.

“Fang! Hey—stay awake!” His voice cracked, his scent pulsing ragged. “Yell at me later, call me annoying, I don’t care—just don’t go under.”

Through the haze, Fang caught fragments of it—the scent, the voice, the raw desperation. And guilt struck deeper than exhaustion ever could.

Lavender shuddered weakly in response, fragile and breaking. 'Why are you wasting this on me?' his thoughts twisted bitterly. 'Why do you look at me like that—as if I matter? I don’t. I can’t even stand on my own.'

Shame gnawed through his chest, the bitterness of carrots burning harshly under lavender’s sweetness. 'I’m supposed to protect you… not weigh you down. Not make you carry me.'

But even as his mind screamed that, his body betrayed him. His omega instincts leaned in, seeking the warmth, the cinnamon, the sunlight wrapping around him like a tether he couldn’t cut.

'I don’t deserve it,' he thought weakly as his lashes fluttered closed. 'I don’t deserve you.'

And then his body went slack, lavender thinning into near nothing in Boboiboy’s arms.

“Fang!” Boboiboy’s shout cracked the silence, his arms clinging desperately around the limp weight against him. His chest heaved, panic clawing at his throat—but then, as his trembling hands shifted to cradle Fang’s face, a new jolt of terror ripped through him.

Fang’s skin burned.

Hot—unnaturally hot, far beyond the usual heat of exertion. His cheeks flushed crimson, not from embarrassment this time, but from a fever that had been building unnoticed beneath his stubborn walls.

And now it raged unchecked, drowning his scent until the lavender soured, faint and fragile, laced with the bitter tang of carrots gone sharp with strain.

Boboiboy’s breath hitched, his instincts surging in a panicked rush. His palms, chilled with fear, contrasted painfully against Fang’s overheated skin. “No, no, no—” The words tumbled out like a mantra, half denial, half prayer. “You’ve been pushing yourself even through this?!”

His scent flared hard, flooding the air thickly, wrapping around Fang’s fading lavender in a desperate attempt to anchor it. His forehead pressed against Fang’s temple instinctively, trying to share steadiness, trying to ground him in the warmth of his own presence. But the fever radiated into him, scorching, and his stomach dropped with a sick twist.

“You idiot,” Boboiboy whispered harshly, though his voice broke halfway. His cinnamon scent sharpened, spiced with fear. “You’ve been burning up this whole time, haven’t you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Of course, Fang hadn’t. Of course, he’d bitten his tongue, hidden it behind that brittle smirk, smothered his lavender beneath pride until it thinned to smoke. He would rather collapse than admit weakness.

Boboiboy’s hand moved shakily down to Fang’s chest, feeling the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breathing. Each rise was too faint, each fall too slow. His grip on Fang’s wrist tightened, searching for the faint thrum of his pulse—weak, erratic, but there.

The relief was fleeting. The fever was spiking, stealing what little strength Fang had left, his body overexerted to the point of collapse.

“No more pretending,” Boboiboy said fiercely, his voice trembling as he gathered Fang closer, curling protectively around him. His scent pressed in harder, sunlight and cinnamon surrounding Fang’s fading lavender like a barricade. “No more saying you’re fine. I won’t let you. Not when you’re burning up like this.”

His chest ached as he looked down at Fang’s flushed face, the damp sheen of sweat catching the faint light. Even unconscious, Fang’s brow was furrowed, his scent tangled and weak, his body still fighting when it had nothing left to give.

Boboiboy pressed his lips into a tight line, tears blurring his sight. His scent softened, cinnamon smoothing into something gentler, sunlight stretching steady and warm, coaxing instead of commanding. “You always fight for us, Fang. Always… until there’s nothing left of you. But who’s fighting for you?”

His thumb brushed across Fang’s burning knuckles, then back up to his fevered temple, refusing to let go—as though touch and scent alone could tether him here, drag him back from the edge.

“You’re not alone,” Boboiboy whispered, his voice breaking on the words. His alpha signature pulsed steadily, lapping around Fang’s scent like sunlight cutting through storm clouds. “So stop… stop trying to carry this all by yourself. Please… stay with us. Stay with me.”

But Fang did not answer, only the shallow rasp of his breath against Boboiboy’s chest, lavender barely a thread in the thick air.

And in that unbearable silence, Boboiboy clutched him tighter, his cinnamon flaring desperate and raw, swearing to himself that no matter what it took, he would not let his omega slip any further.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Ying, Yaya, and Gopal, who had also been searching for Fang, came rushing in, drawn by Boboiboy’s scream. The panic in his tone froze them mid-step, then sent all three sprinting forward.

The sight that greeted them made their hearts lurch.

Boboiboy was on his knees in the middle of the training room, cradling Fang against him. Fang’s face, usually sharp and expressive, was now pale beneath the fever’s flush, damp with sweat. His lavender-and-carrot scent, normally steady and grounding, was thin, trembling, warped by the heat rolling off him.

“Boboiboy!” Gopal dropped to Boboiboy’s side, his scent of warm cocoa and roasted peanuts spiking with panic as he gripped his shoulder. “What happened?!”

“I—he—” Boboiboy’s throat clogged with fear. His scent flared wildly, sharp and protective, blanketing Fang’s fading one in a desperate attempt to stabilize it.

“It doesn’t matter right now!” Ying cut in sharply, her voice tight. Her beta scent of crisp mint and steel shot through the air, sharp with urgency, slicing through the chaos. “We need to move him—fast.”

“Boboiboy,” Yaya’s voice softened, sweet vanilla and honey scent spilling outward, soothing even as her hands trembled. “Can you carry him? We need to get him to the infirmary.”

For a second, Boboiboy could only stare at Fang’s fevered face—damp forehead, closed eyes, lips cracked from heat. Lavender wavered against his chest like smoke, carrots gone bitter at the edges. His scent wrapped tightly around Fang’s fragile scent as though to keep it from slipping away.

“…Right.”

He slipped an arm beneath Fang’s back, another under his knees, lifting him with painstaking care. Every movement was deliberate, protective. Fang’s fevered scent clung to him—lavender blurred, carrots warped—searing into Boboiboy’s lungs as he pressed him close.

The corridor outside was too sterile, too cold. The hum of the station systems was low and steady, but every heartbeat thundered louder in Boboiboy’s ears.

Gopal kept close at his side, cocoa-and-peanut scent bitter with fear. His fists clenched at his sides, eyes darting toward Fang’s flushed face. “We need to hurry,” he muttered, trying to mask the break in his voice.

Ying strode ahead, mint-and-steel cutting through the sterile air like a blade. Every corner, every doorway, she cleared with precision, but her thoughts kept circling back to Fang’s shallow breathing. ‘He hid this. He pushed himself again.’

Yaya lingered slightly behind, vanilla and honey clinging close, soft and trembling. Her eyes shone with unshed tears as she looked at Fang’s pale, fevered face. Her scent pulsed in waves, quiet prayers woven into it. “Please… let him be okay.”

And Boboiboy—his scent never left Fang, thick and protective wrapping in heavy, steady pulses around Fang’s fragile lavender. His cheek pressed briefly to Fang’s damp hair, grounding himself in the faint trace of carrot-laced warmth. “Stay with me,” he whispered, voice rough. “Please… just stay.”

The hallway stretched on, sterile lights carving harsh shadows across their faces, every second dragging like eternity.

Finally, the infirmary doors glowed faint blue ahead, the promise of safety within reach. Relief rippled through the group, brittle and thin.

The sliding doors hissed open, spilling harsh white light over them as Boboiboy rushed inside, Fang trembling and fever-hot in his arms.

Lavender and carrots wavered faintly in the bright room, nearly drowned by the fever’s burn. Sunlight-and-cinnamon curled around it in a relentless tether, while cocoa-and-peanuts, mint-and-steel, and vanilla-and-honey swirled close—four scents weaving together in desperate unity, carrying their omega through the threshold.

They didn’t know Fang had hidden these collapses before, never letting anyone see how far he pushed himself.

But now, with lavender thinning, carrots bitter, and his body trembling under the weight of fever, there was no hiding it.

And none of them—not the alpha, not the betas—would let him fall again.

The medic on night duty, half-dozing over a stack of reports, snapped awake the second their eyes landed on the pale, fevered boy in Boboiboy’s grasp. Fatigue fell away instantly, replaced by sharp, professional focus.

“Put him on the bed—now!” the medic barked, already reaching for the intercom.

Boboiboy obeyed without hesitation, lowering Fang onto the nearest cot with painstaking care. His hands lingered on Fang’s overheated form even after he set him down, his alpha instincts screaming at him not to let go.

Fang’s scent was faint and warped by the fever, trembling in the sterile infirmary air.

Normally, it was grounded and steady, but now it carried a bitter edge, frayed and fragile.

The wrongness of it made Boboiboy’s chest twist painfully. His own scent continued to spill uncontrollably over Fang in protective waves, trying to stabilize what the fever was unraveling.

Within moments, two more medics rushed in, snapping on gloves, their sharp movements efficient but impersonal. Cuffs, wires, scanners—all whirring to life around the cot.

One turned toward the doorway where Ying, Yaya, and Gopal stood clustered. The three betas were wide-eyed, breaths shallow, their scents sharp with fear—

Ying’s crisp mint-and-steel crackled with tension, sharp and unyielding.

Yaya’s honey-and-vanilla trembled, spilling soft worry into the room like a quiet plea.

Gopal’s cocoa-and-peanuts was bitter at the edges, usually warm but now soured by panic.

“All of you—out,” the medic ordered, tone clipped. “We need space to work.”

“We won’t get in the way,” Ying snapped back immediately, mint-and-steel slicing across the room, but her jaw was too tight to disguise the quiver beneath.

“If you care about him,” the medic said firmly but not unkind, “then wait outside. Every second you stay is a distraction.”

Yaya hesitated, torn, her honey scent spiking with resistance. Gopal opened his mouth to argue, cocoa bitterer still. But the certainty in the medic’s voice left no room for disobedience.

Reluctantly, Yaya tugged on Ying’s arm, coaxing her back into the hall. Gopal cast one last look at Fang—at the fragile omega writhing faintly beneath the fever—and followed.

But Boboiboy didn’t move. His feet were planted, his instincts locking him in place. Fang’s lavender-and-carrots was weak, almost overwhelmed by the sterile bite of disinfectant, and every cell in Boboiboy’s body screamed to anchor it, to stay.

“Son,” one medic said again, softer now, though their tone still carried command. “Please. Wait outside. We’ll take care of him.”

Boboiboy’s jaw clenched. His sunlight-and-cinnamon swelled thick and heavy in the room, pressing against Fang’s fevered scent like a shield, reluctant to pull away. He didn’t want to leave Fang’s side—didn’t want the omega’s fragile scent to fade further without his own wrapped around it.

But the medics were already crowding in, their presence pushing him back. He knew—if he stayed—he’d only be in the way.

So with great effort, he stepped back, dragging his scent with him, though it clung stubbornly to Fang until the very last second. His gaze lingered on the trembling boy, the flush across his skin, the uneven breaths, the bitter edge to his lavender, until the door closed between them.

The hallway outside felt colder, emptier. Without Fang’s scent, the sterile air pressed in like ice.

Beside him, Yaya’s honey curled gently, soothing. Gopal’s cocoa pressed close, heavy, and worried. Ying’s mint remained sharp, steel beneath the surface.

But none of it filled the hollow in Boboiboy’s chest. The image of Fang’s pale face, trembling body, and warped lavender scent burned into him, relentless.

And as an alpha, the only thing harder than staying by Fang’s side was being forced to leave him behind.

The hallway was too quiet. The hum of the medical bay behind closed doors only made the silence heavier, pressing down on them like an invisible weight.

No one spoke—not even Gopal, which in itself felt wrong. They sat side by side, shoulders almost touching, each of them haunted by the same memory: Fang’s fevered body trembling in Boboiboy’s arms, cheeks flushed scarlet, sweat dampening his hair, breath coming shallow and uneven.

Their pack’s omega, the boy who always shouldered burdens without complaint, had finally collapsed.

It was Ying who cracked first.

“This is our fault!” Her voice cut sharply, trembling as it bounced off the sterile corridor walls.

She shot to her feet, fists curling at her sides. Her scent flared sharply with guilt. “We knew this was going to happen! Fang’s been skipping meals, training until he could barely stand, pushing past every limit—and we just let him! We saw him sweating and shaking, and we did nothing! Nothing!” Her voice cracked on the last word, laced with fear that rang louder than her anger.

The others flinched. All of them saw it too clearly: Fang’s pale skin burning with fever, the way his thin frame shuddered with every breath. The memory twisted like a knife.

“Ying.” Yaya’s voice was steady, though tight with strain. Her honey-and-vanilla scent pulsed warm and soft, reaching instinctively to soothe. She caught Ying’s wrist before she could pace herself into exhaustion. “What’s done is done. We can’t change the past. We can’t rewind the moment we let him push himself this far.” Her gaze slid to the infirmary doors, her beta instincts aching to cross them and curl protectively around their trembling omega.

Inside her chest, the helplessness gnawed. Fang, always so strong, had been reduced to fragile shivers—too weak even to hold himself upright. “The only thing we can do now is wait,” she whispered. “And be ready. We won’t let him slip further. Not again.”

Ying sank back down slowly, her mint-and-steel dimming into raw guilt. She should have acted sooner, dragged Fang away from his stubbornness, and forced him to rest. What good was her sharp eye if she ignored the obvious?

“Well…” Gopal shifted, scratching the back of his head. His scent wavered, edged with bitterness from worry. He tried to chuckle, but the sound cracked, falling flat. “It’d be easier if Fang actually let us help. You guys saw it, right? Just now, he was burning up, shaking, too weak to even lift his hands. And every time we tried before—reminding him to eat, telling him to rest—he acted like…” Gopal’s chest tightened. “Like leaning on us was wrong. Like he’d be a burden.”

The joke he’d tried to make dissolved entirely. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his words. It hurt, watching their omega act like he believed he didn’t deserve care, warmth, or protection. That wasn’t just stubbornness anymore—it was dangerous.

Silence followed, thick and suffocating, broken only by the hum of machines beyond the infirmary doors.

Then Boboiboy finally moved. He sat curled against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His sunlight-and-cinnamon scent rolled heavy through the corridor, sharp with barely restrained panic. His head was lowered, but when he spoke, his voice was rough.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. The others turned to him instantly, drawn by the alpha weight behind his tone. “It doesn’t matter if Fang lets us help or not. We will help him anyway. He’s too important—too fragile right now—to be left to his own stubbornness.”

Boboiboy’s chest ached with guilt. He should have noticed earlier, should have stopped Fang from driving himself past his limits. Every feverish tremor, every weak gasp, every bead of sweat he’d felt searing against his chest haunted him. And now Fang, their omega, his omega, was paying the price.

“There’s steel in our worry,” he added, voice firmer, scent burning hotter. “And we won’t let him fall through this again. Not to fatigue. Not to fever. Not to anything.”

One by one, the betas nodded. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Their scents mingled in the sterile corridor, curling together like threads of loyalty, wrapping around their alpha’s resolve.

A found family pack, anchored by an omega who still didn’t realize how much he mattered.

Fang lay beyond those doors, fragile and trembling. But they were tethered to him—hearts, scents, instincts all bound tight.

And they would not let go.

“Then it’s settled,” Yaya said firmly, her honey-sweet scent carrying warm authority. “We make sure Fang eats, rests, and actually sleeps. Together.”

“Eating? Easy.” Gopal puffed up his chest, cocoa-scent flaring with mock pride, though his eyes softened. “He’ll just be my food taster. Can’t refuse if I’ve already stuffed his face, right?”

That earned a few chuckles, and even as Gopal smiled, his thoughts twisted. If joking around was the only way to keep their omega from breaking himself apart, then he’d joke until his voice gave out.

“For resting…” Ying leaned forward, mint-and-steel sharpening around her. “We control how much he trains. No more locking himself in the training room alone for hours. If he wants to train, one of us is always there. We’ll pace him, force breaks, and make sure he doesn’t push until he collapses again.”

She would not watch their omega destroy himself again. Not if she could help it.

“And I’ll handle keeping him busy outside training,” Yaya added quickly, determination brightening her scent. “Group games, movies, even just talking. If he has less time to slip off alone, he’ll have fewer excuses to overwork.”

The betas nodded, their protective drive instinctive, scent threads weaving together with resolve.

But when the subject of sleep came up, all three glanced at their alpha. Because sleep was where Fang slipped away most often—ghosting past their notice when exhaustion should have grounded him.

Boboiboy froze under their stares. A thought had just barely taken shape in his mind when his cheeks burned, and he looked away too quickly.

“…What’s with that face?” Gopal narrowed his eyes, grin twitching like a shark scenting drama.

“N-nothing,” Boboiboy muttered. His cinnamon-sunlight scent betrayed him instantly, spiking warm and guilty.

“Boboiboy,” Yaya sang, predator’s smile curving her lips. “What. Are. You. Thinking?”

“I-uh—” He scratched his cheek, eyes darting anywhere but at them.

Finally, with a nervous rush, he blurted, “I could… make sure Fang sleeps if he… stayed in my room.”

Silence.

Then—

“OHHHH!” Gopal howled, cocoa scent spiking with wicked glee. “Boiboiii, you skipped courtship and jumped straight into the honeymoon package! Forget babysitting—you’re already drawing up the dinner dates couple’s discount!”

Ying slapped her knee, laughing, mint-and-steel fizzing with delight. “Dinner date? Nah—this is straight to matching pajamas and breakfast-in-bed!”

Yaya gasped dramatically. “So it’s true—you’ve got a crush! I can already see the invites: ‘Please witness the sacred bonding of Shadow Edgelord and Dino Boy.’”

Boboiboy’s face ignited crimson, cinnamon-scent flaring hot and sharp. “Wha—?! N-no! That’s not—I didn’t—stop already!” He buried his face in his hands.

Which, unfortunately, only made it worse.

“Careful, Alpha,” Gopal drawled. “If Fang’s in your bed, you'd better keep your instincts in check. No pouncing.”

A low, unbidden growl rumbled in Boboiboy’s chest before he strangled it back. His body heated, skin prickling, as his mind betrayed him instantly; Fang curled in his bed, scenting faintly sweet, vulnerable, his omega warmth bleeding into the sheets. The urge to press his own scent over every inch of that image clawed at him. 'Mine. I’d make him mine.'

Ying gasped, leaning forward like a gossip columnist sniffing scandal. “Wait—doesn’t your room only have one bed?”

Boboiboy froze, ears scarlet. “D-don’t say it like that!”

But Ying was merciless. “Picture it! Fang lying stiff at the edge, all serious, and then—oops!—you ‘accidentally’ roll over and—bam—arm around his waist. Classic rom-com setup!” She mimed the swoon, dramatically clutching herself.

The image slammed into him. Fang inches away, startled, their scents tangling in the dark. Fang not pushing him away. His muscles tensed, claws of instinct raking through him—hold, keep, claim. His breath came short, heart thudding. 'Perfect. He’s perfect.'

“Or better,” Yaya added, smirking like the devil, “he snuggles straight into your chest. And you just… stay there. Totally innocent. Totally not you secretly loving it.”

Boboiboy’s throat worked soundlessly, heat roaring under his skin. His alpha rose, primal and fierce, demanding he pull Fang close, wrap around him, never let go. A growl scraped the back of his throat again, and he bit it down, shaking. 

“STOP IT!” he squeaked, voice cracking as he practically steamed.

“Mm, but you know…” Gopal tapped his chin. “Omegas always sleep in their nests. Picture Fang in a mountain of pillows and blankets, all cozy, smelling like him. You’d be the only one he let inside. The Alpha in the nest.”

That finished him.

His body actually jolted, a sharp inhale dragging Fang’s phantom scent into his chest. His claws flexed against his palms as his instincts screamed—mark the nest, flood it with cinnamon until no one else could breathe it, curl around Fang and never let him slip out. His whole body ached with the thought. 'Perfect mate. My omega. Mine.'

Cinnamon-sunlight burned off him so strongly the betas all smirked knowingly, half choking on laughter.

“…Y-you guys are the worst,” he mumbled into his hands, voice ragged, caught between mortification and the raw, undeniable ache in his chest.

Their laughter roared down the hall, merciless. But beneath the teasing, their scents wove together with an unspoken vow: embarrassment or not, they’d protect their omega—whether that meant making him eat, dragging him into games, or, yes, making sure he built nests and never woke alone in them.

Because they were a pack, and Fang was theirs.

The door to the infirmary slid open, and the medic stepped into the dimly lit hallway. At once, all four of them—Ying, Yaya, Gopal, and Boboiboy—shot up from their places, the tension snapping tight as their instincts surged.

“What happened to him—?”

“Is Fang going to be okay?”

“Can we see him?”

“Tell us he’s fine—!”

The words tumbled out in a storm of desperation, overlapping and cutting each other off. Ying’s voice was sharp with worry, Yaya’s wavered, Gopal’s cracked, and Boboiboy’s—low and raw—sounded more like a plea. Their scents spiked uncontrolled, protective betas and one frantic alpha tangling in the air.

The medic raised a hand, firm but not unkind. “Calm down.”

That single phrase was enough to rein them back. Their hearts still hammered, instincts clawing to protect their omega, but they stilled, waiting. The medic’s gaze softened, and they stepped aside, gesturing toward the door.

“You can see him now. I will take you to his room.”

None of them hesitated.

The door slid fully open, and they hurried inside.

When they entered Fang's room, even expecting it couldn’t soften the sight.

Fang lay on the medical bed, visor gone. His flushed face stood out stark against the white sheets, fever-bright and vulnerable. His lips were pale, his shallow breaths uneven. Sweat dampened his hair, clinging to his temples, and his bare hands trembled even in sleep, thin bandages wrapped around his knuckles.

Omega. Fragile. Their omega.

The instinct hit them all at once, a hard ache in their chests, a twist of guilt like a knife.

Ying’s throat closed tight. She remembered every time she’d seen him falter and brushed it off as stubbornness, every time she let him slip away instead of dragging him back. They should’ve done something. She should’ve done something.

Yaya bit her lip, nails digging into her palms. She always challenged Fang, sparred with him, and teased him into snapping back. But seeing him curled small, sick, and pale made her chest ache with something fierce and maternal. She wanted to scold him, to shake him awake, but more than anything, she wanted to cover him in warmth and whisper, 'Rest, omega, let us hold you for once.'

Gopal stood frozen, eyes burning. He hated—hated—seeing his friends hurt, but it cut deeper when it was Fang. Their omega should’ve been sheltered, fed, kept laughing, not left to wither down to trembling hands and IV drips. Joking wouldn’t fix this. Nothing but keeping him safe would.

And Boboiboy—

The alpha in him surged, primal and relentless, the moment he saw Fang lying fevered and fragile.

His breath hitched, scent spiking hard in the air before he yanked it down, almost ashamed of the way it bled raw possession. His eyes locked on the omega’s damp hair, his flushed cheeks, his trembling hands. Every detail screamed too weak, unguarded, mine to protect. His claws pricked his palms before he forced them still. 'Why didn’t you tell me, Fang? Why didn’t you let me guard you?'

The medic gave them space before speaking again. “He’s suffering from severe exhaustion and dehydration. His weight is borderline unhealthy. His body’s fighting a fever on top of that. He needs rest, hydration, and proper nutrition immediately. I’ll be filing a report to the higher-ups. Fang won’t be fit for missions or training for at least two weeks, and you—” their eyes swept over the pack, lingering longest on the alpha— “will make sure he follows that.”

There was no hesitation. All four nodded, protective instinct laced into every line of their bodies, their scents bristling with vow. They would guard him. Keep him still. Feed him. Make him nest if they had to. Whatever it took.

The medic looked at them before his gaze returned to Fang’s frail form. When they spoke, their voice was quieter, edged with something knowing.

“He’s an omega, isn’t he?” Their eyes flicked briefly to the rest of the pack. 

The air shifted, tension rippling through all four of them. No one answered, but the way Boboiboy’s scent spiked—low, warning, protective—was answer enough.

The medic didn’t flinch, only sighed, softer this time. “I thought so. His body’s running on empty. He hasn’t been letting himself rest properly, hasn’t been nesting, hasn’t been asking for help.” Their gaze softened, almost sympathetic. “That self-suppression—it’s part of why he’s burned out this badly. Which is why you need to watch him. Make him eat, make him sleep, make him let himself be an omega.”

Ying’s stomach twisted with guilt, shame bleeding sharp into her scent. Yaya’s fingers clenched in her lap, instincts prickling with the urge to bundle Fang up and force him to rest. Gopal’s jaw tightened, a faint whine escaping before he shut it down, shoulders stiff.

But it was Boboiboy who reacted hardest.

The moment the medic said Make him let himself be an omega, something inside the alpha snapped taut. His scent flooded the room before he could stop it—warm, grounding, but thickly possessive, laced with iron-clad promise. Cinnamon and storm-sky rolling heavy, curling around Fang like a shield.

The betas all felt it at once.

Ying and Yaya exchanged a glance, instincts easing despite the tension, because the alpha’s scent meant one thing: protection. Gopal let out a shaky breath, some knot inside him unclenching.

The medic, however, arched a brow, clearly unimpressed but not unkind. “If you want him to recover, Alpha, you’ll need to temper that. He needs comfort, not pressure.”

Boboiboy gritted his teeth, pulling his scent back with effort, though not completely. He couldn’t. Not when Fang looked so small under those sheets, trembling, feverish, bare hands twitching in restless dreams. Not when the omega hadn’t even made himself a nest—hadn’t surrounded himself with anything that might soothe him.

“When can he leave?” Ying asked softly, voice steady but trembling under the weight of her instincts.

“As soon as he is stable,” the medic replied. They gave one last look, then slipped out, closing the door behind them.

For a long moment, silence pressed down heavily. Then, slowly, the pack moved.

Ying and Yaya settled together in an armchair against the wall, leaning into each other’s warmth, their scents weaving steady comfort through the air.

Gopal pulled a chair close but slumped down heavily, head tipping back, mouth open in a weary snore. It was clumsy, but his steady breathing kept the room from sinking too deep into dread.

Boboiboy didn’t hesitate. He dragged a chair to Fang’s bedside, hand reaching without thought to wrap around the omega’s trembling one.

Fang’s skin was burning hot, the fever’s heat sinking into his palm, and still the alpha refused to let go. His thumb brushed over bruised knuckles, jaw tightening as a low growl threatened his throat. His head lowered to rest lightly on the bed, scent wrapping protectively around Fang.

Fang whimpered faintly in his sleep, shifting instinctively toward the warmth. Even unconscious, his body sought the comfort of the alpha’s presence—his fingers curling weakly against Boboiboy’s, his face tilting closer to where the protective scent was strongest.

His lips parted with a soft, almost inaudible sigh, as though the sound alone carried relief. A faint tremor in his body eased, shoulders slackening where pain had once held them taut. His breathing, ragged moments before, found a steadier rhythm, syncing unconsciously to the alpha’s.

The omega hand nuzzled faintly against the edge of Boboiboy’s hand, a barely-there movement, as if even in fevered dreams his instincts pushed him to bury himself in safety. A small, broken purr escaped his chest—fragile, fleeting, but real.

The sound clawed at every instinct Boboiboy had. His thumb brushed once more over those bandaged knuckles, forehead pressing tighter to Fang’s hand as his scent rolled heavier, steadier, a promise in every thread.

The betas smelled it, felt it—the way his alpha drive surged, locking into place around their omega. And though the air was heavy, it wasn’t suffocating. It was grounding, protective, claiming.

They would keep him safe. They would remind him he didn’t have to bear it alone. And their alpha—already circling, already anchoring—wouldn’t let Fang run himself into the ground again.

Not their omega. Not ever.

The Next Day

The sterile light of the infirmary hummed faintly above, timed to mimic “morning” even in the endless stretch of space. Fang stirred, lashes fluttering against the weight of sleep. For a moment, he felt… almost safe. Warmth pressed against his palm. His foggy mind registered it as a hand—steady, grounding.

And then the scents came.

Even through the bite of antiseptic and metal, his omega senses picked out the ones he knew best. Yaya’s warm honey-vanilla, Ying’s crisp mint and steel, calm, grounding, filling the quiet like a lullaby. Gopal’s soft, cocoa and peanuts, rich with comfort, wrap the space in sleepy warmth. 

And closest—so close it cut through all the others—cinnamon and sunlight. Boboiboy.

Fang’s chest tightened at that familiar alpha scent. He thought it was his imagination until he turned his head sluggishly, expecting nothing, his breath caught. Boboiboy was there, slumped on a chair by the bed, his hand clasped firmly around Fang’s as if letting go would make him vanish.

For one suspended second, Fang felt anchored. Then the realization crashed in, and he froze. His body shot upright before he could stop himself. Pain lanced through his chest, his fevered body weak, his vision swimming.

The heat of his flushed cheeks radiated against the sheets. His hair, damp with sweat, stuck to his forehead and temples, and a thin film of moisture glistened along his neck. His lips were cracked, dry, and pale at the edges, trembling slightly with each shallow, uneven breath. The IV line in his arm dripped steadily, helping him fight the high fever that made his limbs shiver uncontrollably even as he tried to hold himself upright.

Yaya and Ying were asleep, curled together in a seat against the wall. Gopal sat awkwardly in a chair, his head tipped back, soft snores breaking the silence. They were all there. Watching over him.

And then the memory returned. His body had betrayed him again. Weakness, collapse, dragging them all into his mess. His omega instincts, the part of him he always tried to suppress, had slipped through. He hated it—hated how fragile it made him feel, how much it exposed. His stomach twisted. 

'No, no. This can’t be happening.'

The voices echoed, multiplying, growing louder until it became a chorus.

You’re dead weight.

They’d be better without you.

All you do is slow them down.

Why are you still here?

His throat tightened as the voices clawed at him, tearing at every fragile piece of control he had left. 'They shouldn’t have worried, shouldn’t waste time on me… I shouldn’t even—'

You shouldn’t exist.

End it. Die.

That’s the only way you’ll stop being a problem.

His hand was clamped tightly on his mouth.

But his scent betrayed him.

Lavender warped sour, carrots crumbled bitter, spilling jagged into the infirmary in frantic, broken pulses. Fang bit his lip until it bled, forcing his body still, desperate to shove it down—but his fever shredded control. Each burst of scent was thin, high-pitched, like muffled whimpers leaking into the air.

And then the whimpers came for real. Barely audible, dragged from him in shallow, cracked breaths, he tried to bury his hand. He shook his head violently, eyes shut, trying to silence them—but they slipped out, trembling and fragile, betraying everything.

Omegas could mask their scent. But not from the alpha sitting inches away.

Boboiboy stirred before the sound or smell reached him. His alpha instincts had already locked onto the scent. Cinnamon and sunlight surged from him reflexively, flooding out thick and hot, answering Fang’s distress like fire swallowing smoke.

His gaze landed on Fang—and his chest shattered. Fang was trembling, fevered, sweat-damp hair plastered to his face, tears sliding silently down flushed cheeks, his scent fraying into panic. Lavender curdled, carrots rotted sharply, the scent stuttering in broken pulses like muffled cries for help.

'No, no, no—please not like this.' Boboiboy’s alpha drive burned raw. 'I can’t just sit here—I have to do something.'

“Fang—?” His voice cracked low, but Fang didn’t hear him. Too far gone, caught in the spiral, trying desperately to choke down his scent and failing, biting down hard enough to shake as more whimpers pressed past his throat. 

Boboiboy moved before he thought. Instinct surged as he climbed onto the bed, careful but fast, slipping his hand free only to wrap both arms around Fang. He pulled the omega into his chest, pressing Fang’s damp forehead against the steady thud of his heart.

Fang stiffened, panic spiking his scent into a shriek of lavender and sharp carrot. It hit the air like glass breaking. His muffled whimpers tore free against Boboiboy’s shirt, humiliating, trembling. But Boboiboy only held him tighter—and answered.

Cinnamon and sunlight roared out of him, thick and heavy, rolling over the infirmary like a blanket. It pressed Fang’s fractured scent flat against the floor, drowning it, covering every note of bitter lavender-carrot until only alpha warmth was left. His scent didn’t just soothe—it dominated, a physical weight in the air, pushing, demanding Fang yield.

“Shh… I’ve got you. You’re safe,” he murmured, voice trembling but threaded with alpha steadiness.

Fang tried to hold back the sound, but a broken whimper tore out, muffled into Boboiboy’s chest. His whole body shook, his scent spiking again in jagged little bursts of lavender and carrot, begging without words for comfort.

Each one was instantly swallowed, blanketed by cinnamon-sunlight until the air only smelled of Boboiboy, until Fang’s panicked whimpers dissolved under dominance into something softer, smaller.

Shame seared Fang, but he couldn’t stop it. His instincts clung weakly to Boboiboy’s shirt, drawn against his will.

And Boboiboy gave no space for shame. He let his cinnamon-sunlight swell heavier, richer, until it blanketed Fang’s broken scent completely, tucking it away as though saying I see you. I’ve got you. You’re safe here.

“I’m here,” Boboiboy whispered, pressing his cheek to Fang’s hair. He thickened his scent further, grounding, protective. 'Don’t drift away from me, Fang. Stay. With me.'

“I’m right here. Just listen—listen to my heart. Feel it? Try to match it. Slow. Steady.”

It wasn’t easy. The voices still dug deep.

Pathetic.

Look at you—crying like a child.

You’ll ruin him, too.

Die. Just die already.

Fang’s scent fractured with every ragged breath, lavender snagging sharp, carrot curdling sour. But then—through the chaos—something else pushed in.

Cinnamon and sunlight, flooding over him, warm and strong. Not sterile antiseptic. Not the copper tang of sweat. Not his own broken scent.

This was his pack alpha. This was Boboiboy.

His instincts recognized it instantly, seizing on it. His lungs dragged it in greedily, clinging to the safety it promised. Lavender and carrot faltered, softening, smoothed down by the weight of cinnamon and sunlight pressing over him like a shield. It left no space for fear.

His chest rose and fell against Boboiboy’s steady heartbeat. Still fevered, still jagged—but less frantic. More in rhythm.

And Boboiboy said nothing about the tears, the shaking, or the broken little whimpers bleeding from Fang's throat and scent. He just whispered, again and again—“You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”—while his fingers threaded gently through sweat-damp hair, combing through tangles, grounding with every stroke.

It took time. Longer than either wanted. But slowly, against his will, his whimpers stopped. His scent stuttered, then eased, lavender no longer curdled but muted, carrot no longer sharp but faint. His body sagged, leaning into the alpha’s chest, instinct surrendering at last under the weight pressing down on him. The storm ebbed under cinnamon-sunlight until it was only faint exhaustion left in the air.

Fang didn’t lift his head. He couldn’t. His body leaned, just slightly, fevered and drained, into the alpha’s chest—seeking warmth, craving safety, surrendering at last.

And Boboiboy didn’t let go, didn’t ease his arms, he held him, arms firm, his scent stayed strong, pouring over him like a vow.

Because Fang wasn’t just a friend. He was his omega.

And Boboiboy’s alpha drive swore it silently, fiercely, 'Not my omega. Not ever alone.'

The silence in the infirmary stretched, broken only by the faint beeping of machines and Fang’s uneven breaths. His hands twitched against Boboiboy’s hold, and finally, with a low sigh, he tried to pull back.

“I… I’m sorry,” Fang muttered, his voice quieter now, steadier, though weighted with shame. His crimson eyes flicked away, unable to meet Boboiboy’s. “I shouldn’t have—”

Before he could finish, Boboiboy pulled him in tighter. Fang let out a startled yelp, his forehead bumping against the alpha’s chest. The sound cracked the quiet, sharp and small.

“Does it hurt?” Boboiboy asked at once, sharper with concern than Fang expected. His dark brown eyes peered down at him, far too close, scanning his features for even a flinch of pain.

Fang’s feverish face burned hotter, the sweat-damp strands of his hair sticking stubbornly to his skin. Each shallow inhale rattled, catching painfully before breaking into a harsh cough that tore through his chest. His omega scent wavered with it—lavender soured thin, carrot biting bitter, weak with distress.

Boboiboy jumped at the sound of each cough, panic tightening his chest. “Hey—hey, breathe…” he murmured, rubbing small circles into Fang’s back. His cinnamon-sunlight flared instinctively, pressing down heavy and warm, smothering the frayed edges of Fang’s scent like a weighted blanket. “It’s okay… I’ve got you.”

Fang flustered, lifting his head just enough to meet Boboiboy’s gaze. Crimson eyes burned fever-bright, catching the dim light like liquid fire, and Boboiboy froze. His lungs stalled, heart stuttering.

'Oh dear, how is this even legal?' His thoughts stumbled, primal and unfiltered. 'He looks so small, so fragile like a bunny… and yet still, so stunning. That scent—even fever-broken—it’s Fang. My omega.' His chest swelled with something fierce and possessive. 'He doesn’t even realize it. He doesn’t know. He’s… he’s perfect. He’s mine.'

The alpha in him surged at the realization, scent thickening, cinnamon and sunlight flooding heavier until there was no antiseptic, no bitterness, nothing but him pressing into every corner of the room.

Fang’s flush deepened under the onslaught, his composure unraveling. Heat crawled down his neck, his trembling hands fisting weakly against Boboiboy’s shirt. “B-Boboiboy… y-you could stop—”

But Boboiboy only tightened his arms. Protective. Firm. Claiming. “Not yet,” he whispered, more to his instincts than to Fang.

He shifted, lifting Fang carefully into his lap as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Fang froze, breath hitching, body rigid, the omega’s scent stuttering in startled bursts. Each pulse was immediately crushed under cinnamon-sunlight, swallowed whole by the alpha who refused to let it splinter.

Another coughing fit wracked Fang’s chest, his throat raw, lungs rattling. Boboiboy’s panic spiked. He grabbed the water bottle from the nightstand, uncapped it swiftly, and guided it to Fang’s lips. “Here—drink. For your throat.” His voice trembled, though his hands stayed steady, instinct demanding he care for his omega.

Fang obeyed, shaky fingers curling around the bottle. The cool water soothed his throat, and with every swallow, Boboiboy’s chest eased—though he stayed taut with worry, one hand still rubbing soft circles against his back.

Fang’s thoughts scattered into incoherent sparks. 'What is wrong with him? What is wrong with me? Why is my heart—why won’t it stop racing?' His chest heaved with another cough, throat raw, and yet—somewhere beneath the fever-haze—something else burned hotter. Something older. Deeper. Instinctive.

He ducked his head down while handing the brunette the bottle back, who kept it near for Fang, hiding his face against Boboiboy’s chest, too overwhelmed to look him in the eye anymore. His omega stirred uneasily inside, whining at the thought of being so close and yet so exposed.

Even as he was held, Boboiboy stayed alert. Each soft rasp of Fang’s cough made his own heart leap, instincts sharpening like drawn wire. He squeezed the water bottle closer, ready to help again, murmuring, “Drink, it’s okay…” His voice had softened, lower, coaxing—an Alpha cadence slipping through without permission.

And his thoughts slowed, anchored on the warmth trembling in his lap. His instincts purred and thrummed, feral and certain. 'Fang. My omega. My mate. Mine.'

The word carved into him was undeniable.

Fang sagged gradually, his tense shoulders slackening, fists unclenching. His scent shifted under the weight of cinnamon-sunlight, the sharpness of carrot smoothing into something warm, lavender unfurling faintly sweet. It was submissive, yielding without meaning to—his Omega instincts responding to the Alpha’s steady thrum of comfort. Each uneven breath steadied closer to Boboiboy’s heartbeat.

And then came the nuzzle. Small, unconscious, but enough to make Boboiboy freeze. Fang’s fever-warm nose brushed against the Alpha’s shirt, rubbing faintly against the scent there. Marking himself. Claiming comfort. Seeking.

Boboiboy’s chest constricted, joy and want slamming through him like fire. His own scent spiked thicker in response, cinnamon-sunlight curling possessively around the trembling Omega. He lowered his chin instinctively, brushing Fang’s sweat-damp hair, scenting back. His wolf growled low inside him, satisfied.

'He’s giving in. He trusts me. He’s safe here.'

The thought was fierce. Terrifying. Beautiful.

‘I’ll hold him until he’s better. I’ll hold him forever, if I have to. Because this isn’t just my packmate. He’s my perfect omega. And I’ll never let him face the dark alone again.’

But then—like a cold strike of lightning—the realization hit. Yaya and Ying were still dozing against the wall. Gopal was still snoring softly in the chair. Betas. Pack. Witnesses.

Boboiboy’s ears burned hot. 'Oh no. If they see this… Fang will kill me. Or worse—he’ll shut me out again. He’ll be so embarrassed…' Yet his arms only tightened around Fang’s smaller frame, the Alpha in him curling possessively, torn between shielding his Omega from the world and the sudden panic of being exposed like this.

He swallowed hard, forcing his grin to dim into something gentler, less obvious. 'Please don’t wake up yet, guys… and please, Fang… don’t hate me for this. Just this once, let me hold you.' His instincts thrummed, desperate to soothe, to calm, to protect. His scent thickened, filling the air until even the slumbering Betas stirred faintly.

Gopal shifted in his sleep, muttering, but didn’t wake. Ying’s nose twitched, and Yaya murmured and turned away. Their Betas recognized what was happening even unconsciously—the Alpha’s claim wrapping around his Omega, protective and steady. None of them dared intrude. Instinct demanded respect.

Fang stiffened, breath hitching at the sudden wave of scent. His omega flared at the contact, startled—yet beneath the fever and panic, something inside him sighed in relief. He tried to resist, tried to tuck his face away to hide his glowing ears, but his body betrayed him. His instincts keened softly, rubbing closer against Boboiboy’s chest, soaking in the Alpha’s warmth, drinking in that cinnamon-sunlight scent like air.

'Why… why does this feel so safe? Why can’t I stop…?'

His body gave in before his mind could resist. His shoulders slackened. His fists unclenched. His feverish shivers softened slightly, soothed by the Alpha’s steady presence. Even the harsh rattling coughs lessened in frequency, though his throat still protested. And slowly, carefully, Fang let himself breathe—instinct nuzzling deeper into the crook of Boboiboy’s neck, a quiet, unconscious plea for more scent, more safety.

For the first time in a long time, the voices in his head fell silent. Surrounded by warmth, scent, and the steady beat of an Alpha’s heart, Fang allowed himself—for just a moment—to be held.

But when the haze of fever loosened its grip, reality struck back like ice water.

Fang let out a faint groan, lashes fluttering as the blur of heat gave way to bleary awareness. His body still felt heavy and sluggish, but his brain caught up a second too late on his actions. He froze.

His face was tucked into the crook of Boboiboy’s neck. His lips had nearly brushed against the Alpha’s skin. His fists—uncurled and resting against a broad chest—had shifted at some point, gripping fabric like a lifeline. And worse—worse—his nose burned with the memory of what he’d done. Nuzzling. Leaning in. Seeking scent like a needy pup.

Fang jerked back so fast his head spun, ears burning crimson. “Wh—what—” His voice cracked, still rough from fever. “No. No, no, no—”

Boboiboy blinked awake, startled by the sudden retreat, arms still half-raised as if the Omega hadn’t left them. His heart gave a sharp, unsteady thud. “Fang—wait, it’s okay—”

But Fang was already hugging himself tight, eyes wild with mortification. His wolf yelped inside, humiliated by its own surrender. 'He saw. He knows. I nuzzled him. I begged for comfort like a child. Like a weak, broken thing.' His stomach flipped, nausea curling sharp in his gut, heat flooding his cheeks.

“I didn’t mean—that wasn’t—” Fang stammered, his throat burning from both fever and shame. His scent spiked, sharp and defensive now, carrot and lavender twisting into a panicked snarl.

And then—worse. Boboiboy caught it. The spike faltered, soured, and the brightness of the carrot dulled to something brittle, bruised. Lavender curled inwards, choking on itself, bitter with despair. The air grew heavy with self-loathing.

Inside, Fang’s thoughts fractured—spiraling downward, jagged and cruel. 'Of course I’d cling to him. Of course, I’d show how pathetic I am. Always leaning, always dragging people down. I can’t even be sick without being a burden. He’ll resent me. They all will. They should.' His chest squeezed painfully, the weight of every failure pressing down harder than the fever.

Boboiboy’s instincts roared, every nerve on fire at the souring scent. No. He wouldn’t allow this spiral—not here, not with him.

“Hey, hey… It’s alright. You were sick. You just needed—”

“Needed you?” Fang bit out, too quick, too raw. The words scraped from his tongue before he could stop them, and his face burned brighter, his wolf clawing at his chest in confusion. He turned away, nails digging into his own arms, fighting the urge to bolt. “I—That—Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

The words stabbed at Boboiboy’s chest, but he forced himself not to flinch. He could see the way Fang’s shoulders trembled, the way he hugged himself, the way shame twisted tighter than anger. His Omega wasn’t rejecting him—he was drowning in himself.

And the scent confirmed it. Bitter, spiraling, collapsing inwards.

Something inside Boboiboy snapped. His instincts slamming into place with fierce certainty. He moved before Fang could curl tighter, reaching out and grabbing his wrists—firm, grounding.

Fang startled. “Boboiboy—! Let me go, I can’t—”

“No,” Boboiboy said, voice steady but unyielding. He tugged, pulling Fang back across the space between them, ignoring the weak resistance. His arms locked around the trembling Omega, pinning him gently but unshakably against his chest.

And this time, Boboiboy didn’t just hold. His wolf rumbled, low and deep, a subsonic growl vibrating through his chest and straight into Fang’s bones. The sound wasn’t a threat—it was an anchor, a primal lullaby meant for Omegas. Fang’s inner omega froze, then whimpered, the fight bleeding out of him under the resonance.

“Shhh,” Boboiboy murmured into his hair, pressing his chin tighter to the crown of Fang’s head. Cinnamon-sunlight poured thick into the air, not just filling it—claiming it, wrapping every corner, every shadow. “You don’t get to run from me. Not when you’re hurting.”

Fang writhed once, twice, then stilled—caught between panic and the undeniable weight of Alpha command. His wolf keened inside, torn, clawing, but soothed by the steady rumble, by the warmth cocooning him.

“I don’t care what you think this means,” Boboiboy growled softly, the sound curling protective and fierce around Fang’s ears. “You’re not allowed to hide anymore.”

Fang’s breath hitched, his arms trapped uselessly against Boboiboy’s chest. Shame burned hot, but the grounding—oh gods, the grounding—was stronger. The steady scent. The steady heartbeat. The unyielding warmth. His wolf whimpered again, trembling in surrender.

And then Boboiboy went further. His nose dipped down, brushing against the curve of Fang’s neck, right where scent pooled strongest. He pressed in, firm, deliberate, leaving a streak of cinnamon-sunlight along skin still fever-warm. Not a claim—an anchor.

Fang shuddered, breath catching sharply, his wolf collapsing into silence under the mark. His pride screamed, but his body… his body sagged, instinct bowing to Alpha command.

“You trusted me,” Boboiboy whispered against his skin, the words rumbling through the mark, Alpha-deep. “That’s all. And that’s enough.”

Fang squeezed his eyes shut, tears burning, his pride fracturing against the solid wall of comfort. He couldn’t breathe past the ache in his chest, but slowly—against every jagged instinct—his body melted back into the Alpha’s arms, and he let go of his pride.

The room had gone so quiet that it was almost lulling Fang into sleep.

His head felt heavy against Boboiboy’s chest, his breathing finally steady after all the tension from earlier. Safe. He felt…safe. His eyelids dipped lower, just about to fall shut—

CRASH!

“AHHH!” Gopal yelped as his chair tipped and he hit the floor with a loud thud.

Everyone jumped—Yaya actually shot upright with a startled squeak, Ying flinched awake mid-snore, and Fang jerked in surprise, his heart leaping. His feverish body shivered slightly against Boboiboy’s chest, sweat still clinging to his flushed skin. Each inhale rasped, painful, and dry.

Immediately, he tried to slip free, his instinct telling him to go check on his packmate. But Boboiboy’s arms locked tighter, Alpha instincts overriding, keeping him firmly pinned.

“Gopal, you okay?” Boboiboy called out, not budging an inch. His voice was steady—commanding even—as if daring Fang to test his grip.

“I-I’m fine, I’m fine!” Gopal groaned, sitting up while clutching his back. “Maybe just… broke my spine a little…” He winced dramatically before forcing a crooked grin. “Don’t worry! Happens all the time!”

But then his gaze sharpened—landing on Boboiboy, specifically the Alpha cradling their Omega. Fang was curled weak and feverish, his scent sharp and thin from sickness, muffled beneath the cinnamon-sunlight wrapping him close. And Boboiboy—face flushed, nose pressed dangerously close to Fang’s neck—looked every inch the Alpha guarding what was his.

Gopal froze. Then his grin turned feral.

Ying and Yaya followed his gaze. Both of them stilled… and then matching Beta-smiles broke out, full of knowing mischief.

“Ohhh…would you look at that,” Yaya hummed, voice lilting with pack-play suspicion.

“What do we have here, Alpha?” Ying added, eyes glinting.

Fang blinked, startled. He’d expected their teasing to land on both of them. But no—Their gazes pinned Boboiboy alone. Their scents were curious, delighted—pack Betas circling the Alpha who’d just slipped.

And that was… new.

Boboiboy’s ears went red instantly. “I-it’s not what you think!” he stammered, hugging Fang closer without realizing. His Alpha pressed instinctively forward, blocking Fang from view, scent flaring hotter. “He collapsed yesterday, okay? Doctor’s orders! He needs rest, and he’ll be lucky if I let him go at all!”

Fang’s fever made him shiver despite the Alpha warmth cocooning him. His chest rattled with shallow coughs, breath uneven. But the steady hand rubbing circles on his back kept him anchored. His Omega—exhausted, sick, but instinctive—leaned in helplessly.

Boboiboy adjusted his hold, murmuring low against Fang’s ear, voice dipped in that calm Alpha rumble, “It’s okay… just rest. We’ve got you,” his hand pressing circles against Fang’s back each time a cough shook him.

“Exactly!” Gopal nodded suddenly, oblivious to the Alpha instincts still playing out. “Doctor’s orders. Rest.”

“Rest, Fang,” Ying echoed, folding her arms with a grin.

“Yep, no moving,” Yaya chimed in cheerfully.

Fang stared at them like they had collectively lost their minds. 'What is wrong with them?' he thought, baffled. 'Did my collapse knock their brains loose?'

The guilt bubbled up anyway—heavy and suffocating. Words pressed to his tongue: Sorry. I’m fine. Really, I’m—

But before he could speak, Boboiboy cut him off, voice sharp, Alpha-firm. “Fang. If you dare say you’re fine one more time, I won’t even let you walk on your own.” His grip unconsciously tightened, pulling Fang closer against his chest.

Then, without realizing it, he slipped.

“Got it, Bunny?”

The word left his mouth soft—but wrapped in Alpha rumble, sinking into the space between them.

And then—silence.

Absolute silence.

Fang went rigid. His omega jolted at the unexpected term of endearment. His face burned crimson, heat rushing to his ears. Fever made him sweat harder, strands of hair sticking to his forehead, and another cough rattled from his chest—met instantly with Boboiboy's hand on his back, steady, scent blanketing. 'Bunny? Did he just—'

The Betas, however, grinned like sharks who’d scented blood.

“...Bunny?” Gopal broke the silence, gleeful. “Did you just call him Bunny?”

Boboiboy blinked. “Wait, what? I—I did?” Realization hit, and his face went crimson, ears burning.

“I DIDN’T—THAT WAS—IT WAS A SLIP—!”

Yaya squealed, Ying leaned forward with her smirk sharpening, and Gopal? He looked like he’d been handed the single greatest piece of leverage in pack history.

Fang covered his face with his hand, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. His heart was racing, his fevered body weak, trembling, and his blush only deepened the longer Boboiboy kept scenting him in front of everyone.

“Bunny,” Gopal repeated, savoring it like prey pinned under his claws. His grin stretched ear to ear. “Ohhh, this is gold. This is better than I could have ever imagined.” He leaned forward dramatically, pointing. “Our Alpha has a pet name for Fang.”

“Pet name?” Yaya squealed, bouncing on her toes. “That’s adorable! Bunny? Aww, that suits him so well!”

“Wait, wait,” Ying cut in slyly. “We can’t just gloss over this. He didn’t just say it—he said it so naturally. Like he’s been calling him that in his head for ages.”

Boboiboy choked. “I—Wha—No! I haven’t!” His voice pitched high, panicked, his blush climbing fast. “It just slipped, I swear!”

“Ohhh, sure, sure,” Gopal sing-songed. “Slipped out because you’ve been thinking about it non-stop, huh? ‘Bunny this, Bunny that—my precious little Bunny.’”

“GOPAL—” Boboiboy’s growl cracked the air like thunder, protective and mortified, but it only made the Betas laugh harder.

Meanwhile, Fang tugged weakly at Boboiboy’s arms, mumbling from behind his hand. “Let me go. This is humiliating…” Though even in his plea, his instincts pressed closer, soothed by the Alpha warmth and steady scent pressed all around him. And Boboiboy, flustered as he was, still didn’t budge. The alpha's instincts kept Fang tucked firmly in place, scent curling possessively around him.

Yaya clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling. “Bunny… oh, that’s adorable! Fang, you really do look like one sometimes when you’re sulking, you know!”

Fang dropped his hand, glaring with crimson eyes now burning hotter than ever. “I do not.”

“You so do,” Ying smirked. “Red eyes, little frown, nose scrunching—total bunny vibes.”

“I don’t—!” Fang’s protest strangled itself into silence when Gopal suddenly clutched his chest dramatically.

“I can’t believe it,” he gasped, collapsing back. “Our Alpha got himself a Bunny, I could die of happiness.”

“GOPAL—”

“Bunnyboy!” Gopal suddenly shouted, pointing at Boboiboy like he’d just discovered fire. “That’s it! That’s your new nickname! Bunnyboy!”

Yaya instantly burst into giggles, clapping like it was the funniest thing she’d heard all year. Ying chuckled mercilessly. Even Fang couldn’t stop the strangled noise that left his throat—a mix between a growl and a mortified squeak.

“Stop it!” Boboiboy yelled, face buried in his hand. “Do not call me that!”

“Too late!” Gopal declared triumphantly. “It’s official. Bunnyboy and his Bunny—what a pair!”

Yaya and Ying nodded in unison, grinning like delighted Betas who’d just witnessed a courtship ritual unfold in real time.

Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, Gopal’s eyes lit up again. “You know what? I’m buying bunny ears. Purple ones. With fluff balls. Fang, you’re gonna look amazing.”

Fang went rigid. “Don’t you dare.”

“Ohhh, I dare,” Gopal said, rubbing his hands together like an evil mastermind. “I’ll even get a carrot plush for you to hold—”

Before he could finish, Ying and Yaya began bouncing lightly on their toes, making soft hop, hop, hop noises in unison.

“Stop.” Fang’s voice dropped, warning, rough.

“Hop, hop,” Ying repeated, smirking.

“Bunny Fang! Hop, hop!” Yaya chimed cheerfully.

“I said—STOP—!” Fang finally exploded, his entire face crimson as he sat up sharply in Boboiboy’s lap, crimson eyes blazing, fangs bared in sheer humiliation and fury. Carrot and lavender scent spiked sharply—defensive, panicked.

The Betas froze for half a beat.

Then Gopal wheezed, falling over with laughter. “Oh my god—he even snapped like an angry bunny! This is killing me!”

Yaya collapsed into giggles again, hugging her pillow. Ying smirked knowingly, eyes glittering like a cat toying with a mouse.

Meanwhile, Fang buried his face back into Boboiboy’s chest, muffling a groan that came out somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “I really hate all of you.”

But Boboiboy’s arms only tightened, Alpha scent thickening protectively around him. And beneath the humiliation, Fang’s Omega wolf curled quietly, content.

Safe.

Claimed, even if no one said it yet.

Chapter Text

The infirmary was quieter now, though the air still carried the lingering hum of pack energy—warmth, laughter, and the sharp tang of embarrassment that hadn’t quite faded.

Fang was curled in Boboiboy’s lap, half-hidden, half-clinging, while Boboiboy held him as if letting go would mean losing him.

The lights overhead mimicked morning, soft and steady. A fragile peace hung between them.

Then—

A soft knock.

“Ugh… morning already?” a groggy voice muttered as the door slid open. The medic shuffled in, hair messy, eyes ringed with shadows of exhaustion.

The entire pack stiffened. Ying’s crisp mint-and-steel presence flickered sharply with alertness, Yaya’s honey-vanilla swelled with gentle concern, while Gopal’s cocoa-and-roasted-peanuts scent spiked clumsily with worry. 

“You okay, sir?” Ying asked, more seriously than usual. 

The medic waved them off with a tired smile. “I’m fine… just didn’t sleep. Came to check on the kid’s vitals, see if he’s ready to leave.”

Their gaze swept the room—pausing at Boboiboy and Fang.

Boboiboy instinctively tightened his arms. His cinnamon-and-sunlight scent pressed protectively around Fang’s fever-flushed body. Fang’s own lavender-and-carrot scent stuttered, weak and frayed, curling around him in shameful wisps. He trembled faintly against Boboiboy’s chest.

The medic blinked, then snorted softly. “Ah. I see. Well, boy, let your mate—” 

The word hit like a thunderclap.

Fang’s crimson eyes widened, and his face flamed hotter than any fever. “M-Mate?!” he squeaked, voice high and frantic. 'No, no, no, I can’t—this can’t be happening… everyone’s looking… This is too embarrassing…' 

Boboiboy stiffened, heart sinking. “Wha—no! We’re not—he’s not—what?!” His voice stumbled, his cinnamon scent flaring too strongly, betraying every denial. 

Yaya slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a squeak, her vanilla-honey aura buzzing with suppressed laughter. Ying’s mint-and-steel spiked sharp amusement. Gopal practically vibrated with glee, cocoa scent going nutty with delight.

The medic, oblivious, waved them all down. “Doesn’t matter. Let him go. I just need to check his vitals before I collapse.”

Boboiboy froze, 'I don’t want to let him go…'

Then, reluctantly eased Fang from his lap and moved away from the bed. His hands lingered, steadying him, reluctant. Cinnamon clung stubbornly even as the space widened. 

Fang sat shakily on the bed, avoiding everyone’s eyes. His scent soured, lavender wilting under the weight of guilt. 'I’m weak. I’m just… dragging them down. They’ll hate this. They’ll hate me.'

Then—the whispers returned. The voices that had been silent for a few moments clawed at the edges of his mind.

You’re useless.

Everyone’s doing this because they have to, not because they care.

You’ll only slow them down… you’re a burden.

Fang’s chest tightened, his body tensing instinctively. 'No… I’m trying… I can’t let them see me like this…'

Yaya, Ying, and Gopal had been doing their best to hold back laughter, but the sight—Boboiboy reluctantly releasing Fang after the “Mate” slip—made their suppressed giggles more precarious.         

The medic leaned in, efficient, checking Fang’s temperature and pulse. His brow furrowed. “Still high, but not dangerous anymore. You’re cleared to leave. But—” His voice sharpened. “—only if you’re with someone capable of monitoring you.”

The words made Fang flinch, shame lancing through him. Lavender spiked bitter, twisted with carrots gone acrid. 'Someone else… watching me… wasting time because I can’t even handle myself…'

“No,” Fang snapped too quickly, voice raw. “I can take care of myself.” His shoulders hunched tight, trembling, defensive. His pride snarled at the implication—helpless, needy, weak. 

The medic raised an eyebrow. “No. You can' t staying here indefinitely. If you pass the danger levels, I can’t keep you in the infirmary. Someone else has to stay with you.”

The words hit Fang like stones, guilt and shame twisting his stomach. 'I can’t… I don’t want anyone to bear with me. I’m… too weak…'

His breath hitched. Lavender curled inward, collapsing on itself, sinking toward despair.

Before the spiral could root too deep, cinnamon-and-sunlight flared across it—firm, grounding, Alpha-steady. Boboiboy stepped forward, voice unwavering. “Fang stays with me. In my room. I’ll watch him and make sure he rests.”

Lavender wavered, flickering uncertain under the weight of that certainty. Fang blinked, startled, a warmth sparking despite himself. 'Why does he—why would he—'

“Not just you,” Yaya added firmly, vanilla-honey blooming around the space like a blanket. “We’ll help too.”

“Rotations,” Ying said briskly, mint-and-steel sharp with determination. “He won’t be left alone.”

“And I,” Gopal declared, puffing his chest, cocoa scent wobbling between playful and protective, “will make sure he doesn’t sneak out for snacks or something stupid.”

The medic exhaled, finally satisfied. “Good enough. He’s cleared. Take him.”

The pack breathed easier, tension unspooling.

But Fang… Fang sat trembling, lavender and carrot still tangled in knots of shame. He wanted to believe them—wanted to believe this wasn’t just an obligation. But the whispers pressed in, cruel and relentless.

They’re only humoring you.

You’re a burden.

A useless Omega.

His throat closed, chest burning with the effort to hold back the tears. His scent faltered, collapsing in on itself, brittle and fractured. Lavender curled sharply, almost sour, the fragile sweetness of it drowning beneath self-loathing.

Boboiboy’s instincts slammed into gear before he could think. Cinnamon-and-sunlight surged out in a heavy wave, pushing back against Fang’s unraveling Omega-scent. He moved closer, head dipping, and pressed his scent firmly into Fang’s shoulder—deliberate, grounding marks. Mine. Safe. Anchored.

Fang startled, breath hitching, his spiraling thoughts stuttering against the sudden weight of Alpha certainty. Lavender flickered, twitching as if unsure whether to recoil or melt into it.

But the pack wasn’t blind. Yaya, already leaning forward, let her vanilla-and-honey warmth spill freely, coating the edges of the room like a blanket. Ying’s mint-and-steel sharpened protectively, steadying like the cool edge of a blade pressed against chaos. Even Gopal, half-unaware of what he was doing, let his cocoa-and-roasted-peanuts scent swell, clumsy but sincere, weaving comfort through the air.

Together, their scents wrapped Fang in a cocoon—sweet, sharp, warm, protective—every note reinforcing Boboiboy’s cinnamon sunfire as it branded over Fang’s frayed lavender.

Fang’s breathing faltered. The whispers clawed one last time—they’re pretending, they don’t care—but they crumbled against the wall of scent, the sheer weight of belonging pressed around him. His shoulders sagged before he could stop them, eyes burning, throat tight.

Boboiboy’s head pressed to the curve of his shoulder. Cinnamon-and-sunlight pulsed stronger with every shaky inhale Fang drew, until lavender finally—hesitantly—uncoiled. Softer now, sweeter, almost pliant.

The Betas exchanged glances, the kind of silent look only a pack shared. None of them said a word, but they leaned in closer—crowding him not with pressure but with presence.

Lavender broke—sweet and fragile—and for the first time in hours, Fang’s chest loosened. His trembling slowed, his body slumping against the Alpha without resistance, the pack’s scents drowning out the whispers until all that was left was warmth.

Boboiboy raised his head from Fang's shoulder as they prepared to leave, with a thought. 'We’ll take it slow. Step by step. You won’t face this alone.'

He gently helped Fang off the bed, hands firm but careful against his trembling body. Fang leaned heavily on him, trying to muster the strength to walk, but the moment his feet touched the floor, a sharp pain shot through his knees.

“Ah!” Fang cried out, his voice cracking as the world seemed to tilt. His head spun violently, and before he could steady himself, his knees gave out entirely.

Boboiboy reacted instantly, catching him before he could hit the ground. “Fang!” he shouted, concern lacing every syllable.

“FANG!” Yaya, Ying, and Gopal echoed almost simultaneously, their voices tight with worry.

The medic, now fully alert, dashed forward, eyes scanning Fang’s pale, flushed face. “Kid, I need you to tell me, where does it hurt?!”

Boboiboy held Fang close, supporting his weight against him, cinnamon-sunlight flaring sharp and protective. “What’s going on, doctor?” he asked, voice tense, worry radiating off him in waves.

The medic knelt slightly, examining Fang while asking gently, “Tell me, kid. Where is the pain? Knees? Legs? Everywhere?”

Fang tried to protest, but words barely escaped past the tremor in his lips. “…everything… hurts,” he whispered, guilt and shame coiling tight in his chest. 'I can’t even walk… I’m truly useless…'

The medic’s gaze softened with understanding, though their tone remained professional. “Thought this might happen. The fever and severe physical exhaustion strained your muscles. They’re inflamed internally, so they need to rest and heal. Painkillers with the fever medicine will help, but no walking for at least a day. Understand?”

Fang’s face flushed hot—not from the fever this time, but from shame. 'A day? I… I don't want to bother the others again…'

The voices in his head surged, relentless.

You’re useless.

Everyone’s stuck babysitting you.

You’ll just slow them down.

You don’t deserve care.

Lavender and carrot soured, curling into brittle tangles of despair. The pack caught it instantly. Yaya’s vanilla-honey rushed forward in soft reassurance, Ying’s mint-and-steel snapped defensively, Gopal’s cocoa-and-peanuts puffed clumsily but earnestly like a blanket hastily thrown across cracks.

But it was Boboiboy’s Alpha instincts that snapped hardest.

Before Fang could sink further into that spiral or even try to ask for a wheelchair, Boboiboy scooped him up in his arms, bridal-style, cinnamon-sunlight flaring hot and firm.

“Boboiboy—put me down!” Fang protested immediately, crimson spreading across his cheeks, embarrassment magnified by the intimate position. “I… I can—”

“Nope,” Boboiboy said firmly, voice low but steady, dominance woven in every syllable. He leaned down and nuzzled deliberately against Fang’s temple, pressing scent-mark sharp and grounding before Fang could recoil. “You’re not walking. We’ll make sure you rest properly.” His gaze flicked toward the medic, daring them to contradict him.

Fang groaned, head buried against Boboiboy’s shoulder. 'I can’t believe this… I’m being carried… like a fricking damsel in distress…'

Yet no matter how hard his pride clawed, his Omega side betrayed him. His muscles slackened in Boboiboy’s arms, his chest tightening with the dizzy rush of being held. The bridal carry screamed protection, screamed claim, screamed safe. His instincts purred and pressed closer even as his human thoughts shrieked humiliation.

Yaya, Ying, and Gopal trailed behind them, grinning at the scene as if it were the most entertaining thing in the world.

“Looks like Fang is getting the VIP treatment!” Yaya teased lightly, her honey-vanilla buzzing bright.

Fang growled faintly, muffled against Boboiboy’s shoulder, lavender twisting tighter in humiliation.

“Stop laughing at me…” Fang mumbled, voice thick with shame.

“Not happening,” Gopal said with a smirk, cocoa wobbling warm and teasing. “You’re clearly enjoying the attention, even if you won’t admit it.”

Ying, moving beside them, took the medicine from the medic who held it toward her. “Here,” the medic said, handing it off carefully. “Make sure he takes the medicine before and after meals.”

Fang glanced at the pouch, guilt twisting sharper. 'Even this… they have to help me…' His lavender stuttered, sinking bitter and small.

Boboiboy caught it instantly. His Alpha instincts shoved forward—firm, unyielding. He bent his head, murmuring low, cinnamon-sunlight pulsing with every word. “We’ll take care of you. Step by step, Bunny. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The nickname hit harder than the bridal carry. “Bunny.” Fang’s breath stuttered, his face burning red. His pride hissed, too much, too humiliating, but his Omega instincts curled in tight, keening at the endearment. Affection. Claim. Safe.

His hand pressed weakly against Boboiboy’s chest, an empty protest.But instead of pushing, his fingers curled—gripping fabric, holding on.

Against his will, his body leaned closer, chasing warmth. His instincts whimpered at the nickname, ears pricked in instinctual submission only he could feel.

'Why would he—why would he call me that again?!'

And all around him, the pack scents pressed closer—vanilla, mint, cocoa, cinnamon—interwoven, unbreakable, wrapping his shame in a net of belonging.

Yaya quietly doubled back, grabbing Fang’s gloves and visor from the nightstand near the bed.

She tucked them under her arm with a small, satisfied smile. “Don’t worry, Fang. I’ve got your stuff. Wouldn’t want you losing your tough-guy look, right?” she teased lightly, vanilla-honey flickering in the air.

Fang groaned, muffled against Boboiboy. “…just… leave them…” His embarrassment only grew heavier with every word spoken around him.

Gopal, never one to miss a chance, grinned like a fox. “Don’t worry, Bunny,” he said, stretching the word out with mock sweetness, cocoa puffing warm with amusement, “We’ll make sure you’re—”

He didn’t even get to finish. Boboiboy shot him a sharp glare over his shoulder, cinnamon-sunlight tightening, protective. His arms locked firmer around Fang without thought. “Don’t. That’s my nickname for him.” His voice was firm, almost possessive.

The trio froze for a split second.

Yaya’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Ying raised her brows, mint sharp with curiosity, then quickly hid her smirk behind her hand. Gopal’s grin only widened into something utterly mischievous, cocoa practically sparking.

“Ohhh,” Gopal sing-songed, elbowing Ying dramatically. “My nickname, huh? Since when are you two so—”

“Shut it!” Boboiboy snapped, ears burning almost as much as Fang’s cheeks. His cinnamon flared hotter, circling Fang in a shield.

Yaya and Ying exchanged knowing looks, giggles bubbling out despite their attempts to stay composed.

Even Fang, who moments ago had been drowning in guilt and shame, found his thoughts short-circuiting completely.

'His?' His blush deepened, his ears burning as he muttered into Boboiboy’s shoulder, “This is… humiliating…”

But the words wavered, because something else was rising to the surface.

The closer he stayed tucked into Boboiboy’s hold, the more his omega instincts slipped past the careful walls he’d built. Fang found himself pressing a little closer, nose brushing lightly against the warm skin of Boboiboy’s neck before he could stop himself. He inhaled without meaning to—drawn in, soothed by the steady cinnamon threaded with sunlight—and his chest loosened despite his shame.

The shift went unnoticed by the betas, as they all joked around and moved toward Boboiboy's room.

Only Boboiboy noticed and recognized it for what it was. Fang’s omega was slipping through, instincts raw and searching. The Alpha stilled, heartbeat steady under Fang’s ear, and adjusted his hold in a subtle, protective curl, scent wrapping tighter around the trembling omega. Shielding him. Claiming him without words.

And Fang… Fang didn’t fight it. His omega quieted, sinking into the circle of warmth he’d found. His lashes lowered, body unconsciously tucking in, curling smaller against Boboiboy like he couldn’t help but submit to the safety offered.

Despite his embarrassment, despite the voices that still clawed at him, Fang felt something small but steady in his chest—an odd, fragile warmth that refused to be drowned out.

As they continued down the hall, surrounded by laughter, the subtle shift in scents, and Boboiboy’s quiet determination, Fang realized he wasn’t sure whether he hated this moment… or secretly needed it.

The door to Boboiboy’s room slid open with a soft hiss. Inside, the dim glow of a small desk lamp lit the space—a cozy little world tucked away in the chaos of TAPOPS. The bed sat neatly made, its orange sheets bright even in the low light.

The desk was piled with a few scattered notes and a shelf lined with books about distant planets and power spheres. A nightstand stood at the bedside, where Ochobot sat in his recharging pot, his form faintly humming with power.

The hum cut short as the sound of the door stirred him awake. His eyes blinked to life in a flicker of blue. “Boboiboy—! Do you realize what time it is? You didn’t come back to sleep at all last night!” His voice, sharp with worry, filled the quiet room. “You can’t just—”

Ochobot’s rant cut itself off. His gaze locked on the sight before him: Boboiboy stepping in, Fang resting weakly in his arms, Gopal, Yaya, and Ying filing silently in behind.

“O-Oh no,” Ochobot stammered, darting out of his charging dock. “Fang! What happened? Are you hurt? What—”

“I’m fi—” Fang tried to insist, though his voice cracked and thinly held itself together.

But before he could finish, Boboiboy cut him off, firm yet gentle. “He’s not fine. Fang’s got a fever. He’s going to stay here. With me. For at least two weeks.”

The certainty in his voice left no room for argument. Though in the back of his mind, Boboiboy added silently, 'And if I have my way… he won’t be going anywhere after that.' 

Yaya stepped in with a nod, her honey-sweet scent softening in quiet agreement. “We’ll help too, Ochobot. He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Yeah, Doc’s orders,” Gopal added quickly, cocoa puffing warm and smug, puffing out his chest as if he had been the one to give them.

“Boboiboy’s right,” Ying agreed softly, her mint cooling into something steady and even. “Fang just needs to rest.”

The group shuffled further inside, their scents brushing together instinctively, filling the once-quiet room with the subtle hum of pack.

Boboiboy crossed to the bed and carefully sat down, easing Fang onto his lap like he was made of glass.

Immediately, Fang tensed. His hands pressed weakly against Boboiboy’s arms as he tried to pull away. “Boboiboy… You don’t need to—”

“You heard what they said,” Boboiboy cut in, tightening his hold with a stubbornness that left no room for escape. His cinnamon-sunlight flared, wrapping thickly around Fang, shielding him. “Doctor’s orders.” His grin softened as he added, low and warm, “So stay still, Bunny.”

Fang froze. Heat crept to his ears faster than the fever already had. He was internally mortified at the nickname BoBoiBoy kept on calling him with. 

But… deep down, in a corner of his heart, he refused to acknowledge, something else flickered. The warmth of being held. The quiet steadiness of Boboiboy’s arms. The certainty in his voice. It was… comforting. Too comforting.

Pathetic, the voices in his head hissed.

Look at you, sitting there like a child.

You’re weak. A burden. They’re laughing at you.

And yet, this time, the sharp edge of the words didn’t cut as deeply. They sounded… quieter. Distant. Almost muffled by the steady heartbeat against his ear.

Don’t get used to it, the whispers pressed again, almost desperate to be heard. He’ll tire of you. They all will. You’ll drag them down.

And still, Fang couldn’t help it. His nose brushed faintly against the line of Boboiboy’s neck, drawing in the cinnamon threaded with sunlight. It wasn’t conscious—his omega was scent-seeking, searching for calm, for safety. His shoulders slackened, body curling in closer, almost nestling despite himself.

The shift was unmistakable. Fang’s walls were cracking, his omega bleeding through, seeking an Alpha he would normally push away.

And Boboiboy felt it—all of it. His scent rose instantly, wrapping heavier and hotter, blanketing Fang in cinnamon warmth. He pressed it outward, a shield flaring strong enough to blur the edges, masking what Fang was really doing.

To the others, it looked like simple exhaustion, nothing more. His shield made sure of it.

Yaya’s honey dipped gently in sympathy. Ying’s mint steadied with quiet reassurance. Gopal rubbed the back of his neck, grin faltering just slightly as he muttered, “Huh, guess Fang is really wiped out…”

Not one of them questioned it. Not one of them noticed what was happening under the surface.

Because Boboiboy wouldn’t let them. He stood between Fang and every pair of curious eyes, every scent sharp enough to guess the truth. This was private. His to protect. His to guard.

And Fang… Fang didn’t fight it. The voices were quieter here. Almost silent. His lashes lowered, body tucking in, curling smaller like he couldn’t help but submit to the safety offered.

Ochobot, however, tilted his head with all the robotic confusion in the galaxy. “Bunny? What in the world did I miss while I was recharging…?”

Yaya finally took pity on Ochobot. She placed Fang’s gloves and visor gently on the nightstand before turning toward the little robot, who had been hovering restlessly nearby.

“Well, after Fang collapsed last night—”

“What?!” Ochobot cut her off, voice pitched in alarm. His lights flickered in distress, and he zipped closer to Fang’s side.

“Ochobot, calm down,” Ying soothed quickly, mint cooling sharply into something steady. Her hand brushed the robot’s head gently, her own scent folding softer in an instinctive attempt to settle him. “BoBoiBoy was there with him. We all were. We took him straight to the infirmary.”

“The medics ran tests,” Gopal added, quieter than usual, cocoa dimming into something calmer, grounding. For once, his voice carried no teasing edge. “They said Fang can’t walk for a day, and he needs at least two weeks of rest. No training, no missions.”

The last part caught Fang off guard. He blinked, confusion creasing his face. “…When did they say that?”

BoBoiBoy, who had Fang held tightly in his arms without letting him strain, answered quietly. “It was last night, while you were asleep.”

He didn’t want to say unconscious. The memory burned too sharply—Fang swaying, fighting to stay upright, his crimson red eyes fluttering shut just before his weight collapsed into BoBoiBoy’s arms. The thought of what could have happened if he hadn’t been there left a knot in his chest.

His jaw tightened as the words thundered in his mind, 'I won’t let that happen again. Never.'

“I don’t need that long,” Fang protested, trying to sound stronger than he felt. “A few days and I’ll be fine.”

The word fine stabbed through BoBoiBoy like a blade. Fang always said that. Always when he was bleeding, when he was breaking, when he was hiding behind his walls. Every time, it was another attempt to push them away. To push him away.

BoBoiBoy forced a grin, masking the ache in his chest with playfulness. “Sorry, Bunny, but the medic already sent the notice to the higher-ups. No take-backs. You’re stuck.”

He kept his tone light, but his Alpha flared unconsciously, cinnamon-sunlight winding around Fang like a promise. He wouldn’t let him wriggle out of this. Not this time.

Ochobot still hovered anxiously, but Yaya’s honey spread warm and thick in the room, steadying. Ying’s mint held steady like cool glass. Even Gopal’s cocoa wrapping softly instead of sharp. Without realizing it, the pack shifted—closing in protectively, circling Fang the way they would circle an injured limb.

Fang sagged a little deeper into BoBoiBoy’s chest, his protest dissolving under the weight of so many steady scents. He wanted to argue. He wanted to insist he wasn’t weak. That he wasn’t a burden.

But pressed this close, with the steady thump of BoBoiBoy’s heartbeat against his ear, the voices in his head faltered.

The words tried to claw through, but they were muffled now. Smothered beneath cinnamon-sunlight and the pack’s steady hum. His fevered mind sank against the warmth, lulled by arms that refused to let him go.

‘I shouldn’t… I don’t deserve this…’ Fang thought miserably. And yet, his omega slipped anyway—nose continued brushing instinctively against BoBoiBoy’s neck, seeking calm, seeking Alpha. His shoulders loosened, his body tucking in tighter, betraying the instinct for comfort he tried so hard to deny.

The others didn’t see it. BoBoiBoy made sure of that. His scent had wrapped tight enough to blur Fang’s slip. Yaya, Ying, and Gopal leaned closer, sympathetic, none the wiser.

“Two weeks will pass before you know it,” Ying promised softly.

“And we’ll be here with you the whole time,” Gopal said, surprisingly firm.

“You won’t be alone,” Yaya added, honey-sweet and warm.

Ochobot bobbed, his voice still worried but gentler now. “Please, Fang. Just rest. Let us help.”

For once, Fang couldn’t summon a retort. His lashes trembled as his eye drifted shut, his face softening in rare vulnerability.

BoBoiBoy’s chest ached at the sight. His arms tightened slightly, protective instinct surging again. 'Stay here,' his Alpha whispered fiercely, silent but certain. 'With me, where you belong.'

And for the first time in a long while, Fang didn’t fight back.

Ochobot tilted his head, lens blinking with exaggerated innocence.

“By the way… why did BoBoiBoy just call Fang ‘Bunny’?”

The question dropped like a stone in the middle of the room.

Both BoBoiBoy and Fang froze—BoBoiBoy’s arms tightening reflexively, scent sharpening, and Fang stiffening in his lap, heat rushing to his cheeks that had nothing to do with his fever.

Gopal’s grin spread wide, mischief flaring like cocoa-sugar sparks. “Ohhh, that! You caught it, too?”

“Of course he did,” Ying said smoothly, mint cooling into sly amusement. She folded her arms with a teasing smirk. “BoBoiBoy slipped it when we were at the infirmary.”

“And then,” Yaya added dramatically, her honey swirling sweet and sticky in the air, “he swore nobody else was allowed to use it. Just him.”

Ochobot’s screen flickered with a smirk emoticon. “Interesting…”

“W-Wha—?!” BoBoiBoy stammered, face redder than a dying sun. He flailed with one arm, the other clamped tight around Fang’s waist. “T-That’s not—it’s not like that!”

“Sure it isn’t,” Gopal sighed like a tragic actor, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. “Oh, poor us. Never allowed to call Fang ‘Bunny’ even once!”

“Stop it!” BoBoiBoy groaned, cinnamon-sunlight spiking hot in the air. His Alpha bristled instinctively, scent curling protective and claiming.

Fang curled smaller in his lap, his fevered cheeks blazing scarlet. He buried half his face against BoBoiBoy’s chest to hide, ears glowing.

‘Why are they making such a big deal out of this?! It’s just a nickname… isn’t it?’

But under his mortification, something traitorous flickered in his chest. Because when BoBoiBoy said it, Bunny didn’t sound mocking. It sounded soft. Fond. Too fond. And his omega stirred restlessly, wanting to hear it again.

Ying tilted her head, smirk sharp. “Admit it, BoBoiBoy—you don’t want to share because you like it too much.”

Before BoBoiBoy could sputter, Ochobot zipped closer to Fang, chirping brightly, “Well then… let’s test it! Bunny—”

The word barely left his speakers before BoBoiBoy’s head snapped up. His Alpha roared in his chest, cinnamon flaring so sharply it smothered the air. “Nope! No, no way, nope! That’s my nickname for him. Mine. Nobody else uses it.”

The pack stilled. Yaya’s honey rippled with delight, Ying’s mint fizzed with amusement, Gopal’s cocoa bubbled into a laugh he couldn’t contain.

“Ooooh,” Ochobot teased, his screen flashing a wicked grin. “Territorial, are we?”

BoBoiBoy’s cheeks burned, but his arms cinched tighter, every line of him screaming Alpha. “I’m not—! It’s just—!” He ducked his face into Fang’s hair, voice muffled. “Stop already!”

But even as he stammered, the truth pounded through his chest. 'No one else is calling him that. No one. Because Fang is mine to protect. Mine to hold. Mine to keep safe. Bunny is mine.'

Fang, meanwhile, had buried his face completely in his hands, ears burning. His omega shivered under the weight of BoBoiBoy’s scent, instinct recognizing exactly what the Alpha had just done—even if the others only heard embarrassment.

Yaya squealed, clapping her hands. “He’s protecting his Bunny!”

Both BoBoiBoy and Fang groaned in unison—one in protest, one in sheer mortification—as the room dissolved into laughter.

But Gopal wasn’t finished. Wiping tears, he leaned forward with a wicked grin. “Alright then, if Bunny is off-limits… how about Fluffy Fang?”

The reaction was instant. BoBoiBoy hauled Fang flush against him, arms like steel bands, cinnamon scent spiking furious-possessive. Fang let out a muffled squeak.

“Absolutely not! Try again and you’ll regret it!” BoBoiBoy growled, his voice low enough that every nerve in Fang’s body lit up.

“Eeep—BoBoiBoy, I can’t breathe!” Fang yelped into his chest, wriggling uselessly.

Ying smirked, tapping her chin. “Fine, then… Snowball. Cute, soft, rolls away when you poke him—”

“DENIED!” BoBoiBoy thundered, squeezing Fang tighter until the omega gave another startled squeak. His Alpha scent lashed sharply, making the pack giggle but also instinctively back off from the edge of his claim.

Yaya gasped dramatically, honey spilling sweetly. “Ohhh! What about kitten? Look at those pouty eyes—he’s totally a kitten!”

BoBoiBoy nearly choked. “WHAT?! Don’t you dare!” He wrapped his arms around Fang like a dragon curling over its hoard. “He’s not a kitten. He’s my Bunny. Get it right!”

Fang’s ears burned scarlet, his whole body trembling from embarrassment—and from something deeper, quieter. His omega keened at the Alpha certainty in those words, his chest fluttering out of control.

Ochobot, merciless, chimed in again. “Hmm… how about… Carrot? Goes well with Bunny.”

The air froze.

“NO!!” BoBoiBoy snapped, voice sharp enough to rattle Ochobot’s frame. His Alpha blazed, cinnamon-sunlight filling every corner of the room, shielding Fang completely.

He dragged Fang tighter against him, burying his head into his chest like he was confiscating him from existence. “No carrots. No snowballs. No kittens. No fluffy anything. Only Bunny—and only from me!”

For a moment, the pack went silent, caught in the weight of his Alpha edge. Even Yaya and Gopal blinked, cheeks warming at the pulse of possessiveness in the air.

Then the room exploded into chaos—Gopal rolling on the floor, wheezing, Yaya shrieking into Ying’s shoulder, Ying covering her mouth to smother her giggles. Ochobot replayed “only from me” on loop in glowing subtitles until Fang thought he might combust.

“BoBoiBoy!!” Fang yelped, flailing weakly in his hold. “You’re crushing me!”

“Too bad,” BoBoiBoy huffed, chin pressing stubbornly to Fang’s hair, Alpha thrumming with satisfaction. “If it keeps them from stealing you, I’ll hold you forever.”

“He said forever!” Yaya squealed, honey bubbling over into another shriek of delight.

Fang groaned, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “Someone dig me a hole. Please. I’ll jump in.”

“Sorry, Fang,” Gopal wheezed between laughter, “BoBoiBoy’s already digging one—he’s burying himself in it with you!”

BoBoiBoy ignored them all, arms locked firm, eyes burning as he glared at anyone who dared laugh too hard. His Alpha spoke in silence, fierce and unyielding, 'Mine. He’s mine. My Bunny. My mate.'

Fang’s heart skipped. His omega trembled. And though he wanted to deny it, his body curled in tighter, submitting quietly to the safety of that claim.

Gopal’s laugh was still echoing faintly when the quiet settled again. For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the soft hum of Ochobot’s floating engines and Fang’s uneven breathing.

Then—

Grrrrrggghh.

Every head turned.

Gopal’s cheeks puffed out in embarrassment as his stomach gave a second, louder growl. He immediately slumped forward with a dramatic groan. “Aiyo, I’m starving! I hadn't had breakfast, and now my poor stomach is crying for justice!”

Fang blinked at him from where he sat curled in Boboiboy’s lap, still cradled firmly against the Alpha’s chest. He shifted slightly, about to say something—only to yelp softly when Boboiboy’s arms instinctively tightened around him, keeping him snugly in place as though daring him to move. Fang’s face heated, burying halfway into the Alpha’s scent, wrapping hot and heavy around him until his Omega instincts went soft, pliant.

“Don’t start,” Ying scolded, bringing her hand down firmly on the back of Gopal’s head. The crisp bite of mint and the chill of steel sharpened around her like a warning. Beta authority—gentle but sharp enough to keep him in line. “We all forgot breakfast, so quit whining.”

“Still,” Gopal muttered, rubbing his head. The warm, nutty-sweet scent of roasted peanuts and cocoa puffed around him in protest. “My stomach’s the loudest, so I suffer the most…”

Before he could get into another round of complaints, Yaya turned toward the pair on the bed, eyes softening. Honey and vanilla threaded through the air, her Beta steadiness wrapping warm and grounding around Fang, but her tone was firm. “Anyway—” she cut in smoothly, “is there anything you two want from the cafeteria? We’ll grab it for you.”

Fang hesitated, lowering his gaze. “…I’m not hungry.”

The words dropped like a stone.

The pack’s reaction was instant.

Ochobot’s optic sensors narrowed, his mechanical voice clipped like a reprimand.

Yaya’s honeyed warmth cracked into quiet disappointment, her brows knitting in reproach.

Ying’s mint-sharp Beta presence bristled, displeasure slicing through the air.

And Gopal’s cocoa-peanut scent soured into scandalized offense.

To an Omega, especially Fang, who was already so thin, refusing food was more than stubbornness—it was dangerous. A rejection of the care the pack provided. Instinct screamed that it was wrong.

“Not hungry?” Gopal gasped, jaw dropping. “That’s—that’s unnatural!”

“Fang…” Yaya’s voice carried soft Beta weight, disappointment cutting deeper than anger. “You need to eat something. You can’t just skip meals in your condition.”

“You’re already weak,” Ying added sharply, mint-laced bite hitting like a whip-crack. “Don’t make it worse.”

Even Ochobot hummed with authority, his words as steady as a Beta’s scolding presence. “Refusing food will only slow your recovery.”

Fang whimpered before he could stop himself, the tiny Omega sound slipping free against Boboiboy’s chest. His Omega instincts buckled under the collective weight of their disapproval—body curling tighter, lavender and carrot notes spiking faintly in the air, betraying his stress.

But the Alpha didn’t falter. He didn’t leave space for Fang to argue. “He is hungry,” Boboiboy said firmly, his voice a growl threaded with storm. Sunlight-cinnamon wrapped hotter, heavier, possessive, and grounding all at once, until Fang squeaked against his chest. He turned toward Yaya with a decisive nod, command laced in his tone. “Get us some fruits, toast, and eggs. Enough for two.”

Fang jerked his head up, crimson eyes wide, ears burning. “Wha—hey, I said I’m not—”

Boboiboy ignored him completely, tucking the Omega’s head back under his chin, flooding him with cinnamon scent that left no room for protest. “Thanks, Yaya.”

The Betas responded without question. Yaya nodded, already moving. Ying crouched beside the bed, clinical efficiency taking over as she pulled out a pouch of medicine from the medic. She lined the bottles neatly on the nightstand, explaining with Beta precision:

“This one’s before food.” She held up the white tablets. “This one’s after he eats. Don’t mix them up.”

Boboiboy leaned close, paying sharp attention. “Got it.”

Fang tried to lift his head again, voice muffled with protest. “I can take it myself. I’m not a—”

“Shhh.” Ying cut him off, mint-ice scent prickling faintly as she slipped the bottles directly into the Alpha’s hands as if Fang’s words didn’t exist. Beta authority deferred to Alpha authority, clean and seamless. “Make sure he drinks plenty of water.”

Boboiboy accepted them without hesitation, his hold never loosening.

Fang groaned miserably, pressing his heated face deeper against Boboiboy’s chest, the Alpha’s scent wrapping thickly around him until his Omega instincts betrayed him—soft whimpers slipping out, scent-seeking, clinging, curling closer even as shame burned hot inside.

'They’re treating me like a child. Like an Omega who can’t do anything for himself. They missed breakfast because of me. They’re running around just to feed me. And now even my medicine isn’t in my hands—it’s in his.' His chest twisted with guilt, with resistance against instincts he couldn’t fight. 'I don’t want to be their burden. I don’t want to be his burden.'

“Alright,” Yaya clapped her hands, her honey-vanilla steadiness lifting the tension just slightly. “We’ll be back soon. Fang, rest up, okay?”

“Don’t let him escape,” Gopal teased, cocoa-scent carrying his grin, but his words held an undercurrent of seriousness—an unspoken Beta acknowledgment that the Omega was safest in Alpha’s arms.

Ochobot hovered closer, sensors flickering. “Take care, Fang. Do not push yourself.”

The Betas moved as one, a pack in rhythm: warm, firm, and unified.

And then the door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was softer, but Fang could feel it still—Beta concern lingering in the air, the Alpha’s cinnamon-sunlight grip unyielding around him, his lavender-carrot scent betraying him with every unconscious nuzzle and whimper into the storm-scent that held him fast.

Fang shifted uncomfortably against the firm hold around him, eyes darting away as Boboiboy reached over with his free hand to place the medicine bottles carefully on the nightstand.

His other arm kept Fang caged securely in his lap, as though daring the world to try and take him away. The Alpha’s scent—sunlight threaded with storm-warm cinnamon—thickened with every breath, pressing down like a shield around them both.

“…You don’t have to keep doing that,” Fang muttered, his voice sharper than he intended. Lavender and carrots bled faintly into the air, sharp with guilt. “Hovering around me. Treating me like I’ll break. I already made everyone miss breakfast, slowed things down—I’m just… a burden to you all.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, bitter and low. His fingers curled tightly into Boboiboy’s shirt, guilt gnawing at his chest. The scent soured—lavender laced with something acrid, sharp with shame.

Boboiboy froze, blinking at him in surprise.

Then, instead of pulling back, his arm tightened almost possessively around Fang’s waist, dragging him even closer until their foreheads nearly touched. Cinnamon flared stronger, wrapping thick and steady, forcing back the fragile Omega-scent trembling against it. His voice was quiet but firm, leaving no room for doubt.

“You’re not a burden, Fang. You’re our packmate. You’re… my friend.” His tone dipped softer on the last word, something fragile and warm flickering beneath it. He tilted his head to the side with a smile that was far too tender to be casual. Sunlight warmth threaded through every syllable. “We want to stay. I want to stay. Not because I have to—it’s because I care.”

Fang swallowed, throat tight. His lavender wavered, tangled between sharp shame and fragile sweetness. The warmth in Boboiboy’s voice pressed against the edges of his frustration, softening it in ways he didn’t want to admit.

He wanted to argue, to push the kindness away before it stuck too deeply—but pressed so close, feeling the steady rhythm of Boboiboy’s heartbeat against his hand, the words withered in his mouth.

“I can take care of myself,” Fang whispered, looking away, though the conviction wavered even as it left his lips. The protest bled thin, his scent trembling with insecurity.

“Sure you can,” Boboiboy said lightly, his grin audible in his voice. But his hold only grew firmer, cinnamon heavy and grounding, as if Fang had just confessed the opposite. “Too bad. You’re mine to take care of anyway.”

Fang’s eyes snapped up wide and face scarlet. Lavender spiked sharply with panic. “Y-You can’t just—”

“Watch me.” Boboiboy’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper. Both arms were already locking around Fang like steel, daring him to try and escape. The storm in his cinnamon-scent surged, thick and dominant, leaving no doubt of his claim. “And only I get to call you Bunny. Don’t even think about anyone else trying it.”

Fang groaned miserably, burying his face back into Boboiboy’s chest, lavender blooming so hot it was dizzying, tinged faintly with carrots and shy sweetness. His muffled protest was swallowed by the steady thump of Boboiboy’s heartbeat—strong, steady, and dangerously comforting. “You're impossible…”

Boboiboy chuckled softly, one hand rubbing Fang’s back in slow, grounding circles, the other holding him as if letting go wasn’t even an option. “Impossible, maybe. But you’re staying right here. With me.”

Fang’s heart gave a confused, traitorous flutter at the certainty in his voice. His Omega instincts betrayed him—his scent seeking, curling tighter against cinnamon-sunlight, clinging despite his shame. He tried to tell himself it didn’t mean anything—that Boboiboy was just stubborn, just overly loyal, just… Boboiboy.

But the way he held him, the way his words wrapped tighter than the arms around his waist—it was different.

Too warm.

Too close.

'Why is he acting like this?' Fang wondered, burying his face deeper into Boboiboy’s shirt as if hiding could smother the thought. 'He doesn’t mean it like that. He can’t. Someone like him… would never…'

And yet, despite his denial, Fang felt himself relax—truly relax—for the first time since waking, sinking into a presence he didn’t dare want, but couldn’t bring himself to push away. His lavender-carrot scent softened, timid but steady, wrapping faintly around the Alpha’s sunlight-cinnamon in unconscious tether.

The room had gone still again, wrapped in a hush that felt almost fragile. Fang’s breathing evened out as he lay against Boboiboy’s chest, his weight warm and steady in Boboiboy’s lap. For once, there was no chatter, no teasing, no footsteps echoing in the corridor. Just the steady rhythm of air leaving Fang’s lungs and the faint beat of Boboiboy’s own heart in his ears.

On the surface, it looked like peace—like the world had, mercifully, slowed down long enough for them to breathe. And yet Boboiboy’s mind refused to follow. His arms tightened slightly, protective without thought, his cinnamon scent brimming thick around them, as if holding Fang closer could silence the storm inside.

Because their suspicions… had been right.

The quiet, offhand comments. The way Fang would sometimes retreat behind a wall of silence when anyone fussed over him. A flicker in his eyes whenever help was offered too quickly. All the pieces, the little signs, the moments they had brushed off—together they painted a picture Boboiboy didn’t want to see.

Fang did think he was a burden. He had been carrying that thought, maybe for longer than any of them realized.

The idea twisted in Boboiboy’s chest, sharp and raw. His sunlight dimmed under the weight, cinnamon growing darker with guilt. How could Fang—his Fang—believe that? What could have planted that poison thought so deeply that not even their friendship, not even all their fights and laughter, had managed to root it out?

He searched for a reason, combed through memories like torn pages, hoping to find the answer. Had they been careless? Had they missed something? Was it something from before he even joined them? The questions circled, relentless, and each time they came back with nothing.

No matter how he tried, Boboiboy came up empty.

And that emptiness only made the guilt heavier.

Because once he started looking back, really looking, the truth came into focus with painful clarity.

He remembered Fang’s smile—sharp at the edges, dazzling when it wanted to be—but sometimes… sometimes it never quite reached his eyes. A hollow version of joy that flickered in the light of their victories but dimmed too quickly when no one was watching. Boboiboy thought he had imagined it, back then. He thought Fang was just tired. Everyone got tired, right? But now, those moments came back like shards, cutting deep.

The skipped meals followed next. Fang had always brushed it off—“I’m full,” “I ate earlier,” “Don’t worry about it.” It had become so routine that Boboiboy had stopped questioning it, even as he and the others continued to remind Fang to eat.

But the truth was there in the way Fang’s lavender sometimes dulled to nothing, his Omega-scent too thin, too faint. There, in the way his shoulders looked narrower, the way he seemed to carry himself like someone running on fumes. And Boboiboy had let it slide. He’d let one of his packmates waste away in silence, too willing to accept the easy excuses.

Then there were the nights. Boboiboy used to think he was the only one awake, lying in bed staring at the ceiling when sleep wouldn’t come. But Fang had been awake too. He remembered now—the faint scrape of movement, the distant thud of training weapons, the soft rustle of paper when reports piled up. Fang never rested. His lavender would sharpen bitter and restless, filling the night air with his unrest.

And if anyone noticed, Fang’s excuse was always the same: “I’m fine.”

But that wasn’t fine. None of it was fine.

The memories piled higher and higher, suffocating. Each one was proof of a truth Boboiboy wished he hadn’t seen: Fang had been burning himself out, piece by piece, right in front of them.

And then there was the worst part—the way Fang used himself like a shield. Every battle, every dangerous mission, he was the one stepping forward first. Always placing himself between them and the danger, as if his body were just another weapon to be thrown. He fought like he didn’t care if he came back bloodied or broken, as long as everyone else stayed safe. His lavender would flare sharp with adrenaline, but underneath it was hollow—carrot notes thinning like smoke.

Boboiboy’s chest ached at the memories of too-close calls—the flash of claws an inch from Fang’s throat, the burn of energy strikes that had nearly cut him down. Too many times he had stood on the battlefield, watching Fang stumble back from a hit that should have taken him out, but Fang would only shake it off, grit his teeth, and keep going.

How many times had they all let him? How many times had they accepted that recklessness as “just Fang being Fang,” without asking what it meant underneath?

Now, it all threaded together into one unbearable realization.

Fang hadn’t been reckless. He hadn’t been tireless. He hadn’t been selfless in the way they thought. He had been… disposable, in his own eyes.

And Boboiboy hated himself for not seeing it sooner.

His arms tightened again, pulling Fang just a little closer. Cinnamon pressed in, thick and heavy, wrapping around lavender as if it could shield it from fading away. The warmth of Fang’s body, the faint, steady rise and fall of his chest—it felt too fragile, too fleeting. Boboiboy buried his face into Fang’s hair, trying to breathe past the knot in his throat.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t afraid of losing Fang to some outside enemy. No, this was worse. He was terrified of losing Fang to himself.

And somewhere deep in his bones—buried in every instinct that made him Alpha—the truth pulsed hot and undeniable.

This wasn’t just pack-protection. It wasn’t just loyalty. It was instinct screaming louder than reason, louder than guilt. Fang’s lavender was threaded through his lungs now, so entwined with his cinnamon that the thought of ever breathing without it made his chest tighten.

His Omega wasn’t just a teammate. He wasn’t just a friend.

He was already his.

Even if Fang didn’t know it yet, even if Boboiboy himself couldn’t bring the word to his lips yet, every instinct in him had already chosen.

Fang was his perfect mate.

“Boboiboy?”

The soft, questioning voice snapped him out of the spiral. Fang had tilted his head up, sharp crimson eyes half-lidded from fever but still piercing. Concern flickered there, though he didn’t seem aware of it himself.

“…Your scent,” Fang murmured, brow knitting faintly. His voice was low, husky from exhaustion, but it carried a note of accusation. “It’s different. Like you’re… upset.”

Boboiboy blinked, startled. He hadn’t even realized. His cinnamon-sunlight scent was sharper, thicker, spilling out in restless waves he couldn’t control—Alpha instinct flaring wild and protective around the fragile Omega in his lap.

“You’ve gone quiet too,” Fang pressed softly, tilting his head just a little closer, the tips of his hair brushing Boboiboy’s jaw. A subtle shift in his lavender-carrot scent followed—softer now, warmer, wrapping gently around the sharp edge of cinnamon like a blanket drawn over flames. Fang was doing it instinctively. He was trying to calm him down.

And it was working. The suffocating storm inside his chest eased, soothed by Fang’s gentle Omega-scent weaving into his lungs. That fragile sweetness carried an unspoken message—I’m here. It’s alright. You can rest.

Boboiboy’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, the guilt burned… and then melted. How could he stay lost in his own storm when Fang—fragile and flushed and still recovering—was looking at him like that? Was trying to help him down using his beautiful scent? His chest softened instantly, the ache in his heart twisting instead into something warm, overwhelming.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Boboiboy said gently, shifting so he could brush a thumb across Fang’s cheek. “Everything’s alright. Really. You should worry about yourself, Bunny. Probably best to take your medicine before the others come barging in with breakfast.”

Fang blinked at him, and then his expression twisted into a pout as Boboiboy held out the pill toward his lips instead of letting him take it himself.

“I can take it on my own,” Fang muttered, the tips of his ears reddening as he tried to snatch the pill.

Boboiboy only grinned, holding it stubbornly in place. “Nah-ah. Come on, say ‘ah.’”

The pout deepened, Fang’s brows knitting as his lips pressed into the most reluctant line. His cheeks puffed slightly in frustration, which only made Boboiboy’s grin widen.

“You’re so cute when you pout,” he chuckled, a laugh bubbling out of him like he couldn’t help it. “My little Bunny.”

Fang froze at the nickname, face flushing hotter than his fever. He quickly snapped back, voice hoarse but sharp: “Stop calling me that. I’m not a bunny.”

Boboiboy raised a brow, leaning closer with the pill still between his fingers, his grin almost too smug. “Mm. You’re right. Bunnies are less grumpy. And less adorable when they sulk.”

Fang’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’re funny?”

“Adorably funny,” Boboiboy said without missing a beat, his gaze shamelessly drinking Fang in. “Like you. Actually, you’re more like a grumpy bunny plush toy. Cute, fluffy, and a little bitey if someone squeezes too hard. Which, by the way, only makes you more adorable.”

Fang gaped at him, ears red to the tips. “I am not fluffy—!”

“Fluffiest,” Boboiboy declared instantly, puffing up proudly as if it were a title Fang had officially earned. “The softest, grumpiest Bunny in the whole universe. And no one else gets to hug you but me.”

Fang snapped his mouth shut, cheeks puffing again as if he’d combust if he argued more. He finally grabbed the pill and swallowed it, his glare sharp but wobbling under the weight of his blush.

“See?” Boboiboy said warmly, his teasing melting into something softer, but his eyes still glinting with mischief. “Knew you could do it. But I like helping you.”

Fang huffed, trying for sarcasm as he muttered, “You’re acting like some overbearing nurse.”

Boboiboy gasped dramatically, putting a hand to his chest. “Correction. I’m your overbearing nurse.” His grin turned wicked. “And the hottest one you’ll ever get.”

Fang’s jaw dropped. “…You did not just—”

“Mmhm,” Boboiboy hummed smugly, leaning in until their foreheads brushed. “Doctor’s orders, Bunny. Sit still, look cute, and let me spoil you rotten.”

Fang groaned, burying his face in Boboiboy’s chest to hide how red his face had become. “Unbelievable…”

“Unbelievably yours,” Boboiboy shot back without missing a beat, laughing softly into Fang’s hair.

The comfortable silence stretched between them again. Fang nestled in Boboiboy’s lap, head tucked under his chin as though he belonged there. And maybe he did.

Boboiboy’s arms tightened instinctively, greedy, unwilling to loosen even a little. Pack instinct roared through him—the Alpha’s need to keep, to claim, to make sure no one could ever pull this Omega from his arms. He knew he should let go—Fang would need to lie down eventually, the others would be back with breakfast—but right now, holding him felt too perfect. Too right.

Boboiboy let his eyes fall shut for a heartbeat, savoring it. Fang’s steady breathing against his chest, the warmth of him seeping into every corner of his being… it was intoxicating. And beneath it all, their scents wound tighter—lavender and carrots lacing through thick, sunlit cinnamon—entangled until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

A selfish part of him thought, What if this was forever? What if Fang wasn’t just his teammate, not just his friend, but his mate?

The word itself made his pulse spike. He could already see it in his mind—images flashing like scenes from a future he wanted too much.

Fang sitting beside him during missions, arms brushing casually but deliberately. Fang leaning against him after long days, head resting on his shoulder like it belonged there. Fang smiling—soft, unguarded, the kind of smile he never showed anyone else. Fang scowling when Boboiboy stole his paperwork, pouting when Boboiboy dragged him away from training, but always softening when Boboiboy refused to let go.

Boboiboy’s heart stumbled, and without thinking, he pressed his face into Fang’s hair, clinging tighter.

The scent of carrots and lavender—sharp but grounding—pulled him deeper into fantasy.

A fantasy that shifted—growing bolder, darker. What would it feel like to kiss him?

The image snapped into place before Boboiboy could stop it: Fang tilting his head up, crimson eyes half-lidded, lips parting just slightly in quiet invitation. His breath hitching—waiting—for Boboiboy to close the distance.

He saw himself leaning down, brushing their mouths together, gentle at first, then hungrier. Fang’s lips would be softer than he imagined, warm and pliant against his. He could almost taste him—sweet with a sharp edge, faintly like the red carrot donuts Fang always snacked on, undercut by something soothing and subtle, like lavender clinging to his breath.

The warmth of Fang’s exhale would fan across his skin, shaky and uneven, each puff of air pulling him deeper into the fantasy. When Boboiboy deepened the kiss—when he coaxed him open—he could feel Fang melt, breath spilling out in a helpless sound that made fire crawl down Boboiboy’s spine.

But it didn’t stop there. His mind fed him more—the taste of Fang’s breath laced with lavender sweetness, the way that unique omega scent would cling to him, mixing with his own Alpha musk until there was no separating them. His instincts snarled for it—for the bond, the interwoven scent of pack and mate.

His fingers sliding along the sharp line of Fang’s jaw, skin hot beneath his touch. His thumb brushed over parted lips, damp and soft, before tracing lower down the slope of his throat, where the lavender scent was strongest, mingling with the faint salt of sweat.

His hand flattened against Fang’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of unsteady breath trembling beneath his palm—and beneath that, the frantic hammer of Fang’s heartbeat. The pulse thudded hard, desperate, like it was begging to be felt. Lower still, skimming Fang’s waist, fingertips grazing hidden muscle beneath fabric—every twitch and shiver like a secret meant only for him.

Then a thought broke in his head, stopping him dead. What would it feel like to mark Fang, not just bruise him, but claim him with something that no one could wash away?

And then it came—too vivid, too consuming—Fang beneath him.

Pinned.

Crimson eyes wide, his lips parted, every shaky breath laced with that trembling lavender-carrot sweetness, instinctively laced with calming pheromones. Fang’s omega instincts bled out unchecked, trying to soothe him, to pull him back from the razor’s edge. It should have worked—it should have steadied him. But it only made the Alpha in him snarl hungrier, greedier.

The more Fang’s scent reached for him, soft and yielding, the more he wanted to drown in it. The air was thick with it—lavender blooming like smoke, carrots grounding like earth. It whispered Trust me, I’ll soothe you, I’ll bend to you. And Boboiboy wanted to burn it into permanence.

The image burned so vividly it stole his breath. One of his hands tangled with Fang’s, forcing his wrist against the mattress above his head.

Their fingers brushed, Fang’s restrained strength thrumming against his grip—but he didn’t fight. He yielded. He let himself be held down. That choice—choosing to stay—sent a raw, dangerous rush through Boboiboy’s chest. His other hand dragged up under Fang’s shirt, palm splayed over bare skin, greedily soaking in the heat. Fang arched faintly at the touch, body trembling, caught in that maddening line between resisting and surrendering.

His mouth ghosted over Fang’s throat. The air was cloying, heavy with pheromones. Fang tilted his head back, baring his pulse in unconscious submission, and Boboiboy’s instincts roared. The scent pouring off Fang wasn’t just calming—it was yielding, inviting.

Boboiboy pressed his mouth over the frantic thrum of Fang’s pulse. He felt it pounding wildly beneath his lips, each beat a stuttering drum that matched Fang’s ragged breaths. His teeth scraped, then bit down hard enough to leave a bruise blossoming. Fang gasped, his whole body jerking beneath him, the sound breaking into something dangerously close to a moan—half-caught, half-spilled, like his voice was shattering under the weight of it.

But even that wasn’t enough.

Because in the next rush of heat, the image sharpened into something more primal, more binding—his fangs sinking deep into the curve of Fang’s neck. Right where a mate mark belonged.

The fantasy consumed him: Fang writhing beneath him, body trembling, breath catching as the bond snapped into place with that first claiming bite. His lavender-carrot scent would explode, twining with his Alpha musk until the room reeked of them—one tangled, inseparable smell that no one could mistake.

It was suffocating in its hunger. Fang’s neck marred with a permanent mark, his omega scent forever tangled with his own, a living banner to the world: Mine. Untouchable. Claimed.

The fantasy only grew darker. He saw Fang covered in them—marks scattered across his neck, trailing down his collarbone, further still across the smooth expanse of his chest. Bite marks blooming across pale skin, purple and red imprints stamped into his sternum, down over his ribs, trailing toward the faint dip of his stomach. Each one burning like a brand. His brands. His claim.

And with each mark, he imagined the sounds Fang would make—ragged gasps when his teeth broke skin, stuttering whimpers when his tongue soothed over the sting, breathless moans when his hand pressed harder, tighter. He wanted them all. He wanted to hear Fang’s voice unravel, raw and broken, until he couldn’t say anything but his name.

No—more than that. He wanted to break Fang down until those trembling lips whispered something else—something darker, something that would brand his soul as completely as his body. He wanted to hear Fang’s voice choke out that one word, surrendering everything.

Alpha.

The word detonated in his chest like fire. He could almost hear it—Fang’s broken whisper, shaky and desperate, calling him Alpha while he lay trembling beneath him. That thought alone nearly unmade him.

His grip in the vision tightened, almost cruel. His hand crushed Fang’s wrist into the mattress, the other pinning his waist, his fingers digging deep enough to leave faint, stark outlines—finger-shaped bruises Fang wouldn’t be able to explain away. Fang twisted faintly beneath him, chest heaving, eyes hazy—but not to escape. He stayed. He let Boboiboy hold him down, helpless beneath the weight of his body.

And it wasn’t enough. In his mind, he leaned closer, his lips brushing Fang’s ear as he whispered the words that clenched like chains around his obsession:

“My bunny.”

The words were tender and cruel at once. His bunny. His omega. His mate. Fragile, trembling, soft enough to break—and his to break if he wanted. The thought sank claws into him, painting a picture of Fang marked everywhere, every bruise a silent warning to the world: untouchable, claimed, owned.

Boboiboy’s imagination burned hotter. He could feel Fang’s skin now—the heat of it, searing against his palm, that trembling warmth that begged to be touched, to be claimed. He wanted to press harder, bite deeper, mark until Fang was painted in nothing but him. He wanted Fang pliant, flushed, branded—his lavender-carrot scent forever tangled with his sunlight and cinnamon and the taste of bruised skin and the heat of surrender.

The image of Fang, body flushed and trembling, his neck, chest, and stomach littered with bites and bruises, crimson eyes glassy as they fixed on him, lips swollen as they whispered in a broken whimper—“Alpha…”—it was too much. It consumed him, clawed at him, choked him with want.

The vision tightened its grip until he couldn’t think past it.

And then he snapped back.

He nearly jolted out of his skin, face blazing red as though the images had scorched him raw. His arms clutched tighter around Fang, desperate, as if holding him close could squeeze the treacherous thoughts out before they spilled into reality.

But unable to shake that gnawing truth.

The heat still lingered—low, heavy, dangerous—and Boboiboy already knew with a sick twist in his chest. 

He didn’t just want Fang close. He wanted to taste him, breathe him in, feel his heartbeat, own him.

He wanted Fang his.

And there was no undoing that truth.

‘W-what the heck am I thinking?!’ His mind screamed at him, panic and shame tangling with the heat still burning in his veins. Instinct clawed at him, his scent threatening to spike sharp and wild—but he smothered it down, forcing control, masking the panic in his scent before Fang could catch it. The last thing he needed was Fang’s omega instincts reacting, soothing him, noticing what should never be noticed.

He buried his chin deeper into Fang’s hair, half in desperation, half in guilt. Fang was right there, in his lap, face tucked against his chest, utterly defenseless—trusting him. And he was imagining… that.

The thought alone made his stomach churn. The images replayed in brutal flashes—Fang pinned beneath him, his voice broken, his neck with the mating mark that screamed mine. Each one felt like a sin, like a betrayal, and yet his body burned traitorously with the memory of them.

He squeezed his eyes shut, heartbeat hammering so hard he was terrified Fang would hear it. 'Idiot. You’re disgusting. He’s sick, he’s trusting you to keep him safe, and you’re—ugh, what’s wrong with you?!'

And still, even as he cursed himself, the fantasies clung like thorns. Fang’s flushed face. The soft glow of crimson eyes looking up at him with something more than trust. Lips swollen, whispering his name like a plea. Skin covered in bruises that only Boboiboy could have left—proof of possession. The sounds… God, the imagined sounds he wanted to hear.

His chest twisted painfully. Each image made him want—and each image made him hate himself more. What kind of friend even thought this way? What kind of person let those thoughts take root when that someone was in his arms, shivering, fevered, fragile?

Boboiboy clutched him tighter, half afraid, half desperate, praying Fang couldn’t feel the storm raging beneath his skin. His mind was still tangled in those forbidden images, too vivid, too raw, when he realized he’d shifted slightly without meaning to—adjusting his grip, tightening his thighs unconsciously.

The small movement made Fang stir. His head lifted faintly from Boboiboy’s chest, his crimson eyes blinking up at him in surprise.

“Boboiboy…?” Fang’s voice was soft, uncertain. He shifted again, as if about to push himself up. “Your legs… they’re not numb, are they?” His brows furrowed, guilt flashing across his face. “I’ve been sitting on you too long…”

The words speared through Boboiboy’s haze like a bucket of ice. Panic shot through him, instincts twitching. His scent threatened to spike again, betraying everything—but he forced it flat, burying it under calm, smothering the sharp tang before it could slip free. 'No, no, no—he can’t think that—he can’t know what I was actually thinking—!'

“I-it’s fine!” Boboiboy blurted, too fast, too defensive. His voice cracked embarrassingly at the edges, and his cheeks burned hotter. “I swear it’s fine. I didn’t even notice—”

Fang stilled, blinking up at him, his frown deepening. That guilt didn’t leave his expression. If anything, it softened him, made him look smaller somehow. “You should’ve said something if it hurt…” he murmured, his tone low, troubled. A faint trace of soothing pheromones slipped into the air—instinctive, unintentional, brushing against Boboiboy’s skin like a calming balm. “I… I don’t want to cause you any pain.”

The words cut deeper than Boboiboy wanted to admit. His chest clenched, a knife of shame twisting through him—not because of his legs, but because Fang was worrying over him, him, while all Boboiboy had been doing was drowning in selfish, filthy thoughts. Fang was apologizing when Boboiboy should’ve been begging forgiveness.

Fang shifted faintly, as if to move away and ease some of his weight—but the second he did, Boboiboy’s arms reacted before his brain caught up. His hold tightened, almost desperate, almost possessive.

Fang froze, startled, his head lifting again to glance at him.

Boboiboy’s heart lurched. Heat rushed to his face as he realized how fiercely he’d clung, how unwilling he was to let go. His stomach twisted with guilt—because the truth was, he wasn’t just holding to comfort. He was holding because he didn’t want to lose that warmth, that closeness. Because he was terrified Fang would slip away, and with him the fragile illusion that he belonged here.

“Sorry—” he blurted, then shook his head, forcing the panic from his tone. Softer, steadier, he added, “I just… don’t want you to move because you’re not heavy. You’re not hurting me. Really. I want you here.”

The admission slipped out before he could filter it, leaving his chest tight and his face hot.

Fang’s eyes lingered on him, searching again, and for a terrifying heartbeat Boboiboy thought he’d see straight through him—to all the selfish, hungry thoughts he’d been drowning in. To the ugly want festering in his chest.

But instead, Fang’s shoulders eased, his gaze dropping. With a quiet breath, he lowered his head back against Boboiboy’s chest. The faintest ripple of lavender-carrot pheromones slipped free—comforting, trusting—curling between them like a fragile tether.

Only then did Boboiboy let out the air he’d been holding, arms still wrapped securely around him—gentler this time, careful, but no less firm.

Inside, though, his heart was a storm of guilt and longing. Because Fang trusted him completely, and Boboiboy had already betrayed that trust in the darkest corners of his imagination. And if Fang ever—ever returned even a fraction of the feelings tangled up inside him… Boboiboy wasn’t sure if he’d survive the happiness—or the shame.

Fang let his eyes slip shut, pretending the faint rise and fall of Boboiboy’s chest was nothing more than background comfort. Just another sound in the silence. Just another body in the room. But his mind betrayed him—dragging him back again and again to the way Boboiboy’s arms had tightened, the way he’d blurted out I want you here.

That wasn’t normal. Not between friends. Not even between close friends.

And yet… Fang hadn’t pulled away.

He told himself it was because he was tired. Because fighting the embrace would waste what little strength he had left. Because it was easier to stay still than to remind himself that people never really meant it when they held on.

But the longer he stayed pressed against Boboiboy, the harder it was to ignore the wrong, aching warmth spreading in his chest. It wasn’t suffocating like he feared—it was steady. Gentle. Safe.

He liked it.

The realization hit like a blade, sharp and merciless. His shoulders tensed, his lungs stuttered. No. That wasn’t it. He couldn’t like this—couldn’t afford to. He wasn’t someone you clung to like something precious. He wasn’t worth that. Not when all he ever did was drag people down, prove their worries right, remind them over and over that he was nothing but a burden they hadn’t shaken off yet.

If he let himself want this—want him—what then? He’d only ruin it. That was what he did. That was who he was.

But still… every time he thought about pulling away, he remembered the way Boboiboy’s arms had tightened almost desperately, like he was afraid of losing him. As if Fang was someone worth losing. The thought alone made his chest ache in a way he hated, because it was cruel. It dangled hope in front of him, the kind of fragile, impossible hope that only left scars when it finally broke.

Fang’s lips pressed into a thin line, his brows drawing tight as if he could frown the feelings into silence. He couldn’t. The questions gnawed at him, relentless, until he wanted to claw his way out of his own skin.

'Why does he hold me like this? Why does he care? Why would anyone care this much about me?'

He didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted one. And so, with a sharp little huff that was half defeat, half self-disgust, Fang buried his face deeper into Boboiboy’s chest—like hiding there might smother the questions before they tore him apart.

The door suddenly slid open with a soft hiss, breaking the fragile quiet. Both Fang and Boboiboy’s heads snapped up in unison—like guilty packmates caught mid-secret—as Gopal, Yaya, Ying, and Ochobot walked in, each balancing trays and plates.

“We brought food~!” Gopal sing-songed, his cocoa-and-roasted peanuts scent puffing warmly into the room, cheerful and grounding.

Yaya set down her tray first: neatly toasted bread stacked high, eggs sunny and steaming, and a bowl of cut fruit that smelled sweet and fresh. The faint, soothing trace of vanilla and honey in her scent laced the air, softening the edges of tension. “For you two. Hope you're hungry.”

Boboiboy blinked, still dragging himself out of the hazy, possessive warmth he’d been drowning in seconds before. His arms were still looped firmly around Fang—an omega still tucked on his lap, lavender-and-carrots scent curling faintly, comfortingly—so close that his alpha instincts hummed with smug satisfaction. “Eh? That was fast. Why didn’t you guys just eat at the cafeteria?”

“Nope.” Yaya smiled, folding her arms. “We didn’t want you both waiting for us.”

Her words made Fang’s eyes soften, but Boboiboy felt his chest clench oddly—half touched, half flustered. He opened his mouth to say thanks, but Ying cut in, her crisp mint-and-steel scent sharpening as she smirked.

“…Unless,” she tilted her head slyly, “you two wanted more alone time.”

“Yeah!” Gopal immediately jumped on the joke, nearly dropping the bread in his excitement. “We probably interrupted something. You know—whispering sweet nothings, feeding each other grapes, maybe a little—”

“Gopal!!” Boboiboy sputtered, whole face going crimson as he shot up straighter, voice cracking, cinnamon-and-sunlight scent spiking hot and sharp in the air. He flailed—except, in the chaos, he only hugged Fang tighter instead of letting him go.

Fang’s ears burned red, and he quickly ducked his face, muttering low, “You’re ridiculous…” But the corner of his mouth twitched faintly, betraying his embarrassment. His scent quivered too—lavender spiking sharper, carrots grounding low—like he couldn’t quite control it.

“Ohhh, look at him blushing!” Ying crowed, pointing at Boboiboy. “You’re so guilty right now!”

“Am not!” Boboiboy barked, cheeks practically glowing, his alpha scent trying desperately to mask the undercurrent of panic with forced brightness—too much cinnamon, sharp and spiced, covering the raw pulse of want that nearly leaked through.

“Uh-huh.” Gopal leaned forward dramatically, smirking. “Then why is Fang still on your lap, huh? Huuuuh?” His playful beta-scent of cocoa and roasted peanuts thickened in the room like laughter itself.

Boboiboy froze. His brain screeched. 'Oh boy.' He hadn’t even realized in his panic and wanting to keep Fang close that this could happen.

He stammered, “Th-that’s because he’s—he’s sick! He needs to—uh—sit somewhere comfortable and I’m just—”

“Comfortable?” Ying cut in mercilessly, crisp mint cooling the air around her, teasing tone. “You mean your lap? Wow, Boboiboy, that’s some first-class service.”

“Hey, hey, don’t be shy,” Gopal added, winking. “Next thing we know, you’ll be tucking him in and kissing his forehead goodnight.”

“GOPAL!!” Boboiboy’s voice cracked so hard it echoed.

Ochobot floated closer, tilting his head. “Actually, based on body language and scent markers, Boboiboy is demonstrating high levels of alpha protective instinct. Possibly even—”

“STOP TALKING, OCHOBOT!” Boboiboy yelped, his arms tightening reflexively around Fang again before he realized what he was doing. His scent spiked, cinnamon almost cloying now, tangled with sunlight’s warmth—an unmistakable shield wrapping around Fang’s lavender. 'Oh no, oh no, oh no. They’re all staring. They’re going to find out. Fang’s going to find out.' 

He dared a tiny glance downward and nearly combusted when he saw Fang’s crimson-tinted ears peeking out, his face hidden against Boboiboy’s chest. The omega wasn’t pulling away—instead, his lavender scent grew steadier, calmer, almost as though he’d burrowed into the alpha’s cinnamon warmth on instinct.

And that terrified Boboiboy more than the teasing.

Because if Fang knew what he’d been imagining just minutes ago—Fang pinned beneath him, flushed, whispering Alpha against his skin—Boboiboy would actually die on the spot.

But the teasing wasn’t stopping.

“Man, you two really don’t waste time, huh?” Gopal grinned, elbowing Ying.

“Fifteen minutes is all some people need,” Ying shot back slyly.

Boboiboy groaned, burying his face halfway into Fang’s hair, the alpha’s sunlight-and-cinnamon scent thick and heavy in the air as he muttered, “I hate you guys…”

Fang muttered again, “This is ridiculous…” but when Boboiboy felt the faintest vibration of laughter from him, muffled against his chest, it only made his face burn hotter.

And still—still—he couldn’t loosen his grip. Not even a little.

Because the truth was, he didn’t want to. Not when Fang’s lavender scent was tangled so sweetly with his own, not when it felt so unbearably right. Let them tease, let them laugh—Boboiboy could take all of it if it meant he got to keep Fang here, even just a little longer.

Because denial or not, Fang wasn’t pulling away.

And that somehow made it a little better.

The room settled into a quieter rhythm as the group spread out, balancing plates of toast, fruit, and eggs in their hands. The smell of warm bread and fried yolk mixed with the faint crispness of morning filled the space with an almost homey comfort. 

Ochobot hovered closer, giving the two at the center of attention a look that was almost pointed.

“Boboiboy,” the little robot piped, voice carrying a calm authority that made it hard to argue, “let Fang go so both of you can eat.”

Reluctance clawed at Boboiboy’s chest, his alpha instincts snarling silently, cinnamon flaring one last time before he forced his arms to release.

Fang slipped off his lap. Lavender-and-carrots scent wavered faintly, less grounded without the cinnamon cocoon around it.

And both of them—alpha and omega—felt the loss like an ache.

Boboiboy's legs felt strangely cold where Fang had been sitting, his chest hollow without the lean weight against it. His fingers twitched at his side as though they might reach for the omega again, and he had to press his palms flat against his thighs to resist the urge. He swallowed, staring at the food in front of him, trying to shake the sharp ache that came from letting go.

Fang, meanwhile, shifted stiffly once freed. He thought—no, expected—to feel relief. Freedom.

But instead, a disquieting emptiness crept in, chilling him more than he wanted to admit. He missed it already—the safety of that embrace, the silence in his head when Boboiboy’s arms had been around him. The voices, the ones he tried so hard to ignore, returned the moment that warmth left him.

Pathetic. 

weak. 

you’re just burdening them all. 

They whispered and pressed against him, harsher with every breath, every motion.

He reached for the toast with his bandaged hand, and pain lanced sharply through his knuckles, up his arm. His muscles—already taut and aching from fever and exhaustion—spasmed with protest, and his grip faltered. Fang clenched his jaw and forced his fingers to obey, hiding the tremor. He tore off a piece of bread with more effort than anyone should need, every chew heavy with the bitter taste of shame.

The fever didn’t help. Heat prickled along his skin, sweat dampening his brow despite the cool air of the room. Lavender and carrots clung faintly to him, but it was sharp, unbalanced—an omega’s scent muddied by pain and weariness, though he managed to mask it.

Every movement felt like wading through water, sluggish and strained. His fingers throbbed, the injured tendons screaming with every attempt to hold his fork, and still he pressed on. Better to hurt quietly than to be seen struggling.

The quiet stretched too long. Gopal, halfway through shoving fruit in his mouth, blinked around the circle, cocoa and roasted peanuts scent puffing cheerfully and grounding. “Wow, did everyone forget how to talk, or did the bread come with a silence spell?”

Ying chuckled, nudging him with her elbow. Her crisp mint-and-steel scent spiked with amusement. “Not everyone has your habit of narrating every bite you take, Gopal.” Still, her eyes flicked across the room, settling briefly on Fang. Something in the stiffness of his shoulders made her brows pull together.

Yaya noticed too. Vanilla and honey rolled subtly from her as she leaned forward slightly, voice soft. “Fang… are you in pain?”

The question startled him so much that he nearly dropped his fork. He shook his head quickly, forcing a small, tight smile. “I’m fine.”

But Boboiboy had been watching too closely for too long. His cinnamon-and-sunlight scent sharpened, tightening around Fang’s lavender like a protective barrier. He saw the way Fang’s hand trembled around the food, the way his jaw clenched against the fever and pain that weighed on him.

And suddenly, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Without asking, he reached out, plucked the fork straight from Fang’s hand, and set it back on the plate. His voice was firm, gentler than it had any right to be. “Are your muscles hurting you?”

Fang stiffened, eyes darting away. “No, I—”

He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t force the lie past the lump in his throat. He couldn’t even meet Boboiboy’s gaze, which was proof enough for everyone watching. Lavender wilted faintly under the scrutiny, defensive and fragile.

Ochobot hummed, as if confirming the diagnosis silently to himself. Yaya’s lips pressed into a thin line of concern, and Ying frowned deeply. Even Gopal stopped chewing, his cocoa scent going subdued. 

Boboiboy didn’t wait for anyone else to step in. He picked up a small piece of toast, turned slightly toward Fang, and held it out. “Here. Open your mouth.”

Fang blinked at him, stunned. “…What are you—”

“Feeding you, bunny.” Cinnamon wrapped warm and steady in the air, leaving no room for doubt. His tone brooked no argument. “So stop fighting and just—let me.”

Immediately, Fang’s face flushed hot with both embarrassment and panic. Lavender spiked sharp, tangling with heat. “Wha—no, that’s ridiculous, I can eat on my own—”

“You’re not doing a very good job of it,” Boboiboy shot back, unyielding. His alpha scent pressed gently but firmly, steady as sunlight, coaxing submission without force.

Fang sputtered, trying to summon the will to push him away. But Boboiboy’s eyes were steady, his hand firm but patient, and his packmates’ scents pressed warm around him, anchoring the circle.

His protests dwindled to a soft, frustrated grumble.

In the end, he leaned forward, biting off the piece of toast with a quiet, mortified chew. Lavender softened instinctively, curling faintly toward the cinnamon warmth surrounding him.

The moment was enough to make Gopal grin so wide he nearly fell over. “Ohhh, look at this! Boboiboy hand-feeding his bunny! Somebody get me a camera!” His cocoa scent burst sweet and nutty with mischief.

Ying smirked, fanning herself dramatically, her mint sharp in the air. “So romantic. Should we give you two some candles and violin music too?”

Yaya shook her head, but her lips curved faintly, vanilla smoothing the atmosphere. Even Ochobot chimed in, “Statistically speaking, shared feeding rituals do increase bonding—”

“NOT HELPING,” Boboiboy hissed, his face practically glowing crimson now.

Still, his cinnamon stayed steady, refusing to waver as he brought another bite forward. Fang, cheeks burning, gave in again, his lavender curling closer each time despite himself.

“Wah, look at that!” Gopal leaned in with a mock gasp. “Even my mom doesn’t feed me when I’m sick. I should start calling myself Gopal Bunny so I can get the same treatment!”

“Try it,” Ying deadpanned, mint sharp as a blade, “and you’ll be hopping out the door with no breakfast.”

The group broke into chuckles, the easy laughter weaving warmth through the room.

Fang, however, wanted the floor to open up beneath him. Every bite placed in his mouth by Boboiboy felt like a spotlight shining squarely on him. It was humiliating—he wasn’t a child. He could eat on his own; he should eat on his own. His pride screamed at him to swat Boboiboy’s hand away, to tell him to stop babying him in front of everyone.

And yet…

Each time Boboiboy brought the food close, his movements careful, patient, gentle—cinnamon warm and grounding—it made Fang’s chest squeeze in a way he couldn’t explain. His shame and guilty thoughts quieted, dimmed under the weight of that steady alpha presence. Lavender softened, rolling out calmer, soothed. It was embarrassing, yes, but it also felt… soothing. Like being allowed, just for a moment, to set down the heavy load he always carried.

The realization made his ears burn hotter than the fever ever could. He ducked his head slightly, pretending to chew slowly to hide his flushed face.

“See? He’s not even fighting you anymore,” Gopal teased, pointing his fork dramatically, cocoa scent puffing playfully again. “Boboiboy’s got him trained like a little bunny rabbit.”

“That’s because he’s letting someone take care of him,” Yaya countered gently, vanilla honey-soft, though she was smiling too. “Which is a good thing.”

“Mhmm,” Ying said, shooting Boboiboy a sly look, mint sparking sharp again. “Though I’ve never seen you this stubborn with anyone else. Wonder why.”

Boboiboy’s ears turned redder, but he didn’t answer. His cinnamon scent thickened, steady as sunlight, locked wholly on Fang as he offered another bite.

Fang, cornered by both Boboiboy’s gaze and the group’s laughter, hesitated. His pride whispered for him to refuse, to take back control. But the warmth in Boboiboy’s expression—and his scent, strong and unshakable—unraveled him, thread by thread, until he leaned forward again and accepted the food.

'Don’t get used to this,' he told himself harshly. 'It won’t last. It never does.'

But even as he thought it, a small, treacherous part of him wished—just for now—that it would.

The room stayed lively even as the food was nearly finished. Bits of laughter and teasing bounced around, the comfortable banter refusing to fade.

Every time Fang tried to quietly fade back into himself, someone pulled him back. Yaya would ask if he wanted more water. Ying nudged him with a joke about Boboiboy’s overprotectiveness. Gopal teased that Fang ate too little and offered to share from his plate. Even Ochobot, floating nearby, threw in comments here and there that forced Fang to lift his head and respond.

It was relentless in the gentlest way—an unspoken insistence that he was part of this circle, whether he believed it or not.

By the time their trays were empty, Fang almost felt worn out from how much they refused to let him disappear. His body sagged in quiet surrender, and beneath the exhaustion, the low hum of his Omega instincts whispered for comfort, for safety.

Without meaning to, he found himself leaning subtly toward the warm, grounding presence of the Alpha at his side.

Boboiboy stood first, smoothly reaching for Fang’s tray before he could think to hold onto it. “I’ve got it,” he said, carrying both his and Fang’s trays over to Ochobot, who was busy collecting the others with small mechanical arms.

“Thanks, Ocho,” Boboiboy said while putting the two trays in Ochobot’s hands.

“Anytime,” Ochobot replied with a little chipper.

Then Boboiboy’s eyes went straight to the nightstand, where the medicine sat waiting. Fang immediately knew what was coming, and his shoulders tensed. His instincts flared in warning at being fussed over in front of the group, but the faint trace of Boboiboy’s scent—warm, steady, threaded with something protective—soothed the sharp edge before it could fully take hold.

Boboiboy picked up the painkillers and the after-meal medicine with practiced ease, walked back, and sat down on the bed beside Fang again.

His chest hummed with a quiet, possessive thrill at having Fang so close. The feel of Fang’s weight on the edge of the mattress, the small warmth radiating off him, made Boboiboy’s heart ache in a way that was nearly painful—like he was tethered to something too precious to let go. Fang’s scent brushed against him unconsciously, soft and fever-sweet, like he was scent-seeking without realizing it.

The Alpha in Boboiboy preened at the silent show of trust. He wanted to hold Fang again and keep him close, but stopped himself. “Alright. Medicine time.”

Fang’s lips immediately pressed into a pout. “I can do it myself.”

“Mm… no,” Boboiboy said with stubborn finality, shaking his head. His Alpha voice carried weight, quiet but commanding.

Fang scowled lightly, crossing his arms. “I’m not a kid.”

“And yet you look like one when you’re pouting like that,” Boboiboy teased, holding out the pills with a glass of water ready in his other hand. His tone was light, but beneath it lingered the steady hum of Alpha instinct, urging him to take care of his Omega no matter how much Fang resisted.

Fang turned his head away. “I don’t need you to—”

But Boboiboy was already leaning closer, insistent and far too patient for Fang’s liking. Every inch he closed, every careful motion of his hands, made that possessive part of him hum with satisfaction.

Fang’s instincts and pride twisted, torn between the shame of being fussed over and the desperate, needy comfort of being tended to. The faint brush of Boboiboy’s scent wrapped around him, warm and grounding, pulling him in despite himself. “You’ll just drop it or take them wrong. Open up.”

The argument spiraled into a ridiculous back-and-forth—Fang insisting he could take the medicine on his own, Boboiboy refusing to budge.

Eventually, Boboiboy took advantage of Fang’s pause to protest and popped the pills against his lips with such smooth precision it shocked everyone. Fang had no choice but to swallow them with the water Boboiboy immediately pressed into his hands. His cheeks burned, not just from embarrassment, but from the intimacy of the act—Omega instincts shrieking that he’d just accepted care directly from his Alpha in front of everyone.

When Fang finally managed it, Boboiboy leaned back with the smug triumph of a victorious general.

But inwardly, his chest still ached, full of something richer—something possessive and lovesick. Fang’s faint scent clung to his fingers now, soft and vulnerable, and it thrilled every protective instinct in him. He wanted Fang to feel secure in his arms again, to rely on him, to know that this closeness belonged to him alone. “See? Easy. You should just listen to me from the start.”

The others burst into giggles. Gopal nearly toppled over, holding his stomach. Yaya covered her mouth, trying not to laugh too loud. Ying smirked openly. Even Ochobot’s voice held a hum of amusement as he noted, “That was efficient.”

“Well, someone’s acting like a mom,” Ying teased.

“And Fang’s like a grumpy toddler,” Gopal wheezed, tears in his eyes.

Boboiboy flushed, but instead of snapping back, he simply crossed his arms and tilted his chin proudly, basking in his small victory—and in the quiet, possessive happiness that came with having Fang under his care. His scent thickened unconsciously, protective and grounding, wrapping around Fang like a shield.

Fang ducked his head, his cheeks warm, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s eyes. But his Omega instincts betrayed him, leaning subtly toward that warmth, scent-seeking again before he caught himself. Boboiboy’s heart clenched at how much he loved protecting him.

The warm, teasing moment stretched only until Ochobot’s tone sharpened, switching to official mode. “Boboiboy, Yaya, Ying, Gopal—summons received. You are to report to Commander Kokoci’s office immediately.”

The laughter dimmed in an instant. All except Ochobot and Fang felt their communicators buzz, a reminder of duty tugging them back into reality. Boboiboy’s eyes flicked to Fang, reluctant to leave him behind even for a moment, his chest tightening at the thought of letting go.

His instincts rebelled, every part of him wanting to linger, to scent-mark and stay close. Fang felt the loss too, though he hid it behind a scowl, his Omega instincts whining at the sudden need for his pack to leave. The sudden need for the Alpha to leave.

Chapter Text

The soft chime of their communicator broke the quiet in Boboiboy’s room. All four of them opened their communicators at the same time, a hologram appearing above each one. Commander Kokoci’s face appeared—square head, square ears like anthers, green skin almost glowing beneath the lights, and of course, those ever-present sunglasses that made it impossible to tell if he was glaring or smirking.

“Team Boboiboy,” Kokoci’s voice rang sharp, though not unkind, “Report to my office immediately. This is an urgent mission. No delays accepted.”

The message ended as abruptly as it began, leaving silence behind.

Nobody moved.

Yaya’s arms crossed firmly over her chest, her expression stormy. Ying bit her lip, eyes flickering toward Fang, who was propped against a pillow but clearly pale. Gopal groaned loudly, throwing his hands into the air.

“Urgent now? Really? The Commander’s timing is like my stomach—it only acts up at the worst possible moment.” He tried to chuckle, forcing his voice light. “Maybe he just misses us. You know, square head, square office, square loneliness—”

Nobody laughed.

Gopal’s grin faltered. They could all see through it.

Fang gave a small shake of his head, lips curving weakly as if to reassure them. “It’s fine… You guys should go. The commander doesn’t like waiting.” His voice wavered, thinner than usual, and his eyes started to droop from the medicine’s drowsiness.

That was the final straw for Boboiboy.

Without a word, he suddenly stood up. The motion was so abrupt that everyone in the room startled—Yaya blinked, Ying nearly jumped, and Gopal half-choked on his own spit.

“B-Boboiboy?” Ying asked carefully.

But Boboiboy didn’t answer. His Alpha instincts had already surged forward, possessive and restless. He crossed to his closet, opening it and grabbing a few extra pillows and blankets he’d never really used. They carried his scent—sunlight warm and grounding, threaded with cinnamon spice. 

When he carried them back and pressed them into Fang’s arms, the Omega hesitated, blinking at the obvious intimacy of it.

The soft, familiar scent wrapped around him, coaxing a shiver out of his chest before instinct quietly won over embarrassment. Fang tucked the blanket close and adjusted the pillows, curling slightly as his Omega instincts made a nest out of them without conscious thought. Lavender and cinnamon began to mingle, weaving together in the air, wrapping the room in a cocoon of pack scent. 

It wasn’t just Boboiboy, either. Slowly, cautiously, the others contributed in their own ways—small gestures, natural but deliberate.

Yaya moved first, tugging the corner of the blanket Fang had bundled around himself higher over his shoulders. The faint vanilla-and-honey undertone of her Beta scent clung there, protective and firm, like an older sister standing guard.

Ying moved the pillow at the edge of the nest closer. Scenting it with the cool, crisp mint and steel of her scent—sharp but grounding, threaded with trust. 

And Gopal, after an uncharacteristic moment of silence, grabbed one blanket and scented it before shoving it into Fang’s hand with an exaggerated shrug. “Don’t drop it,” he muttered. It smelled faintly of cocoa, peanuts, and something warm and homely, his Beta scent filling the blanket and now the nest. 

Fang froze, eyes wide at the sudden cocoon that had formed around him. The scents pressed close—Alpha cinnamon anchoring, Omega lavender weaving, Betas steel, honey, and warmth filling the cracks. He sank into it before he realized, cheeks pink with reluctant comfort, but his body relaxing with a low sigh as instinct purred in relief. This was safety, offered by his pack. 

Only once Fang had settled deeper into the nest, lashes drooping even more, did Boboiboy finally move again. He went to the bathroom, filled a bowl with cool water, and grabbed a fresh cloth. When he returned, he set them neatly on the nightstand, his movements steady and purposeful.

“Lie down,” he said, nudging Fang with surprising firmness.

Fang blinked in surprise, still trying to sit up. “I said I’m fine—”

But Boboiboy ignored him, pressing a hand to Fang’s shoulder until the other boy relented and sank back onto the bed. Then, with a small spark of light, Boboiboy shifted—his form softening, posture loosening, expression cooling until Boboiboy Ais stood in his place.

With calm precision, Ais created several small ice cubes, dropping them into the bowl. He dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and placed it gently on Fang’s forehead.

Fang flinched at the cold. “Boboiboy, this isn’t necessary—”

“Shhh.” Ais’s voice was unhurried, almost lazy, but firm. A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Rest, bunny. That’s an order.”

“S-stop calling me that!” Fang sputtered, heat rushing to his cheeks even as the cool cloth soothed him. He tried to sit up, but Ais pushed him gently but insistently back down. His Omega instincts betrayed him by softening into the care, lavender curling in shy pulses that reached for cinnamon like a touch-starved vine.

The others couldn’t hold it in anymore. Yaya covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking. Ying turned away, biting down on a grin. Ochobot’s eyes blinked with a suspicious twinkle. And Gopal? He was seconds away from bursting out laughing.

Fang’s glare at all of them only made his flustered pout more obvious—and more adorable.

Boboiboy, meanwhile, was drinking the sight in greedily, even as Ais’s calmness coated his face. 'This is where he belongs. Here, under my care. Mine to protect. My bunny.'

The thought curled warm and possessive in his chest, so sweet it almost ached. His Alpha instincts clawed at him, urging him to stay, to scent-mark Fang properly, to let the world know the Omega was claimed by him. But beneath it, he also felt the steady pulse of the pack surrounding them, their lighter scents reinforcing his own, weaving into the nest like threads of safety.

And Fang… Fang was losing the fight against his instincts. His lashes fluttered, half-lidded, as he sank deeper into the cocoon. Lavender spilled in waves, blending tighter with cinnamon and the softer undertones of honey, breeze, and cocoa. His fingers curled into the blankets unconsciously, tugging them closer, until his body practically burrowed into the scent-soaked nest.

Then, without warning, a soft sound slipped free of him.

A quiet, broken purr—more a sigh than a voice, but undeniably Omega. Instinctive. Vulnerable.

The sound rippled through the room like a shockwave.

Yaya froze mid-breath, hand still pressed to her mouth. Ying’s eyes went wide, mint flaring sharp before cooling into something steady, almost protective. Gopal, who had been seconds away from cracking a joke, snapped his jaw shut so fast his teeth clicked. Even Ochobot blinked, recording silently but saying nothing.

No one dared move.

Fang didn’t even seem aware of it. His face was still pink, his brows faintly furrowed, but his body betrayed him as it tucked tighter into the nest, lavender curling outward like shy tendrils reaching for every comforting thread of pack-scent they’d offered him. His lips parted on another soft exhale, a low hum vibrating in his chest as he pressed closer to Boboiboy’s cinnamon warmth.

Boboiboy’s heart thundered. His instincts roared in triumph, molten and possessive, nearly choking him with the urge to answer that sound—to scent-mark, to claim, to pull Fang fully against him until the Omega couldn’t breathe without him. His fingers twitched where they hovered above Fang’s hair.

But Ais’s calm steadied him, a cool hand on the raging instinct. He stayed still. Barely.

No one spoke, afraid to shatter the fragile, instinct-laden moment.

And Fang, unaware of the storm he’d set off in all of them, sank further into the safety that surrounded him.

For the first time since this nightmare began, he let go completely—Omega instincts curling in, soothed and comforted by the pack that held him safe.

Something shifted in the room then, subtle but undeniable. Not just relief, but a deep, collective joy.

Yaya’s lips trembled against her hand, though her eyes burned with something fierce and tender. 'Finally,' she thought. 'Finally, he’s not forcing himself to stand tall, to fight, to pretend he isn’t tired.' Seeing Fang burrow into their care was like a knot inside her chest unraveling.

Ying’s shoulders lowered, the breath she didn’t realize she was holding spilling out slowly. 'The medic was right.' Fang had been running himself ragged, refusing to ask for comfort, refusing to rest. Now… now he was letting himself be. Her sharp mint eased into something softer, cooling the edges of the room in quiet relief.

Gopal shifted awkwardly where he stood, blinking fast, though the corner of his mouth pulled into the tiniest, lopsided smile. He remembered the medic’s voice, too—stern but not unkind. Make him eat, make him sleep, make him let himself be an omega. He swallowed hard. 'Guess… guess we’re doing it,' he thought, chest tight but warm.

And at the center of it all, Boboiboy—no, Ais—sat steady by Fang’s side, though his chest burned with something fiercer than the others could ever know. The medic’s words echoed like a drumbeat in his head: That self-suppression—it’s part of why he’s burned out this badly.

Now, with Fang purring softly against his scent, wrapped in his nest filled with the pack scents, Boboiboy finally understood the weight of those words. His Omega had been starving for this—for rest, for safety, for permission to simply exist as himself. And seeing him take it, seeing him finally let go… it was intoxicating.

Ais’s calm face hid the storm, but beneath it, Boboiboy’s Alpha heart soared with fierce, protective joy. His bunny was resting. His pack had helped him get there. And finally, Fang didn’t look like the sharp, guarded shadow of himself—he just looked soft. Safe. The way an Omega should when surrounded by those who loved him.

Ochobot’s voice cut through his clinging silence, gentle but steady. “Boboiboy. You guys have to go.”

“No.” The refusal came immediately, low and sharp. His hand lingered against Fang’s shoulder as though holding him there could tether him.

Ochobot floated closer, his voice softer now. “I will stay. I’ll make sure Fang rests. I will monitor his temperature and his medicine, and I’ll call you immediately if anything changes. You know I won’t let anything happen to him.”

Boboiboy’s chest tightened. He trusted Ochobot, of course, he did—but his instincts screamed to stay, to guard Fang himself. Every Alpha thread in him rebelled against leaving his Omega vulnerable, even with a guardian.

Sensing the storm brewing, Yaya stepped in. She placed a steady hand on his arm, her Beta authority carrying weight even against Alpha stubbornness. “We’ll come back. Kokoci won’t keep us long.” Her tone was both command and reassurance, the stabilizing force of a Beta keeping the pack from fracturing.

Her words carried more weight than usual, because all of them knew the truth: missions Kokoci handed out often lasted days. And the thought of leaving Fang alone that long was unthinkable.

Ying’s eyes hardened with resolve, her own crisp scent sharp in the air. She leaned in, speaking with quiet, unshakable conviction. “Yeah, we’ll finish the mission before the day ends.” It wasn’t just a promise; it was a Beta’s vow to her Alpha and to their Omega.

“Exactly.” Gopal thumped his chest, and for once, the usual playfulness was gone. His cocoa-warm scent filled the space with protective steadiness. “We’ll clear it fast and be back here before dinner. Promise.”

The unspoken pack vow threaded between them—Alpha, Betas, even Ochobot holding the center. They would not fail. Not when their Omega was curled in their nest, vulnerable and trusting them to protect him in his sleep.

Boboiboy hesitated, frozen between the weight of duty and the pull of his heart. His gaze lingered on Fang, already drifting in and out of drowsy consciousness, lips parted slightly, lashes trembling against pale skin. So helpless… so unbearably precious. His Omega.

He bent down, tucking the cloth more firmly against Fang’s forehead as though reluctant hands could leave behind protection. Only then did he force himself to rise.

“Fine,” he muttered, though his voice was thick with reluctance. His Alpha wanted to roar, to resist, to stay—but the Beta threads pulling around him steadied the frayed edges of instinct. Pack held Alpha in place, the same way Alpha shielded Omega.

Even as the others turned toward the door, Boboiboy lingered, eyes locked on Fang like he could memorize every detail before leaving. His hand twitched, wanting to brush back Fang’s hair, to whisper something he wasn’t brave enough to say.

Ochobot floated closer, nudging him lightly. “Go, Boboiboy. I’ll be here.”

Finally, Boboiboy exhaled and tore himself away, though every step felt like it dragged at his heart. He glanced back one last time, unwilling to let go completely, before following the others out.

But in his chest, the thought echoed stubborn and raw, pulsing through the Alpha-bonded thread of pack instinct: 'He’s mine. My bunny. And I’ll come back to him before this day ends—no matter what Kokoci throws at us.'

The hallways felt colder than usual. Boboiboy stayed in Ais form, his steps steady, his shoulders set. His expression was unreadable—ice where warmth used to sit. Inside, though, his thoughts churned like a storm.

'Leaving him there… alone. What if the fever gets worse? What if the painkillers aren’t enough? What if—'

He clenched his fists, jaw tightening. 'No. Ochobot’s there. He promised. Still… it should be me. My responsibility. My bunny.'

The possessive word slipped through his mind like a brand. Ridiculous, maybe. Childish, even. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Fang was his Omega. His mate.

Yaya slowed her pace, sensing the strain in the air. Her brow raised as she tilted her head toward him. “You know, you’ve been staring at the floor this whole time like it stole something from you.” Her Beta steadiness rippled out, trying to soothe the sharp edges of Alpha tension pulsing off him.

Gopal snorted, elbowing Ying. His cocoa scent flared playful, though beneath it lay a protective undertone. “Oh, I know what it stole. His precious bunny.” He practically sang the last words, grinning like a fool to cover the faint ache of worry he carried for Fang, too.

Boboiboy’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. The cinnamon in his scent spiked, sharp and unmistakably Alpha. But instead of denying it, instead of sputtering out an excuse like he normally would, he simply stayed silent. The look on his face—sharp, dangerous—was answer enough.

Ying covered her mouth, muffling a laugh. Mint-scent twitched sharply before softening, threads of protective Beta warmth weaving around the pack. “Oh my gosh. He didn’t even deny it.”

“Uh-oh,” Gopal gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “We’ve lost him! Our leader has been bunny-brainwashed!”

Even Yaya cracked a smile, though hers was gentler. “You really love him, don’t you?” Her voice wasn’t a tease—it was an affirmation, a recognition of what her Alpha was already declaring with every step.

Boboiboy’s gaze flickered away, forward toward Kokoci’s looming office doors. His voice came quiet but firm, colder than usual, like frost layered over fire. “Of course I do. He’s mine to protect. No one else’s.”

The blunt honesty rippled through the pack bond. Yaya’s steady warmth wrapped around the edges of it, grounding. Ying’s mint steadied, anchoring. Even Gopal, for all his dramatics, stopped short—his cocoa scent turning rich and warm, a subtle agreement. They all felt it: the Alpha’s claim, raw and unshakable.

Gopal whispered loudly, though softer than before, “Wow… our Boboiboy’s got it bad.”

For once, though, Boboiboy didn’t bristle at the teasing. He let their laughter wash over him, but beneath it, the bond thrummed. His Alpha instincts ached to go back, to return to the nest where lavender and cinnamon curled together. Every step closer to Kokoci’s office only sharpened his resolve.

'No matter the mission, no matter the danger—we finish it today. We come back as a pack. I’ll go back to him before the night falls. That’s a promise.'

They reached the square-headed commander’s door, feeling a little lighter after teasing Boboiboy out of his brooding silence.

When the automatic panels slid open, the team braced themselves for Kokoci’s usual booming voice and stern expression. What they didn’t expect was the sight waiting inside.

Not just Commander Kokoci, seated stiffly behind his desk with his sunglasses reflecting the room’s light—

But also them.

Captain Kaizo, standing tall with his arms behind his back, his sharp gaze flickering briefly toward them. His Alpha scent was unmistakable—jasmine cut with cold iron, cedarwood grounding it with a dangerous steadiness.

Beside him stood Sai, boredom etched across his face, his scent carrying burnt paper and sand-dry air, faint but abrasive in the silence. Shielda stood with her usual confidence, her scent sparking granite-dust and cool stormwater, an anchor against her twin’s indifference.

And at the flank lingered Lahap, Alpha-solid, but not mirroring Kaizo—dark leather and charred oak, musky and unshakable, the weight of a soldier who never faltered.

The air shifted instantly.

Two packs in one space.

Two Alphas at their head.

Ying blinked in surprise, mint and steel flickering sharply. “The entire rebel pack is here…” 

Yaya’s honey-vanilla steadied the edges of the sudden tension. “This must be… really serious.”

“Great,” Gopal muttered, peanuts and cocoa puffing out nervously. “If Captain Kaizo is here, then this is one of those missions.”

But while his pack processed the weight of the situation, Boboiboy felt something else clawing deep in his chest. His scent bristled, Alpha heat sharpening in irritation.

If Kokoci had called both packs, this mission wouldn’t be short. Maybe not even days, but weeks.

Weeks away from Fang.

Weeks away from his bunny.

His fists curled, Ais’s icy mask holding steady over the raw edge of instinct. But his scent betrayed him—it coiled, heavy and possessive, cinnamon biting sharper beneath the frost.

The others noticed. Yaya shifted closer instinctively, honey wrapping subtly around him, grounding his spiraling Alpha edge. Ying angled protectively at his flank, mint cooling the hot bite of cinnamon. Even Gopal’s cocoa drifted closer, layering pack-warmth. They didn’t need words; they were cushioning their Alpha, because Fang’s absence was a wound humming through all of them.

Kokoci leaned forward, his Beta presence steady but commanding, like the weight of stone and steel authority. “Now that we are all here, we can—”

“Wait. Wait.” Sai’s lazy voice cut through, though his burnt-paper scent ticked sharp with curiosity. “That’s not everyone. Where’s Fang?”

The interruption earned him a sharp smack from Shielda, whose granite-and-rain scent spiked in reprimand. “Don’t interrupt the commander.” Yet her eyes flickered with the same concern, betraying her brother’s question.

Kokoci’s mouth flattened into a line. His words were flat, final. “Private Pang is out of commission. Medics have ordered two weeks of rest for him.”

The room went still.

Kaizo’s mask cracked first. Jasmine and iron sharpened suddenly, cedarwood curling at the edges as his Alpha instinct flared. His voice, clipped, strained against restraint; “The infirmary, then?”

'Two weeks,' he thought, storming beneath his composure. His little brother hadn’t sustained injuries in recent missions—so what had happened? Why hadn’t he been told before?

Before Kokoci could answer, another Alpha’s voice sliced through the air.

“That’s none of your business.”

Every scent in the room stilled.

Boboiboy Ais stood rigid, cinnamon and sunlight spiking sharp, his voice ice-edged and merciless.

Kaizo turned to him, jasmine and cedar slamming forward like a storm. “It is my business if it concerns one of my packmates.” His tone snapped like thunder bottled behind his teeth.

“He’s not your responsibility,” Boboiboy shot back, possessiveness bleeding into every word. His scent rolled out, alpha-dominant and daring. “And you don’t need to know.” 

The clash was instant.

Jasmine and iron tangled with cinnamon and sunlight, thick and choking. Lahap’s leather-and-oak flared in support of Kaizo, anchoring his side, while honey-vanilla and mint-steel surged around Boboiboy in counterbalance. Sai’s sandpaper scent grated dry against the air, and Shielda’s granite cracked with unease.

The atmosphere froze sharp. This wasn’t just dominance—it was two Alpha heads locking teeth, packs shifting instinctively behind them, the air so heavy it pressed into lungs.

Ying shifted uneasily, her mint flickering sharp as she glanced between them. She recognized the look on Boboiboy’s face—the same look he’d worn while refusing to leave Fang’s bedside. She understood his protectiveness. But Captain Kaizo’s reaction… was out of the ordinary.

Yaya’s brows knitted, vanilla thickening as she crossed her arms. They’d just joked about Boboiboy’s possessiveness, but the Captain’s fury? That was personal.

Gopal leaned toward Ying, whispering with wide eyes, “Uh… did I miss a memo? Why does this feel like two wolves fighting over the same rabbit?”

Ying shushed him, though her silence betrayed agreement.

On the rebel side, Sai muttered, burnt-paper rasping faintly. “…well, that escalated.” He shot a questioning glance at Shielda.

Shielda shook her head, though her granite scent was tense. “I don’t know. But Captain’s never—never—reacted like that before…”

Lahap stayed quiet, but his charred-oak steadiness held the line. He had known for a long time—Kaizo’s cold edge always cracked where Fang was concerned. A buried brother’s claim, unspoken but there. What surprised him now was the boy standing in opposition.

Because Boboiboy’s cinnamon burned with the same raw, unyielding claim.

The silence snapped under Kokoci’s thunderous hand on the desk.

His Beta scent surged—ozone-grey resolve, a wall of immovable authority. It didn’t dominate, not the way an Alpha could.

But it cut through like a blade of steel, every syllable sharpened by years of command.

“Enough.”

The word cracked like a gunshot.

For one heartbeat, both Alphas bristled—every feral instinct in them snarling against the audacity.

No Beta should interrupt them. No Beta should slice across their clash like this, not when their dominance was on the line. Their instincts screamed to punish, to snap, to remind Kokoci exactly where he stood in the natural order.

Cinnamon and jasmine flared hotter for a breath—Boboiboy’s possessiveness spiking sharply, Kaizo’s iron-laced cedar ready to crush down.

But TAPOPS was not the wild.

Kokoci was not a simple Beta.

He was their Commander.

And his voice—razor-edged, battle-forged, honed on decades of barking orders over Alphas who thought themselves untouchable—hit harder than instinct.

The authority in it demanded obedience, bypassing scent, bypassing instinct, striking straight to discipline drilled into their bones.

Boboiboy’s jaw locked until it ached, but his scent reeled in, burning like banked embers.

Kaizo’s cedar and iron coiled back tight, his mask snapping into place, though his hands curled behind his back hard enough to leave crescents in his palms.

Both Alphas seethed, barely leashed, their packs instinctively braced behind them.

They didn’t submit.

They couldn’t.

But they obeyed.

Because instinct wanted blood—

But TAPOPS demanded order.

And Kokoci’s Beta authority, carved in stone and ozone, left no room for rebellion.

The packs felt it too.

Yaya’s honey-vanilla thickened instantly, wrapping around Boboiboy’s shoulders like a shield, steadying him against the pull to lash out.

Ying pressed closer on his other side, mint and steel cutting sharp, bracing herself like she was ready to tackle him down if he so much as twitched.

Gopal edged in, cocoa warmth puffing nervously but steadily, forming a wall at his Alpha’s back.

Together, they caged him in—not as submission, but as protection, anchoring him from instincts that could drag him over the edge.

Across the room, the rebel pack mirrored the gesture in their own way.

Shielda’s granite cracked forward, solid and immovable, her stormwater scent sparking sharp as she squared her stance in front of Kaizo.

Sai’s burnt-paper rasp grated louder, defensive, his lazy mask sharpened into something edged as he angled toward Boboiboy in case things turned bloody again.  

Lahap—always the quiet anchor—laid a heavy hand on Kaizo’s shoulder, charred oak weight pushing down, grounding his Alpha in place before he did something that could never be taken back.

Every instinct screamed that Kokoci should have been torn down for daring to cut across an Alpha clash.

But this wasn’t instinct’s domain.

Kokoci wasn’t “any Beta.”

He was Commander.

And not even two Alphas, backed by their packs, dared test the steel in his voice.

The room fell into a hush as Commander Kokoci rose from his chair, his square frame casting a long shadow across the polished floor. His fingers drummed once against the steel surface of the desk before him—sharp, deliberate. The sound echoed like a gavel strike, sending a ripple of restraint through every scent in the room.

His single eye swept over them—Boboiboy, Yaya, Ying, Gopal, Kaizo, Sai, Shielda, and Lahap—each one standing in formation, shoulders squared, spines straight. Instinct roiled just beneath their skins, Alpha dominance curling, Beta wariness flaring, but the sheer weight of military discipline pressed everything into silence.

“This mission,” Kokoci began, his voice gravel-deep, edged with command, “is unlike any we’ve attempted in recent months. A power sphere has surfaced. Its name is DreamweaveBot.”

His Beta scent flared—ozone-grey steadiness, a wall of command honed sharp enough to override instinct without challenging it. It was the same tone that had cracked through Alphas' seconds before, and now it kept them standing still, listening, even as dominance coiled restless in the air.

A flick of his hand activated the holoprojector. A sphere of cold silver light hovered above it, faint ripples across its surface shifting like breath. Its presence carried an eerie weight, almost alive, its glow brushing over their senses like an unwelcome hand.

“This particular sphere grants its wielder—or those it ensnares—the illusion of living their deepest, truest desire.” Kokoci’s tone sharpened, cutting through the rising scents of unease. “But it is no gift. Once bound, the subject enters a trance. Speechless. Unaware. They cannot think freely. And yet…” His eye gleamed behind his sunglasses. “They will obey orders without resistance. To outsiders, they appear awake—alive. But their minds are shackled.”

Yaya’s honey-vanilla soured faintly at the thought, protective warmth spiking uneasily. Ying’s mint-and-steel scent flickered sharply, restless with calculation. Gopal’s cocoa-puff warmth thinned, nervousness drifting in the air.

On the rebel side, Shielda’s granite grit hardened, stormwater sparking defensively. Sai’s burnt-paper rasp ticked sharper, no longer fully bored.

Kokoci’s Beta steadiness cut across them again, holding their focus. “For the past week, a hunter by the name of Veylan Drosk has been exploiting DreamweaveBot. Through its influence, he has brought business tycoons, planetary governors, and entire fleets under his command. Every day, his control spreads further. If this continues unchecked, entire systems will fall.”

The silence thickened, scents winding tighter. The Alphas bristled—Kaizo’s cedar and iron biting sharp, Boboiboy’s cinnamon and sunlight prickling frost-edged—but neither broke formation. Kokoci’s authority stood like a mountain: Beta-ranked, but immovable.

“We do not have the luxury of time.” Kokoci slammed his palm against the table, ozone-stone slicing like a blade. Both Alphas stiffened, their instincts flaring at the audacity—yet not one muscle moved out of line. Training bit deep, forcing them into obedience even as their scents bristled against the leash.

“Kaizo. Sai. Shielda. Lahap.” Kokoci’s voice rang like steel. “You are the strike team. Your orders: breach the fortress perimeter. Engage and neutralize his lieutenants. Draw his army away and hold their focus.”

Kaizo’s jasmine-iron scent coiled tighter, clipped but steady. Shielda’s granite surged sharply with resolve, Lahap’s oak weight solidifying behind them. Even Sai’s sand-dry scent roughened, sharpened, as his mask of boredom cracked.

“Boboiboy. Yaya. Ying. Gopal. You are the recovery team. Infiltrate the sanctum. Locate and secure DreamweaveBot before Drosk escapes—or worse, turns it upon you. You will have no second chance. Speed and precision will be your weapons.”

Honey-vanilla thickened protectively around Yaya, mint-steel flickered sharp and restless from Ying, cocoa warmth churned faint from Gopal. And cinnamon-sunlight rolled heavy from Boboiboy—Alpha possessiveness sharpened into something bordering on dangerous.

Finally, Kokoci’s voice thundered through the chamber, absolute, uncompromising:

“Failure is not an option. If DreamweaveBot is not retrieved… freedom itself will not remain.”

The words landed like chains, sinking into their bones.

And though instinct bristled—Alphas stiff against the Beta who dared hold them in line—none disobeyed.

Kokoci’s authority was not dominant.

It was discipline.

And they obeyed.

Boboiboy’s icy mask did not crack, but his cinnamon bristled raw beneath it. Weeks. The thought was poison in his chest. Weeks away from Fang. His Omega. His responsibility.

Across the room, Kaizo’s cedar-laced sharper iron, burning with quiet fury beneath his composure. His instincts were straining at the leash, demanding that he go and check on his little brother, but he held himself.

The air was thick with scents—Alpha storms coiled tight, packs pressing instinctively closer to their leaders, bracing, anchoring.

The mission hadn’t even begun, yet the battlefield was already drawn.

Two packs.

Two Alpha heads.

One Omega.

And Kokoci’s Beta authority was the only thing keeping the fragile balance from shattering.

Kokoci’s tone was crisp as he wrapped up the briefing. His Beta authority pulsed through the air, firm and grounding, tamping down the frayed edges of Alpha energy threatening to spark.

“You’ve been given your roles. The hunter won’t wait, and neither will we. Head to the hangar—your ship and equipment are ready.”

With that, the sliding doors behind him rumbled open. His stone scent lingered in the air, a steadying weight that pressed on instincts, reminding them that discipline—not dominance—held sway here.

Kaizo moved first, sharp and controlled, cedar-and-iron scent clipped tight to his skin. Shielda and Sai fell in sync behind him, their Beta scents steady—granite and sand, balancing without challenging. Lahap strode at Kaizo’s flank, his oakwood strength grounding the air around him. 

Boboiboy, followed by Gopal, Ying, and Yaya, was still locked in Ais Mode, cold air radiating from his frame like a storm barely restrained. His cinnamon-sunlight scent was iced over, restrained to near-emptiness, but the cracks showed: faint spikes of Alpha possessiveness bleeding through like warning static. 

His fists clenched as he walked, jaw tight. 'Fang needs me, right now. Not them. Not Kaizo. Me.' The thought gnawed sharply, his scent threatening to sharpen into frost. 'If I’m not there—' He forced the growl back into his chest, but his instincts bristled hot, 'No one else gets near him.'

The hangar doors opened with a hydraulic hiss. A sleek dark-blue spaceship awaited, metallic frame gleaming under the lights, Falcon Edge stenciled along its side.

“Whoa-ho!” Gopal whistled, cocoa-warm scent puffing lighter for a moment as he jogged forward to trail his hand along the hull. “Now this is what I’m talking about! Bet it’s got a kitchen the size of a restaurant inside.”

Yaya’s honey-vanilla spiked faintly in exasperation. “Why is food the first thing you think about?”

“Because it’s the most important!” Gopal grinned. “A soldier marches on his stomach. Or in my case… multiple stomachs.”

Shielda’s granite grit roughened. “Multiple stomachs don’t excuse laziness.”

“Oi, oi, relax, sis,” Sai drawled, his sand-dry scent carrying faint amusement. “Let him dream about his snacks. We’ll need something to laugh about before the lasers start flying.”

Shielda’s glare sliced at him, but Ying’s mint-steel shimmered faintly with laughter. “You two never change.”

Yaya’s honey-vanilla warmed more softly. “Honestly, it’s kind of comforting.” 

“Yeah, like a soap opera in the middle of a battlefield,” Gopal quipped, cocoa puffing again, earning himself a swat from Ying.

Sai smirked faintly, then his gaze flicked toward the Alpha stalking in silence at the back. His voice dipped low. “Speaking of things that don’t change… what’s with your leader? He’s been walking around like an ice cube since you lot arrived at the Commander’s office.”

Shielda’s granite shifted, worry threading into it. “And Fang. Medics ordered him out of commission for two weeks. No messages, no word. We deserve to know—what happened?”

The question cut sharply. Instinct tugged through the group, scents tightening. 

Yaya sighed, her honey turning heavy. “Yesterday… Fang collapsed.”

Mint-steel flickered sharply from Ying. “He was burning with fever. Out cold. The doctor said exhaustion, but… it looked worse.” 

Cocoa dimmed from Gopal. “The medic said Fang needed rest, but he couldn’t even walk on his own. Scared the life out of us, even if the medic said it was only for a day.” 

Shielda froze, granite cracking. “Collapsed?”

Sai’s sand went razor-thin, his mask gone. “He was that bad, and no one told us?”

Their scents shifted fast—Beta worry, protective, and raw.

Kaizo’s cedar-iron stayed clipped, but the edges bled sharp. His fists clenched, his jaw locked.

'Collapsed… Pang collapsed, and I wasn’t there?' The thought seared through him, ripping at the careful wall he held around himself. His chest twisted hot, instincts flaring. 'My little brother—struggling to stand, burning with fever, and I wasn’t even told?'

The growl clawed at his throat, but he swallowed it down, cedar sharpening into steel restraint. His mask held, but the ache beneath it burned, raw and relentless. No battlefield had ever made him feel so helpless.

Lahap’s oakwood steadiness caught the tremor beneath Kaizo’s calm. He didn’t just smell the crack of anger—he felt the tug of something deeper, more desperate.

'That’s not just Alpha fury,' Lahap thought. 'That’s a brother’s fear. The captain’s mask can hide his face, but not his scent. He’s being uninformed because he wasn’t there when Fang needed him.'

Shielda’s granite softened, trembling with something closer to plea. “Where is he resting? We need to see him after this mission. He shouldn’t be alone.”

Before the Betas could answer, Boboiboy’s voice cut in—frost-raw, his cinnamon-sunlight flaring cold and possessive.

“That’s none of your business. Focus on the mission. We move. Now.”

The air bit sharply, his Alpha dominance punching through, cold and unyielding. Beneath it, his thoughts curled dark. 'Fang doesn’t need your worry. He doesn’t need you. He needs rest. He needs our pack. The others and Me. Not you.'

The sudden chill silenced the group, scents stilled by the weight of his words.

Kaizo’s cedar ironed tighter, cold on the surface, but his instincts growled beneath. 'So that’s how it is. You think you’re the only one who cares. You think you’re the only one who can protect him. We’ll see, Boboiboy.'

Without another word, Boboiboy strode up the ramp of the Falcon Edge, leaving behind the sharp-edged tension his scent had carved into the hangar.

The steady hum of the ship’s engines filled the silence like an endless drone.

Everyone sat in their own corners of the cabin—Shielda polishing her shield, Yaya scrolling through the mission brief for the tenth time, Gopal already snacking from a stash he wasn’t supposed to have, and Ying pretending to be absorbed in calibrating her gauntlet but constantly stealing worried glances between Kaizo and Boboiboy.

Kaizo sat with arms crossed, cedar-and-iron scent wound tight around himself, sharp gaze locked ahead as if the metal wall in front of him deserved to be cut in two.

Boboiboy, back in his original form, leaned against the opposite bulkhead, mirroring Kaizo’s stillness with equal stubbornness. His cinnamon-sunlight scent, usually warm, was iced over and spiking with Alpha possessiveness that seeped past his restraint like cracks in a dam.

The air between them was thick, heavy, suffocating—so much so that even Lahap, whose oak steadiness usually grounded a room, kept sneaking glances back from the cockpit as if expecting a fight to break out at any second. Instinct hummed low, warning every Beta in the cabin that the balance was close to shattering.

Halfway to their destination, the oppressive silence finally cracked.

“Ughhh!” Sai suddenly exploded, throwing his arms up dramatically. His voice echoed through the cabin like a gunshot. “I can’t take this anymore! This silence is worse than death! Somebody say something before I go insane!”

Everyone jolted at the outburst. Shielda instantly elbowed him, granite scent spiking. “Sai! Keep it down, you’re going to make Lahap swerve!”

“I’d rather swerve into an asteroid than keep sitting here like we’re in a frozen morgue!” Sai shot back, dramatically sliding down his seat as if his soul was leaving his body. “I need noise, banter, life! Even Gopal’s crunching isn’t enough!”

“Hey!” Gopal gasped in mock offense, cocoa scent puffing sharply as he hugged his snack bag protectively. “This is quality crunch you’re hearing. Respect the crunch!”

Yaya sighed, honey-vanilla thick with exasperation. “We’re supposed to be a serious task force, not a traveling circus…” but there was the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at her lips.

Meanwhile, Ying smothered a laugh at the corner of her mouth before her mint-steel eyes flicked back between Boboiboy and Kaizo again. Neither moved, neither spoke—but their silence suddenly felt even louder than Sai’s shouting.

Sai groaned and sprawled himself across two seats, dramatically placing an arm over his forehead. “Seriously, how do you two stand it?” he blurted, pointing between Boboiboy and Kaizo. “You’re sitting there like rival statues ready to explode! You’re gonna freeze us all before we even reach the mission site!”

That earned him a sharp glare from Shielda. “Sai. Enough.”

But Sai wasn’t done. He smirked, voice carrying. “No, really. What’s the deal? Did one of you forget the other’s birthday? Or is this some kind of macho contest to see who can sulk harder? Because, newsflash, you’re both winning.”

That did it.

Boboiboy’s head snapped up, cinnamon-scent spiking sharp and cold. His glare cut like frost. “You think this is a game, Sai? This isn’t about sulking.”

Kaizo’s cedar ironed tighter, his voice cold, cutting, and threaded with Alpha command. “Then perhaps you should learn to control your emotions instead of letting them compromise your duties.”

The clash of scents hit like a stormfront colliding—Boboiboy’s cinnamon flaring hot beneath its icy bite, Kaizo’s cedar grinding against it like steel against stone. The Betas in the cabin stiffened, instincts tugging at them to stillness, their scents flattening in submission to the dominance bristling off the two Alphas.

Boboiboy leaned forward, growl trembling in his throat. “Easy for you to say—you treat people like tools, not teammates. Not friends.”

“And you,” Kaizo snapped back, eyes narrowing, cedar cutting sharper, “let your attachments cloud your judgment. That makes you dangerous—not just to yourself, but to everyone relying on you.”

The temperature in the cabin seemed to drop as the words and scents collided, pressing down on every breath.

“At least I care about the people I fight beside,” Boboiboy spat, Alpha fire flashing hotter in his chest.

“Care without discipline is weakness,” Kaizo bit out, cedar surging like a blade drawn. “And weakness gets soldiers killed.”

“You think shutting yourself off makes you stronger?!” Boboiboy’s voice cracked with fury, cinnamon rolling sharp and unrestrained now, wrapping the cabin in its heat. “That’s not strength, Kaizo—that’s cowardice!”

The others sat frozen, wide-eyed, scents locked down as tight as they could manage. Gopal’s chips hung midair, forgotten. Yaya’s fingers tightened around her tablet, honey trembling faintly. Ying pressed her lips together, steel-mint flickering, tension coiling in her chest. Even Shielda, granite-strong, clenched her fists at her sides, uncertain if she should intervene.

Sai, caught between triumph and regret, leaned back slowly, whispering to himself: “Well… this escalated fast.”

In the cockpit, Lahap let out a low sigh, oak scent deepening as he tightened his grip on the controls. 'Two Alphas, bristling like wolves in a cage. Just what we needed before a mission.'

The ship pressed on through the stars, but now the silence had been shattered—replaced by a verbal and instinctual battlefield, the clash of Alpha wills filling every breath.

Kaizo’s glare didn’t waver. 'Cowardice? He dares to call me a coward?'

“Cowardice? You think discipline is cowardice?”

Boboiboy pushed off the wall, finally rising to his feet. Cinnamon flared hot, spiced with the raw ozone tang of lightning, his Alpha dominance uncoiling like a storm. “No, I think using discipline as an excuse to treat everyone like disposable soldiers is cowardice. You never let anyone close. Not Fang, not the twins, not anyone.”

Kaizo’s jaw tightened, cedar-and-iron scent surging sharp enough to sting the back of every throat in the cabin. His voice rang colder than steel. 'Not close? If I let them close, they’d break even faster. I won’t lose him.'

“Fang knew the risks. He chose his path.”

Boboiboy’s fists clenched, cinnamon heat rolling off him in choking waves. 'Choose? No. He was forced down that path by you. Fang’s mine to protect. Mine. I won’t let you rip him apart piece by piece.'

“Don’t you dare act like you care. You pushed him until he collapsed!”

The words struck like a whip. Ying inhaled sharply, her Beta scent flattening in instinctive brace. Shielda froze mid-polish, granite locking rigid around her frame. Even Sai sat bolt upright, no longer daring to smirk.

Kaizo’s eyes narrowed, cedar saturating the air until it cut like smoke in the lungs. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I do,” Boboiboy fired back, cinnamon sparking sharp, his voice rising with every word. “You pushed him so hard he nearly shattered. And you’d do the same to any of us. You call it discipline—but it’s just control. You don’t know how to fight with people, only how to use them.”

Kaizo stood now, aura flaring, his posture radiating Alpha command. 'You think control is cruelty. You don’t understand—Fang has to be pushed, has to be tested, or he’ll never grow strong enough to survive. Weakness kills. I can’t let him stay weak. I can’t… I won’t lose my brother.'

“Better to be used effectively than to die because someone couldn’t handle their emotions.”

The heat in Boboiboy’s chest burst into fire. His next words tore out before anyone could stop him.

“If I had it my way, Kaizo—I’d make sure you never saw Fang again.”

The line cracked through the cabin like thunder.

For the first time, Kaizo’s composure fractured. His teeth clenched, cedar splintering raw, and the icy mask he always wore slipped, revealing the fury boiling beneath. His Alpha aura sharpened, the air itself humming with the promise of violence.

'Never see him again? No. He’s my brother. You don't have the right to stop me. '

In an instant, his patience snapped. Kaizo lunged forward, hand shooting out toward Boboiboy’s collar. Boboiboy reacted just as fast, sparks flaring wildly as his fist slammed against Kaizo’s arm.

The clash boomed through the cabin, two Alpha scents detonating like storms colliding—cinnamon and iron —forcing every Beta in the room to their knees in instinctive brace.

Shielda barely raised her shield in time to stop the sparks from scattering too far.

“Enough!” she barked, granite scent bracing like a wall. But neither Alpha listened.

“You think you can protect Fang?” Kaizo snarled, shoving forward, cedar sharpened into a blade. 'I’ve watched him bleed and crawl back up again. He’s my responsibility. No one else’s.'

“You think you know what he needs? Don't make me laugh, you don’t even understand him!”

Boboiboy’s eyes burned, cinnamon roaring so hot it nearly suffocated the cabin. His voice cracked with rage. 'I understand him better than anyone. I saw the cracks he hides from everyone. He’s mine to guard, not yours to crush.'

“I understand him better than you ever could! I’m the one who sees how he looks at himself—like he’s nothing but a burden! And it’s because of you!”

The words spilled before he could stop them. For a heartbeat, the cabin froze.

Kaizo’s eyes widened, a rare crack in his steel resolve. '…A burden? My brother thinks he’s a burden?' The thought struck him deeper than any blade ever could, a sickness clawing at his chest. He masked it instantly, forcing his face back into ice, but inside, the disbelief burned. 'No. Fang is not a burden. He’s everything. He’s my family. He can’t think that… he just can’t.'

But everyone could feel it—the horror rippling through the bond-web like a shockwave.

An Omega who believes they’re a burden?

That was more than dangerous.

It was pack-shattering.

Omegas weren’t just soft hearts—they were anchors.

If Fang’s belief rooted deep enough, if he let himself truly think he was disposable, his bond could fray, unravel, collapse inward.

An Omega who broke like that didn’t just destroy themselves.

They dragged the entire pack’s stability down with them.

Instead of recoiling, Boboiboy’s fury only flared hotter, his powers sparking wildly against the shield between them. His lips curled into a snarl. 'You don’t deserve him. You’ll never see how much he matters. I’ll protect him from you, even if I have to tear you down myself.'

Kaizo’s grip tightened like a vice, his cedar clawing sharp enough to sting eyes and throats. His voice was a low growl. “And you’re the one who let him believe that. You claim to care, but all you do is feed his weakness.” 'He’s not weak. He can’t be. I won’t let him be.'

That was the breaking point.

Boboiboy roared, his other fist igniting with fire, slamming into the shield that kept them apart. The impact rattled the entire cabin. Sparks and flames burst across the room, forcing Ying and Gopal to duck for cover, their Beta scents flat and panicked.

“STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!” Yaya shouted, her honey scent flooding thick and desperate, trying to soothe the rising Alpha storm.

“Lahap, do something!” Sai yelped, fear spiking sharp and sour.

“Do I look like I want to get fried alive?!” the Lahap shouted back from the cockpit, oak grip steady but taut as the ship jolted from the clash.

Kaizo shoved forward harder, cedar burning cold, his aura a blade about to cut. 'I won’t lose him. Not like them. I won’t.'

“You think rage makes you strong? That boy doesn’t need your pity—he needs to stand on his own!”

Boboiboy’s teeth bared, cinnamon crackling wild, lightning splitting across his arms. 'He doesn’t need to stand alone. He has me. He’ll always have me.'

“And he never will as long as you keep tearing him down!”

The shield groaned under the pressure, Shielda’s arms trembling with the strain of holding apart two Alphas whose scents were filling the cabin like storms. The Betas huddled instinctively lower, lungs burning from the clash.

Because this wasn’t just two Alphas fighting.

This was two Alphas clashing over an Omega’s very soul.

The shield groaned under the pressure—then shattered as Boboiboy’s fire-laced fist broke through. Shielda stumbled back with a grunt, barely catching herself as the two combatants lunged straight at each other with nothing left in between.

Cedar and iron detonated in the air as Kaizo’s fist met Boboiboy’s jaw, snapping his head to the side with a crack. Cinnamon lightning spiked in retaliation, burning the cabin’s oxygen thick and acrid.

The boy staggered back, teeth bared, rage spilling like wildfire. In retaliation, fire and lightning surged up his arms as he drove a blazing punch into Kaizo’s ribs.

The impact boomed, a shockwave rattling the cabin. Panels sparked, the ship shuddering violently as if even the steel hull feared their fury. Gopal screamed as snacks flew everywhere, Beta-scent gone flat with panic. Ying pulled Yaya down just in time as a stray arc of lightning scorched the ceiling above them.

Kaizo didn’t flinch. His cedar-iron scent surged like sharpened blades, and in a blink, he was upon Boboiboy again, knee driving hard into his stomach. Air blasted out of Boboiboy’s lungs in a pained grunt, cinnamon stuttering into acrid smoke—but the agony only twisted into fury. He grabbed Kaizo’s wrist mid-strike, sparks crawling across his fingers, and with a roar, hurled him against the opposite wall.

The ship groaned from the impact, metal denting under the force.

But Kaizo stood. Always standing. Always unyielding. His jaw dripped red, cedar laced with blood-iron, but his eyes blazed with a storm. His Alpha voice cracked through the cabin like thunder, the command in it making the Betas’ muscles lock against their will.

“You don’t get to tell me how to protect my brother!”

He charged, cedar slicing sharp enough to make the Betas cough. Blades of energy carved into the air as he swung, each strike cutting through Boboiboy’s defenses like a storm of razors. Sparks burst as fire and lightning collided with Kaizo’s aura, each blow louder, heavier, more desperate than the last.

Boboiboy screamed back, cinnamon heat burning wild, his own Alpha voice tearing loose, wild and raw. The sound cracked like lightning itself, instinct-heavy, forcing Ying and Yaya to flinch back as their hearts skipped.

“I know more than you ever will! You break him, Kaizo! You don’t protect him—you destroy him!”

His lightning flared blindingly bright, channeling into a single strike that hammered into Kaizo’s side, sending the older Alpha crashing into a bulkhead hard enough to dent the steel.

Kaizo staggered, clutching his ribs, cedar burning bitter, before his voice tore out again, louder, harsher—another lash of command that dragged gooseflesh across every Beta’s skin:

“Destroy him?! I made him strong! Every scar, every wound, every trial—that’s why he’s still alive! You think your coddling would save him?!”

He launched again, catching Boboiboy by the collar mid-charge. With brutal force, he slammed him against the floor, cedar spiking so sharp the Betas winced and gagged, their scents snapping flat to shield themselves. His aura cut into the metal around them like knives.

“Stop acting like you’re his savior!” Kaizo roared, Alpha compulsion rolling heavy enough to make Ying’s knees buckle. “You’re not strong enough to protect him! You never were!”

Boboiboy’s eyes blazed like firestorms, cinnamon scent spilling so hot it burned, electricity searing the ground. His fist rocketed upward into Kaizo’s jaw, breaking the grip and sending both of them tumbling apart. He scrambled back to his feet, chest heaving, every inch of him trembling with wrath.

“I don’t need to be strong enough for the galaxy!” His voice cracked out again, lightning exploding in wild arcs, forcing every Beta spine stiff. “I just need to be strong enough for him! And I’ll do it without tearing him apart like you do!”

The two clashed again, fists colliding mid-air with such force that the ship lurched dangerously off-course, alarms blaring from the cockpit. The combined scents—cedar, cinnamon, iron—were so thick it was choking, making the Betas’ lungs seize as they struggled to breathe.

“THAT’S IT!” Lahap bellowed, yanking the ship’s controls into autopilot. Dark leather and charred oak slammed into the room like a tidal wave, blanketing the clash in heavy smoke and steel.

His Alpha voice cracked across the cabin, ancient and absolute, forcing both combatants to falter mid-motion. “You’re going to tear the ship in half before we even land!”

“Shielda—NOW!” Yaya shouted, Beta honey surging, desperate to soothe.

Shielda gritted her teeth, throwing herself between the two once more, granite scent braced like stone. The clash slammed against her, nearly bowling her over—but this time, Yaya, Ying, and Lahap joined her, each grabbing one of the Alphas to wrench them apart.

Boboiboy thrashed, lightning biting at Ying’s arms as she held him back. His words were venom, spit through clenched teeth, Alpha compulsion dripping off every syllable:

“Let me go! He doesn’t deserve Fang! He doesn’t deserve him!”

Kaizo roared in turn, straining against Lahap’s leather-oak grip, cedar slicing the air like blades. His Alpha voice cracked like a blade in bone. 

“Release me! Now!”

“BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP!” Yaya’s voice cracked like a whip, Beta command laced in every syllable.

It snapped the air flat, forcing both Alpha scents to stutter and recoil for a breath.

The cabin dropped into stunned silence.

The ship was left battered, sparks flickering in the ceiling, smoke curling from the walls.

Everyone stood panting, wide-eyed, caught between terror and awe at the sheer violence that had just erupted before them.

And in the center of it all, Kaizo and Boboiboy still glared, eyes locked like predators, neither willing to bow, neither willing to surrender.

That was when everyone present knew that if Fang, their Omega, ever truly believed he was a burden, the fracture it caused would ripple through the two entire packs until nothing was left standing.

With Fang

The quiet hum of the room was broken only by Fang’s soft, uneven breaths.

Curled into the makeshift nest he had built on BoBoiBoy’s bed—blankets tangled, pillows scattered—his fever-warm body sank deeper into the scents clinging to the sheets. BoBoiBoy’s warmth, Yaya’s sweet honey trace, Ying’s minty coolness, and Gopal’s lingering cocoa all tangled together, woven into the nest like a cocoon.

Fang had stayed buried in it since the others left, too tired to move, too dazed to care.

The scents should have comforted him.

They did, for a while.

But they were faint now, dulled at the edges.

Not fresh.

His omega instincts stirred uneasily, grumbling that he was too far from his pack.

Ochobot was not there. The little robot had zipped away to the cafeteria while Fang was asleep, to bring food he could stomach despite the fever.

For a while, Fang slept peacefully.

Then—

His body jolted, chest tightening. A strange pull surged through him, his instincts roaring awake like a storm breaking through the haze of fever. His eyes flew open as he sat up too fast, the world spinning around him, yet the feeling in his chest did not fade.

'Something’s wrong.'

His instincts screamed—pack, pack, they need you, calm them down!—but Fang froze, clutching at the sheets.

'Which pack, though?'

That was the problem. He had two.

His first… his oldest.

Kaizo, Lahap, Sai, Shielda. His family by blood and battle, a bond carved by survival. The ones who had raised him in the harshness of space. His heart ached with the memory of his Abang’s quiet protection, Shielda’s grounding presence, Sai’s playfulness, Lahap’s quiet steadiness.

But then there was his second pack.

BoBoiBoy, Yaya, Ying, Gopal. The ones who had welcomed him, made a place for him, and unknowingly slipped under his skin until their scents in this nest were enough to keep him from unraveling. 

Two bonds.

Two pulls.

His instincts did not care that he was burning with fever—they only screamed louder, demanding he move, act, help, calm.

Fang buried his face into the blankets, inhaling hard, shaking. He didn’t even know where either pack was right now. He couldn’t choose. He couldn’t move.

The door swished open.

“Fang?” Ochobot floated in, balancing a tray with steaming bowls and cut fruit. The robot stilled when Fang’s head snapped up, eyes wide and too bright for someone half-delirious. “You’re awake already.”

Fang swallowed, voice rasping. “Something feels… off. My instincts won’t stop screaming at me, Ochobot. Like they want me to go calm my pack down, but—” He hesitated, guilt flickering across his fever-paled face. “I don’t know which pack. I don’t know where they are. I don’t understand.”

Ochobot hovered closer, setting the tray down on the side table. Its lenses flickered, scanning Fang’s flushed skin and erratic vitals. “Your instincts are probably confused because of your fever. Instincts can get tangled when the body is weak. It doesn’t mean something is truly wrong.”

Fang clenched the sheets tighter, not fully believing that. His omega instincts never misfired like this.

But he nodded anyway, unwilling to argue.

“Here,” Ochobot said gently, producing the small vial of before-meal med from the tray. “Your medicine.”

Fang took it without complaint, though his hands trembled faintly. He still whispered, “Thanks.”

Only when Ochobot was satisfied that the dose was swallowed did it hand him a bowl of soft rice porridge and a spoon. Fang ate slowly, shoulders easing bit by bit, Ochobot’s presence grounding him. The robot’s neutral hum filled the silence, steady and almost Alpha-like in its quiet authority, which helped… but only a little. The air still felt too thin without stronger pack scents filling it.

The silence stretched before Fang finally murmured, hesitant, “Ochobot… can I leave the room later? Just for dinner. I don’t… want to stay here all day.”

Ochobot’s lens brightened sharply. “No. You are sick, Fang. Your body will not recover if you move too much. You need rest.”

Fang grimaced. “I can use a wheelchair. I don’t care. I just—” His voice cracked faintly. “I don’t want to be stuck in here; it makes me feel helpless.” His scent—usually cool smoke—wavered thin and distressed, slipping bitter with frustration.

The robot hesitated. Fang rarely admitted things so plainly.

“No,” Ochobot said firmly.

Fang’s eyes narrowed. His instincts prickled hot in his chest, restless, pulling him outward. “Ochobot, I need to. It feels wrong to stay locked in this room. Please.”

“You are feverish. You are exhausted. What you need is recovery,” Ochobot countered. “Not risking collapse in a cafeteria.”

Fang scowled, bargaining instinct kicking in. “I’ll eat properly. I’ll take all the medicine you give me. I won’t push myself, I swear. Just the cafeteria, that’s all.”

Ochobot’s lens whirred, narrowing as if to glare. “You think bribing me will work?”

Fang almost smiled despite himself. “Usually does.” His scent warmed faintly, coaxing a soft instinctive plea that any Alpha or Beta would have recognized. Don’t cage me. Don’t make me stay alone.

Ochobot hummed low, tilting back in clear disapproval. “You’re stubborn.”

“Comes with the territory.” Fang huffed weakly into his porridge, though his scent betrayed the thread of desperation running beneath the banter.

The back-and-forth stretched on: Fang pressing, wheedling, his omega instincts pushing him to find a compromise; Ochobot stubbornly deflecting, lenses narrowing, reminding him of the danger, the exhaustion, the fever still painting his cheeks pink.

Finally, the little robot sighed, letting its body tilt in resignation.

“…Fine. You may go. But only if you promise to listen to me. No arguing, no pretending you’re fine when you’re not. You follow my words exactly.”

Fang’s pride bristled, but the relief was immediate, curling through his scent like a faint purr of smoke. “…Fine. I promise.”

Ochobot’s lens softened, almost like a smile. “Good. I will bring the wheelchair after you finish lunch.”

For the first time all day, Fang let his shoulders drop. A small relief bloomed in his chest, even if it didn’t erase the strange, gnawing instinct.

At least he wouldn’t be trapped here, while his mind spiraled.

He resumed eating, slower now, though his thoughts drifted with every spoonful. To his brother. To BoBoiBoy. To both his packs, somewhere out there, unknown.

His omega instincts whispered relentlessly, find them, soothe them, make it right.

'I hope you’re all okay…'

Fang’s eyes dimmed, worry curling deep in his chest. He had no way of knowing the disaster that had happened without him there.

With The Teams

Kaizo and BoBoiBoy sat stiffly on their knees in the common room of the ship, shoulders tense, eyes locked to the floor. Bruises littered their faces and arms, but no mark of flesh could compare to the weight pressing on them now.

It wasn’t the fight that suffocated them.

It was the judgment.

The air was thick with Beta-scent, sharp with disapproval, layered and suffocating.

Yaya’s honey and vanilla had curdled bitter, Ying’s mint sharpened to icy steel, Gopal’s peanut-and-cocoa warmth dried to dust, and Shielda’s sparking granite-dust and stormwater hung heavy and unrelenting.

Even without teeth bared, the Betas’ disapproval lashed like claws.

Pack instinct drove Kaizo and BoBoiBoy down, forcing their Alpha-pride to bow.

Every note screamed the same thing: you have failed the pack.

Yaya stood before them with her arms crossed, fury trembling beneath her calm mask.

Ying hovered at her side, her glasses catching the light, sharp and merciless.

Lahap leaned against the wall, silent—but his Alpha gravity pressed harder than thunder, an older weight that shoved their instincts flat to the floor.

Neither Kaizo nor BoBoiBoy dared to raise their eyes.

“You’re both pathetic,” Yaya’s voice cut like glass, steady but shaking with restrained rage. “One of you is sixteen, the other twenty-five, and yet you fought like selfish children over a toy. Except Fang isn’t a toy. He’s a person. And right now? You’re treating him like a prize to be claimed instead of someone who deserves to be seen.”

BoBoiBoy flinched, shame burning his cheeks. His scent faltered, cinnamon-sunlight curling in on itself, strangled beneath guilt. Kaizo’s jaw set, his fists digging into his knees, scent bristling sharp—before being smothered under the Betas’ combined wall of disgust.

On the couch, Sai whistled low before shoving another chip in his mouth. But even his usual sand-dry spice was muted, Beta edge subdued beneath the suffocating air.

Gopal shifted uncomfortably beside him, wringing his hands, cocoa trembling faintly with unease.

Shielda, however, stood in silence, her stormwater scent unwavering, her disappointment piercing sharper than anger.

That silence hurt more than any scolding.

Ying stepped forward, her mint-scent curling sharp and cold, stripping excuses bare. Her gaze locked on BoBoiBoy. “You call it protecting him, but it isn’t protection—it’s obsession. Fang isn’t yours. He doesn’t belong to you. He’s not there for you to cage with your fear of losing him.”

The word—obsession—struck like claws to the gut. His chest hollowed, cinnamon-sunlight guttering until it barely smoldered. He wanted to deny it, to snarl back, but his instincts betrayed him.

The Betas could smell it—his fear wrapped tight around Fang, not protective but binding.

An Alpha’s claim pressed too close to chains.

“Do you realize what happens if you keep this up?” Ying’s voice sliced the silence. “One day, Fang will smell nothing but control on you. He’ll feel suffocated, guilty for every step he takes without your permission. And when that day comes… he’ll tear free. Not because he wants to—but because he has to. And when he does, it won’t be gentle. It’ll be final. You’ll lose him, BoBoiBoy. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

The words gutted him. His instincts roared in denial, Alpha-heat rising—but the Betas’ combined scent-pressure forced it down, snapping at him like fangs. He saw it too clearly: Fang’s carrots and lavender scent gone thin, his voice flat, whispering, I can’t breathe around you anymore. His chest seized, his entire being recoiling in terror at the thought.

Yaya’s gaze snapped to Kaizo, colder than ice, her honey-vanilla scorched to bitter venom. “And you,” she spat. “You call it training. You call it discipline. But what you’re doing is breaking him. Every lesson you hammer into him is another crack in his spirit. You push until he collapses, and then you call it strength when he stands again.”

Kaizo’s lips pressed thin, his cedar-and-iron-scent flaring with denial—then stumbling under Lahap’s weight.

Lahap’s voice rumbled, leather and charred oak saturating the air with Alpha command. “Do you know what that teaches him, Captain? That he’ll never be enough. His worth is only measured by how much pain he can take. And one day, he’ll believe it. He’ll stop being Fang and only see himself as a weapon carved for your approval. And when that day comes… he won’t be your brother anymore. He’ll just be a hollow shell of what you made him.”

Kaizo’s fists dug into the floor until skin split, crimson staining the metal. His storm-scent fractured, breaking sharp and acidic, collapsing inward. The image seared his mind: Fang’s scent gone hollow, his laughter stolen, his warmth extinguished. Empty-eyed. Obedient. Gone.

'No. Not him. Not Pang.'

But fear slithered deep—because maybe Lahap was right. Maybe his hands were already shaping Fang into something monstrous.

The room sank into silence, heavy and suffocating. Scents tangled thick in the air: guilt, shame, fear. Even Sai’s dry-spice smirk was gone. Gopal bit his lip until cocoa turned bitter. Shielda’s granite-dust held steady, an anchor, unyielding.

Yaya stepped closer, her tone iron, her honey-scent heavy and sharp. “Fang doesn’t need to be pulled apart between you two. He doesn’t need to be smothered until he can’t breathe, or hardened until he shatters. He needs people who love him enough to let him be himself—not what you want him to be.”

Her eyes cut between them, sharp and merciless, her scent burning bitter as she delivered the final blow. “If you don’t change—if you keep choosing your pride and your fear over what Fang truly needs—then mark my words: you will lose him. And it won’t be a fight. It’ll be silent. Distance. The kind that severs a packbond and never comes back.”

The room went deathly still.

Kaizo and BoBoiBoy knelt frozen, their Alpha-scents collapsed to nothing beneath the pack’s collective weight. Fang’s name lingered in the air, no longer as comfort—but as a warning. A mirror. Showing them exactly what they stood to destroy if they didn’t stop.

The tension in the air was still thick, like the lingering smoke after a fire, but Lahap wasn’t one to waste time fanning embers. With his arms crossed and his sharp gaze sweeping over the group, the dark leather and charred oak edge of his scent pressed subtly into the room. It was grounded, heavy with command, and made even the restless stirrings of the alphas present tighten into sharper focus.

“Alright,” Lahap began, cutting through the silence. “We’ve wasted enough time already. Kokoci gave us clear orders, and every second we lose, Drosk’s control spreads further. This mission could drag on for weeks if we stumble around arguing with each other.” His eyes narrowed, though the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “But let’s be honest—we all want this finished before the day ends. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can return.”

That struck a chord. The betas instinctively straightened, their scents shifting in a ripple of reluctant accord—crisp mint and steel from Ying, roasted peanuts and cocoa from Gopal, honey and vanilla warmth from Yaya—all weaving faintly into the atmosphere, diffusing the earlier sharpness. Even Boboiboy, sunlight, and cinnamon simmering with guilt and frustration, muttered under his breath but didn’t argue as he stood. Kaizo, his jasmine, iron, and cedarwood scent steady as stone, straightened as well, though his silence was edged and cutting.

“Good,” Lahap said, seizing the moment of accord. His scent pulsed a little firmer, reminding them who held the reins. He gestured sharply at the holomap flickering in the center of the table.

The fortress shimmered into view—its outer walls lined with automated cannons, defensive drones swarming in red markers, and within, a twisting labyrinth of narrow corridors and choke points.

At the core, a chamber pulsed with a glowing icon of DreamweaveBot.

“Remember the plan. Captain, Sai, Shielda, and I will handle the outer perimeter. Our job is to breach the defenses, keep Drosk’s lieutenants occupied, and drag as much of his army away as possible. We make the noise, we take the heat.”

Sai gave a low chuckle, burnt paper and sand-dry air rolling faintly around him like desert wind. “Finally. Something fun.”

Shielda shot him a look, her scent—sparkling granite-dust and cool stormwater—cutting across his dryness, steadying it with steel-edged calm. Kaizo’s curt nod was his only reply, but the cedarwood note in his scent pulsed faintly, a silent vow.

Lahap’s gaze shifted to the others. “Boboiboy. Yaya. Ying. Gopal. You’re the recovery team. While we keep their forces busy, you infiltrate the inner sanctum. Speed and precision—that’s what Kokoci drilled into us. You secure DreamweaveBot before Drosk can slip through or turn it against you.”

The holomap adjusted, zooming in on a network of narrow tunnels beneath the fortress. Lahap pointed to a faintly glowing line snaking under the defenses. “There’s a service conduit here—underground, runs parallel to the east wall. You four slip in through there. It’s cramped, barely enough room for two at a time, but it bypasses most of their sensors.”

The map lit up again, showing checkpoints in red and the inner chamber in silver. “Once inside, you’ll have two obstacles. First, this choke point,” Lahap gestured to a narrow bridge spanning over an energy pit, “guarded by a lieutenant. His name’s Jorvak. Heavy weapons, no subtlety. Disable him quickly or sneak past—your choice.”

He moved his hand to the glowing chamber at the core. “Second is here. DreamweaveBot itself. Expect defenses far heavier than the schematics suggest. Traps. Drosk may even leave an illusion waiting for you. Stay sharp.”

Yaya’s scent thickened—warm honey sharpened with vanilla—her brows drawing together. “Wait.” Her tone was firm, suspicion coating every syllable. “How do we even have all this? Detailed maps, structural weaknesses, guard positions—this isn’t the kind of intel you just pull out of thin air, in less than a week. So who exactly gave this to us?”

Her question rippled unease across the room. Even Ying’s crisp mint-and-steel scent flared sharp for a heartbeat, as if silently demanding the same answer.

It was Shielda who stepped forward, her stormwater scent cool against the tension. “An informer. One of the few still resisting on the planets under Drosk’s control. They’ve been passing fragments of information for weeks—building schematics, troop patterns, weaknesses. Kokoci consolidated it into this.”

Yaya’s frown deepened, her scent humming low and uneasy. “And you trust them? Just like that? For all we know, this is a setup—Drosk could be feeding us exactly what he wants.”

Shielda’s gaze met hers without flinching, granite and storm steady. “I don’t trust easily, Yaya. But this informer paid for this intel with their freedom. Maybe their life. They slipped DreamweaveBot’s hold long enough to get us what we need—and we don’t have the luxury of ignoring it.”

The weight of her words silenced the room.

Gopal rubbed the back of his neck nervously, cocoa and peanut scent flickering restlessly. “So, uh, no pressure. Just walking into a fortress full of brainwashed soldiers, using intel that might be fake, with a mind-controlling sphere waiting at the end.”

Ying’s mint and steel snapped sharply, shutting him up instantly, though she murmured, “Shielda’s right. Whether we trust the source or not, this is all we’ve got. If we hesitate, more people fall under Drosk’s control.”

Boboiboy’s sunlight-and-cinnamon scent surged bright and hot, clenched fists echoing his resolve. “Then we move forward. Fast. End this before evening—just like Lahap said.”

Kaizo’s jasmine and cedarwood edged faintly sharper, but he didn’t speak—though the flicker in his gaze at Boboiboy was weighted.

Lahap’s leather-and-oak command pressed over them all again, iron filling his voice. “We don’t get a second chance. If DreamweaveBot isn’t secured, Drosk wins. Entire systems fall. And we all know what that means.”

The weight of his words settled, the pack dynamic locking into a rare harmony—alphas steadying, betas balancing, instincts aligning toward one singular goal. Even Kaizo and Boboiboy, still stung from their earlier clash, let their feud fall silent.

They had the same thought gnawing at their chests; the sooner this was done, the sooner they could return to Fang—safe, whole, not one second too late.

“Now,” Lahap concluded, his smirk sharp but steady, scent holding like a wall behind them. “Let’s make sure we end this before the stars set. No mistakes. No regrets.”

The others filtered out one by one, leaving only Kaizo and Boboiboy in the quiet room.

The air still felt heavy from the clash they’d had earlier, carrying the sharp tang of bruised dominance—sunlight and cinnamon clashing hard against jasmine, iron, and cedarwood.

It lingered like smoke after lightning, bitter and raw. Both alphas stood stiff, their instincts prickling, neither willing to bow nor ignite the fight again.

Finally, Boboiboy forced himself to straighten, shoulders squared. His voice was too measured, too stiff, the words pressed down by instinctual tension.

“…Captain Kaizo. I apologize. I… overstepped, and I shouldn’t have fought you. It was unprofessional.”

Kaizo’s red eyes flickered, his scent shifting ever so slightly, iron-softened cedarwood unwinding a fraction. His voice was steady, but his throat carried the rough edge of instinct restrained.

“No. I’m the one who lost my temper. I should never have started that fight. That’s on me.”

The silence between them stretched long, the hum of the ship’s engines a low background to their instincts circling each other warily. The scents from earlier still burned, carrying fragments of the argument—the crackle of dominance, the bite of guilt, the need to protect their pack omega.

Kaizo’s gaze dropped, narrowing faintly as his cedarwood thinned into something sharper, more vulnerable.

“…What you said back there. About Pang. That he thinks of himself as… a burden.” His scent flickered, betraying the weight behind the words. “Was that true?”

Boboiboy’s jaw clenched, cinnamon curling bitter at the edges. For a moment, instinct urged him to snap back, to defend, but then his scent faltered, soft sunlight dimmed by guilt.

“…Yeah. It’s true.”

The words struck like claws deep into Kaizo’s chest. He didn’t flinch outwardly, but his cedarwood-and-iron scent stuttered, cracking under the weight. Jasmine darkened in the air, sorrow woven through restraint.

“…I see,” he said quietly, his tone too even—masking the fracture underneath.

Boboiboy glanced up at him, catching that faint shadow in his alpha scent, and for once, he didn’t fight it. His voice cracked, cinnamon rolling unsteady and thin.

“I don’t like it either. But Fang… he hides it behind a smile. I see it when he looks at me, at Yaya, at all of us. Like he’s weighing us down. Like he’s the weakest one in the group, and we’d be better off without him.”

Kaizo’s scent surged, jasmine sharp, cedarwood heavy with grief. He’d seen it too—had ignored it, convinced that forcing Fang harder would burn the weakness away.

“And I thought the opposite. That if I pushed him enough, forced him through the fire, he’d come out stronger. That he’d finally see his own worth.” His scent shivered, cedar splintering under guilt. “…But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I only made him feel smaller.”

This silence wasn’t sharp anymore. It was thick, suffocating, both of their alpha instincts weighed down by the same guilt, pulling in different directions but circling the same truth.

Boboiboy’s cinnamon faded softer, a warmth stripped of bravado. “…You know what hurts the most? He never says it. He never complains. He just… accepts it. Like he already decided his place is at the bottom, and no matter what we do, that won’t change.”

Kaizo’s hand twitched, his iron scent curling painfully tight. The image of Fang silently resigning to such thoughts cut deeper than any wound.

“…He shouldn’t think that way. He deserves more than that. More than what either of us gave him.”

Boboiboy’s lips pressed into a thin line, sunlight breaking faintly through the cinnamon haze. “…That’s why I got so mad at you. I thought you were hurting him on purpose.”

Kaizo finally turned to him, gaze sharp but not hostile, cedar steadying around the edges. “And I thought you were caging him, keeping him weak because you couldn’t let go of him.”

The words landed, sunlight flickering unsteadily. Boboiboy winced, instinct twisting, but admitted, “…Maybe I was. I didn’t want to lose him. Not after everything. But maybe I held on too tight.”

Their scents swirled—sunlight-and-cinnamon warmth brushing against cedarwood-and-jasmine steadiness.

Once clashing, now pressing toward the same point, like instincts reluctant but unable to deny the bond forming. 

At last, Kaizo extended his hand—not with the rigid dominance of a commander, but with the quiet steadiness of a comrade, his cedarwood scent softened, jasmine wrapping like a vow.

“No matter what happens… we don’t push our wants onto him again. Agreed?”

Boboiboy stared at the hand, cinnamon rising with hesitation. The bruises on his knuckles still burned with memory, sunlight trembling against the cedarwood scent offered before him. But then he reached out, his grip firm, sunlight-and-cinnamon clasping cedar-and-jasmine in reluctant harmony.

“…Agreed. This time… we put him first. Not what we think is best for him.”

The bruises still stung, but their scents settled—not blended, not yet, but overlapping in a fragile accord. The war between them dulled, buried under something stronger: the pull of their instincts toward the same vow. Fang came first. Always.

Half An Hour Later

The fortress loomed ahead like a scar carved into the landscape. Its walls were jagged black stone reinforced with pulsing violet circuitry, veins of DreamweaveBot’s influence crawling along the surface like glowing parasites. Spires jutted skyward, tipped with sensor arrays that swept back and forth in a rhythm too precise to be natural.

At its base stretched a wide courtyard, bristling with patrols—rows of armored soldiers marching in sync, their movements stiff and unnerving, eyes glazed with Drosk’s control. The outer gates were a yawning maw of metal teeth, flanked by turrets humming with charged energy.

The holomap hadn’t lied. To the east, half-hidden by rock and debris, was a narrow service conduit—rusted, cramped, and nearly invisible unless you knew to look. That was the infiltrators’ way in.

Yaya crouched at the mouth of the conduit, scanning the patrols that passed dangerously close. Her gravity aura shimmered faintly as she pressed her hand against the air, subtly bending light to reduce their shadows. “Now,” she whispered.

Boboiboy split into two, Gempa and Halilintar, they darted off in opposite directions to create faint noises—just enough to draw the patrol’s eyes elsewhere. The guards stiffened, turning toward the sound, and in that instant, Ying activated her time-stop pulse. The world around them slowed to syrup as she tugged Gopal by the arm. 

“Move!” she hissed, dragging him toward the opening.

They slipped inside, their breaths catching as time snapped back into motion behind them. The patrol turned back, none the wiser.

The conduit was worse than the map suggested. Claustrophobic, dripping with condensation, its walls alive with faint pulses of dream-energy that crawled like veins. The space was barely wide enough for two to crouch side by side, and every metallic creak echoed like thunder.

Gempa pressed forward, reshaping sections of the corroded floor into quieter stone steps. Gopal trailed behind, hands shaking, muttering about how tunnels always collapsed in movies. 

“Quiet,” Ying snapped, her glasses glinting as she scanned ahead. “Three meters forward, motion tripwire.”

She marked the faint shimmer with her finger, and Yaya nodded. A pulse of gravity bent the beam downward, distorting it just long enough for the team to crawl past.

Bit by bit, they advanced—down the conduit, under the east wall, toward the heart of the fortress.

Meanwhile, the rebel team moved with no intent to hide. 

From the shadows of the western ridge, Kaizo drew his blade, the edge shimmering with compressed astral energy. His scarlet red eyes locked on the marching patrol below. “On my mark.”

Sai cracked his knuckles and held his shield. “Finally. Some fun.”

Shielda raised her gauntlets, energy shields flaring around her arms. Lahap merely smirked, crossing his arms before giving a sharp nod.

“Now.”

The ground erupted as Sai launched his shield forward into the courtyard. It hit guards in a roaring wave, scattering patrols like leaves in a storm.

Kaizo followed instantly, a blur of light. He darted through soldiers with surgical precision, his blade slashing through weapons, disarming rather than killing, each strike clean and unrelenting.

“Formations! Hold them back!” barked one of Drosk’s lieutenants, a towering brute of a soldier.

But Shielda intercepted him, shields flaring as she met his hammer with a clash that shook the air. Sparks rained as she pushed back, her voice steady. “Focus on me.”

Above them, Lahap moved with lethal grace, energy threads swirling from his fingertips. He snapped his hands, and the threads wrapped around turrets, yanking them down with mechanical screams. His eyes glowed faintly as he manipulated the battlefield itself, weaving chaos into order.

The courtyard became an inferno of noise and light. Patrols swarmed toward them, alarms blared, and Drosk’s forces were fully engaged—just as planned.

On the other side the human pack was led by the conduit into a narrow maintenance hall, lit by sickly violet lamps. Ahead stretched the inner fortress: steel bridges spanning over vast energy pits, corridors patrolled by synchronized soldiers, and looming above all of it, the silver glow of DreamweaveBot’s chamber pulsing like a heartbeat.

Yaya exhaled sharply, steadying herself. “We’re in. No turning back now.”

“Great,” Gopal whispered, peeking nervously at the patrolling guards. “So all we have to do is cross a death-bridge, dodge the brainwashed army, and not get fried alive. Easy.”

Boboiboy Halilintar clenched his fists, sparks crackling across his palms. His voice was low, but fierce. “We're ending this.” 

Ying adjusted her glasses, her eyes narrowing as the guards’ patrol patterns shifted.

“Then let’s move.”

The maintenance hall stretched ahead like the gullet of some massive beast, damp walls lined with cables that pulsed faintly, feeding the fortress its lifeblood of corrupted energy. Every echo of their footsteps felt amplified, bouncing through the metallic ribs of the structure.

Gempa moved with steady steps, his voice calm but firm.

“Stay focused. Every second counts, but recklessness will only cost us, Fang. Hold formation.”

Halilintar walked at the rear, sparks crackling faintly across his frame. His tone was quieter than usual, clipped and edged with control.

“...If we’re too slow, it won’t matter how careful we are. Time isn’t our ally here.”

Yaya raised a hand, halting them with a sharp gesture. Two guards turned the corner, armor reflecting the violet light of the walls, their movements too precise, too empty. They weren’t people anymore. They were puppets.

Ying narrowed her eyes, calculating. “Five seconds between turns. We slip through now—quietly.”

“Quiet,” Halilintar muttered, his eyes narrowing. “Not a problem.”

The air around him fizzled with restrained lightning, but he held it in check, waiting for Ying’s signal.

They passed like shadows, the guards none the wiser.

Behind them, Gopal lagged, muttering nervously, “Dream-bots, death-bridges, brainwashed stormtroopers—why couldn’t we be storming a dessert buffet instead?”

“Gopal,” Yaya hissed.

“Focus,” Gempa added, his voice sharp, the way a mother snaps a child to attention. Gopal shut up instantly, clutching his stomach.

The steel bridge stretched before them, suspended over a pit of violent violet energy. At its center stood Jorvak—a mountain of jagged armor and iron will, plasma cannon glowing at his side.

Gempa’s gaze hardened. “We can’t take him head-on.”

Halilintar’s hands flexed, sparks glinting between his fingers. “We could. But that would doom the mission.” His voice was steady, controlled—a storm leashed, but still dangerous. “...We need another way.”

“Agreed,” Ying replied, her gaze darting to the underside of the bridge. “Gopal—make us bait.”

“W-what?”

“Food. A distraction,” Yaya said flatly.

With trembling hands, Gopal pointed at a rock Gempa made, turning it into an enormous roasted turkey that hit the bridge with a greasy thud. Jorvak’s helm turned, a low rumble rolling in his chest.

That was all they needed. Yaya bent gravity, pulling them low. They slid beneath the railings, sparks from the pit licking dangerously close to their legs as they crawled.

Gempa steadied Gopal’s panicked grip, his tone patient but unyielding. “Hold on. You’ll make it across.”

Halilintar’s jaw tightened. “Crawling like vermin… but if it gets us through, so be it.”

They reached the far side, pulling themselves up with ragged breaths.

Gopal collapsed, pale. “I… I think I died. Twice.”

“Not yet,” Halilintar replied, his tone curt but strangely grounding. “On your feet.”

Gempa softened, placing a firm hand on Gopal’s shoulder. “Come on. We need to move.”

Finally, the chamber loomed before them, its towering doors carved with runes that pulsed like veins of silver light. Energy seeped through the cracks, faint and trembling.

“This is it,” Yaya whispered.

Together, they pushed the doors open—

And froze.

The pedestal was empty. Residual energy hummed faintly, the air rippling unnaturally.

Suddenly, they were shoved forward—doors slamming shut with a finality that rattled their bones. The walls around them shuddered like liquid, and with a violent lurch, the entire chamber began to rise, dragging them toward the surface.

The shift in the air hit them harder than the motion itself. The sealed chamber became saturated with scent—an almost suffocating concentration as the strain cracked through their focus.

Gempa’s earthy musk spread first, solid and grounding, the instinctive core of the fractured Alpha bond. It was cool stone and soil after rain, anchoring the others with calm, immovable presence. He filled the chamber with the steadiness of a leader trying to keep the pack from fraying.

Halilintar’s storm-scent countered immediately, sharp with ozone, volatile with caged lightning. Sparks nipped at the edges of their senses as his Alpha edge bristled under confinement. He was the storm to Gempa’s earth, their scents clashing like pressure fronts colliding, yet tethered by the bond they unwillingly shared.

Yaya exhaled sharply, her honey and vanilla scent folding gravity-tight around them like starlight compressed. Her Beta steadiness cut through the clash, holding balance as best she could.

Ying’s scent traced sharper still, crisp mint and iron, analytical precision veined with strain. She forced herself to keep it cool, but the faint tremor in her notes betrayed the tension squeezing her lungs.

And Gopal—his cocoa and peanuts had curdled under fear. The scent bled into the chamber as he trembled, instinct shrieking at the trap that enclosed them.

Gempa’s eyes cut toward Halilintar, his steady scent pressing harder into the air. “Hold yourself,” he said, voice edged with Alpha authority.

Halilintar bared his teeth, sparks skittering across his shoulders, storm-scent snapping dangerously. “Don’t order me like I’m your subordinate. I am you.”

The words rang raw, the truth of their split body and mind hanging between them. Two halves of one Alpha, clashing because they weren’t whole.

Yaya stepped in, her Beta scent pulling taut like a net, cutting across both. “Enough. We need to focus.”

For a breath, silence hung heavy.

Then, reluctantly, Halilintar forced his storm-scent to coil tighter, still bristling but leashed. Gempa exhaled, grounding his musk even more firmly, pushing bedrock calm through the pack bond.

The chamber continued to climb, the hum of DreamweaveBot’s power vibrating through the floor. Every instinct screamed trap.

Gempa’s gaze narrowed, steady as stone. “Stay tight. We move forward as one.”

Halilintar’s sparks danced faintly, his storm pressing just enough to remind them all of the danger ahead. "... Fine, ”

The scents shifted, not calm—never calm—but aligned enough, braided into something functional. Not one Alpha, but two halves forced to sync under pressure.

And above, the fortress awaited.

With the Rebel team, the fight had reached a fever pitch.

Sai moved like a storm, his shield ricocheting through armored soldiers while the scent of burnt paper and sand-dry air clung sharp around him, brittle but unyielding.

Shielda’s granite-dust and cool stormwater sharpened the edges, her Beta steadiness anchoring him as she shoved back weapon after weapon with sparks of energy crackling across her shields.

Lahap’s dark leather and charred oak rolled heavily through the battlefield, smoke and weight in the air, Alpha instincts coiling as his threads dragged machines into ruin. 

And Kaizo—Kaizo was lethal light incarnate. His blade shone with precision, cedar and iron cutting through the chaos with the same bite as his jasmine-rich Alpha presence.

But even as his strikes landed, his scent sharpened with unease.

This was almost too easy.

Something’s wrong.

Then the ground trembled.

The battlefield cracked, violet fissures splitting open, the fortress itself groaning. From the center, a massive chamber of gleaming black stone erupted like a monolith. Its doors peeled apart with a shriek, and inside were Gempa, Halilintar, Yaya, Ying, and Gopal—thrown forward as the floor sealed beneath them.

Kaizo’s head snapped up, cedar and iron cutting sharper as jasmine spiked through. “Boboiboy?!”

Gempa and Halilintar both froze, their scents bristling—recognition and denial tangled.

But before any pack could bridge the gap, a laugh rolled across the battlefield.

Deep.

Mocking.

Venomous.

The violet haze above split open.

Drosk descended.

He was tall—unnaturally so—his body jagged with armor grown from violet crystal, cloak whipping with dream-energy that snapped like leashed lightning. His pale skin was etched with glowing glyphs, each symbol feeding the corruption pulsing beneath his flesh.

And his scent hit them first.

It was Alpha, suffocating, greedy. A thick, choking musk of molten tar and cold gold, heavy with the stench of dominance warped into hunger. Pride bled into every note, metallic sweet like coins pressed too long in a fist, laced with something feral and invasive—a scent that demanded submission, as if the battlefield itself should kneel. 

The rebel pack bristled instinctively. Kaizo’s cedar sharpened into a cutting blade, Lahap’s charred oak flared defensively, Sai and Shielda’s Beta scents pressed tight in counterbalance. 

The earth pack clamped down as well. Gempa’s stone pressed deeper, Halilintar’s storm lashed sparks against it, Yaya’s honey-vanilla folded tighter to shield, Ying’s mint-steel sliced the air, and Gopal’s peanuts-and-cocoa trembled bitter at the edges.

Drosk descended lower, and in his hands—quivering, flickering—was DreamweaveBot.

The silver sphere spasmed, radiating fear, but his clawed grip held fast.

Drosk raised it high, his tar-and-gold scent flooding the battlefield until it drowned nearly everything else.

“Did you really believe this was a chance?” His words reverberated like poison in their blood, amethyst eyes burning with cruel delight. “That you found me by your own strength?”

His laugh tore jagged through the air.

“You scurried through my halls, fought my puppets, clung to your little hopes… exactly as I wanted. Every step, every clash, every desperate breath—was mine to give you. And still, you came running, like moths into the fire.”

The two packs froze, in the realization that they were tricked, even if some of them expected it. 

Gempa’s feet cracked the ground beneath his feet. Halilintar’s lightning hissed through the air like caged thunder. Kaizo’s jasmine-and-iron sharpened, his blade humming with Alpha fury. 

The rebel pack and the earth pack, split but aligned, glanced at each other for a single heartbeat.

And then forward—toward the Alpha whose greed-drenched scent demanded their ruin.

Drosk’s smile widened, pride bleeding poisonous sweet into the air. He tightened his grip on DreamweaveBot as it writhed violently.

“It was so easy to draw you here,” he mocked, amethyst eyes blazing. “And now, you’ve delivered yourselves to me. Rebels, guardians, soldiers—whatever you call yourselves. All of you… are nothing but prey.”

The air thickened.

Drosk’s Alpha dominance surged outward like a tidal wave, molten tar and cold gold boiling through every breath, curling into throats, pressing into lungs. The battlefield itself seemed to bow beneath the pressure, air warping like glass ready to shatter. His greed-drunk pride pulsed heavy, each thrum a demand: submit, kneel, break.

But the packs did not fold.

Kaizo’s cedar-and-iron flared sharp as a blade against the tar, jasmine blooming hot, a cutting sting of defiance. Lahap’s charred oak surged like burning barricades, dark smoke churning into the oppressive gold. Sai’s brittle paper-scent snapped through, dry grit pushing back the tar, Shielda’s stormwater, and granite dust layering solid shields that refused to crack.

Together, the rebel pack’s scents wove a wall—steel, flame, stone, and storm—grinding against Drosk’s suffocating musk.

Gempa’s earth-weight slammed next, the ground itself groaning as his Alpha stone surged outward like mountain roots. Halilintar’s ozone bit sharp, sparking through the tar with lightning-crack force, each clash a thunderous backlash against Drosk’s smothering dominance. Yaya’s honey-vanilla wrapped warmth through the fissures, bolstering both halves with cohesion. Ying’s mint-steel cut through, a surgical strike in the haze, while Gopal’s peanuts-and-cocoa, though trembling, lent grounding sweetness that tethered them all.

The scents collided—stormfront against bedrock.

The packs braced, scents thick and furious, storm winds and bedrock colliding with every breath.

None of them would kneel.

Tar and gold crashed against cedar and oak, iron and jasmine, granite and storm, honey and mint, soil and lightning. It was pressure and counterpressure, Alpha hunger demanding surrender, and two packs’ instinctive refusal exploding outward in return.

The battlefield shook under it. Dust lifted. Sparks snapped in the air. The violet haze shuddered as if reality itself resisted being soaked in Drosk’s hunger.

DreamweaveBot’s sphere flickered violently in his grip, its panic spiking with each clash.

And still, Drosk’s smile only widened.

“Good,” he hissed, molten tar flaring hotter. “Fight back. Show me your little walls, your trembling teeth.” His eyes blazed violet fire, greed bleeding sweeter, sharper. “The higher you climb, the sweeter it is when I break you.”

His words hung in the air like poison, but then his gaze began to wander.

Slowly, deliberately, his head turned, his molten eyes sweeping across both teams—pausing on each face, as though memorizing them. Yaya’s clenched fists. Ying’s sharp glare. Lahap’s unreadable calm. Kaizo’s blade was already raised. 

And then, suddenly, his smile faltered. His brow creased.

“…Strange.”

The battlefield, already tense, seemed to hold its breath.

“It seems,” Drosk continued, his voice lowering into a growl, “that the shadow manipulator isn’t here.”

Every muscle on the field went rigid. The recovery team exchanged startled looks, while the rebels stiffened, eyes narrowing. The name was unspoken, but its weight pressed on all of them like a blade to the throat.

Halilintar’s sparks flared, his patience snapping.

“What are you talking about?!” he snarled, his voice crackling with thunder as he took a step forward. Lightning streaked across his arms, itching to be unleashed.

“Halilintar!” Gempa’s voice cut sharp as stone. He grabbed his shoulder, holding him back before he could bolt headlong into Drosk’s trap. His grip was firm, his expression unyielding, but his own fury smoldered just beneath the surface. 

Drosk chuckled at the sight, tilting his head like a cat toying with cornered mice. The sharpness of his teeth flashed in the violet light.

“Oh, don’t scowl so hard,” he drawled, amusement lacing his words. “It isn’t as if any of you are getting out of here alive. So…” He twirled DreamweaveBot lazily in his palm, ignoring the way it writhed against his hold. “I’ll humor you. Ask your little questions. Rage, claw, scream. It will make no difference.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, yet carried across the battlefield like a curse.

“Because before this day ends… your dreams, your hopes, and your shadows will all belong to me.”

Drosk’s grin widened, savoring the charged silence that followed his threat. He let it drag, watching the sparks of rage flicker in their eyes.

Then, almost lazily, he answered Halilintar’s earlier question.

“You ask what I am talking about? Hmph.” His gaze sharpened, molten amethyst narrowing with cruel amusement. “It’s simple. Someone paid me—handsomely too—to deliver the shadow manipulator alive to them.”

The words dropped like a bomb.

Gempa’s head snapped up, his entire body stiffening. His voice cut through the battlefield, sharp as a quake splitting stone.

“…Why? Who would want that?”

Drosk chuckled, rolling DreamweaveBot in his palm as though the Power Sphere’s struggles were nothing more than a toy in his hand.

“Oh, the usual drivel of deranged minds. Something about… being fascinated by the boy’s power, as the boy was the perfect user for that watch. Wanting to peel it open, stitch it apart, twist it into something new. Experiments, evolution, discovery—blah, blah, blah.” He waved a hand mockingly, as if swatting away the memory. “I didn’t care much for the details. I only half-listened. Madmen do love to ramble.”

Then his grin curled wider, sharper, venom dripping from his words.

“But the thought of it…” His eyes gleamed with cruel hunger. “That boy, strapped to some table. His shadows torn from him piece by piece. His voice raw from screaming as that lunatic prepares the next incision. Ah… that I would love to see.”

He leaned forward slightly, as if savoring the look of revulsion and rage tightening their faces.

“Imagine it with me. His body shaking, begging, but no one comes. His screams echo in a room where walls don’t care. And then, oh… when they break him. When his spirit snaps like glass underfoot… that will be the sweetest sound of all.”

The battlefield shifted.

It wasn’t just tension anymore. It was rage. A silent, boiling fury that rose from both sides at once.

And Drosk, in his arrogance, didn’t notice—or worse, noticed and relished it. He basked in his own cruelty, dragging his words out like a blade across skin.

Drosk’s smile curled sharper, his tar-and-gold scent thickening until it choked the battlefield. He wasn’t finished.

“Oh, and that madman—ah, he nearly glowed when he spoke of your little shadow-omega.” His molten eyes gleamed, cruel and sweet with venom. “Said the boy was perfect. That his body could give him countless specimens—little guinea pigs, perfect blank slates for his scalpel. Rows of them, broken things born from shadows, all screaming in unison while their precious Omega-mother watches.”

His laugh sliced the air.

“Can you picture it? A nest torn apart choked under blood and smoke. That boy, begging for it to stop as his ‘children’ are carved open one by one. Ah… such music.”

The battlefield detonated.

Scents erupted violently, no longer restrained, no longer balanced—instincts roared loose like beasts.

Kaizo’s cedar-iron lashed with jasmine fire, Alpha dominance flaring sharp and wild. Lahap’s charred oak rolled into the tar like a stormfront, smoke choking but unyielding. Sai’s brittle paper and Shielda’s stormwater snapped tight, Beta instincts bracing with furious precision.

The rebel pack’s wall became a weapon, their scents clawing at Drosk’s musk in refusal.

The earth pack surged just as violently. Gempa’s stone flooded the battlefield like an earthquake, Halilintar’s ozone-cracking sparks across it, their twin Alpha instincts united in defense of what was theirs. Yaya’s honey-vanilla wrapped around them like molten gold, trying to soothe, but it burned hot with fury instead. Ying’s mint-steel cut so sharp it stung the nose, every edge a promise of violence. Gopal’s peanuts-and-cocoa surged, bitter and grounding, no longer timid—an anchor for the nest Fang had given them.

The packs didn’t just push back.

They snapped.

Because Fang wasn’t just Fang. He was their Omega. Even in his absence, it lingered, faint but grounding, an unspoken reminder of the nest he built around them all.

To threaten that—threaten him—wasn’t just cruelty.

It was a desecration.

The battlefield reeked of instincts gone feral.

Alphas stood bristling, dominance crackling like lightning. Betas pressed in hard, holding ground with savage loyalty.

Two packs that should have been enemies locked on the same target with the same furious thought: Protect the Omega.

Drosk’s tar-and-gold pressed harder, suffocating, smug.

But for the first time, cracks ran through it.

The combined storm of scents of two packs’ united rejection—shoved back against his greedy hunger like mountains refusing to bow.

And in the back of their minds, each one of them felt it.

Not just rage. Not just fury.

Instinct.

Fang wasn’t here, but his absence screamed louder than his presence. An Omega alone—sick, fevered, without his packs to shield him—while predators dared to speak of breaking him, breeding him, using him.

Every Alpha’s blood boiled. Every Beta’s gut twisted. The primal drive to shield him, burned so violently it bordered on pain.

Kaizo’s blade trembled in his grip, cedar and jasmine saturating the air like fire. His instincts were so sharp it hurt; 'Find my brother. Protect him. Kill the threat.'

Gempa’s stone cracked wider beneath his boots. His chest burned with the same truth. 'No one touches him. No one takes him.'

For once, the battlefield didn’t feel like Rebels vs Humans.

It was a pack against a predator.

Two packs fused in one purpose.

And Drosk, in his arrogance, only laughed deeper—unaware that he had just turned two separate forces into a single storm.

Chapter Text

The silence was shattered.

Drosk moved first.

His claws scraped against the stone floor with a shriek that echoed through the labyrinth’s winding halls. The walls themselves trembled as his aura ignited—dark tendrils twisting like a storm, shadows sliding along the carvings until even the air quivered with corruption.

With a flick of his wrist, he slammed the Dreamweavebot forward. Its once-bright optics now burned a deep, corrupted violet, its body trembling under his hold. Nightmare energy spilled like mist from its frame, staining the labyrinth’s air with illusions.

“Fight,” Drosk snarled, his voice reverberating in every echoing corridor. “Drown them in their desires. Break them in their dreams.”

The Dreamweavebot pulsed, sending waves of psychic light down the maze. The illusions bled into the air—desires half-formed and sharp as glass, lures so sweet they cut into bone.

But before the illusions could take hold, Kaizo stepped forward, sword raised, cedar and iron flooding the labyrinth like a slicing blade. His scent cut straight through the lies, a steel edge against the smog of corruption. His voice was as hard as his stance.

“Stop hiding and fight me, Drosk. Not through tricks. Not through the Power Sphere.”

Thunder cracked as Boboiboy Halilintar tore into lightning beside him, flaring like a storm trapped in a bottle. “I’ll tear you apart before you lay another hand on Fang!”

Stone shattered under Boboiboy Gempa’s fists, fragments orbiting him like meteors as his voice thundered through the maze. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Drosk only laughed, jagged and venomous, and with a snap of his fingers, the labyrinth’s walls split. From its shadows poured an army—cybernetic husks stitched with wires, their movements unnatural, jerky, like puppets.

“Take the scraps,” Drosk hissed, tar-and-gold suffocating the air, his gaze never leaving Kaizo.

“Gladly,” Sai snapped, hurling his shield down the corridor. It ricocheted off three husks before whipping back into his grasp. Shielda’s stormwater flared behind him, barriers slamming into place with the crack of thunder. Yaya’s honey-vanilla burned molten as she struck the ground, sending shockwaves through the corridor and scattering drones like broken toys.

“Come on, then!” Gopal yelled, scent flaring peanuts and cocoa, his hands morphing into cannons that blazed with fire. Ying streaked through the walls like a ghost, mint-steel slicing machines apart before their optics even turned.

And Lahap—

Lahap’s charred oak and dark leather seeped through the corridor, Alpha power steady, predatory. His grin was feral as he licked blood from his lip. “Let’s show them why the commander picked us.”

The labyrinth roared to life.

On one side, Kaizo, Halilintar, and Gempa crashed into Drosk and the enslaved Dreamweavebot, illusions crackling like poisoned lace.

Every swing risked entrapment.

Every breath threatened to pull them into lies of desire, of futures they could not yet hold.

The scent of their instincts spiked so violently it clashed with the maze itself pressing into every wall until the stone groaned.

On the other side, Sai, Shielda, Lahap, Yaya, Ying, and Gopal held the choke-points against endless husks.

Betas pressed their scents tight, forming shields of instinct and energy.

Lahap flared dominance wide, daring the puppets to step closer.

Every strike, every defense, every blast carried the vow in their throats: no one touches our Omega.

Because even here, even without Fang’s scent to center them, the ghost of his scent lived in their skins.

It was instinct more primal than thought: their Omega was threatened.

Dreamweavebot’s illusions pushed harder.

Visions flashed—illusions half built.

The temptation burned like poison.

Kaizo snarled, his cedar-iron spiking so violently it carved a scar through Drosk’s tar-and-gold. “Tell us! Who’s behind this? Who wants my brother?!”

Halilintar’s storm ripped arcs down the labyrinth walls, his fury sparking until the air hissed. “Speak, or I’ll rip it out of you!”

Gempa slammed his fists into the stone, the walls shaking as his granite scent solidified, steadying even the others’ ragged instincts. “We’re not playing your games, Drosk!”

The labyrinth shimmered under Dreamweavebot’s pulse—every wall warping into lies.

But the packs refused to break.

And then it happened—

Halilintar and Gempa collided mid-strike, lightning and stone imploding together, their bodies spinning, twisting, converging.

The labyrinth lit in a burst of energy as the original Boboiboy reformed, scent fusing storm and soil into one of sunlight and cinnamon. His voice came as a roar that shook the walls.

He split again, his instincts demanding more.

Not two this time, but four.

Blaze and Ais fused in sparks, becoming Frostfire, his flame-and-ice scent sharp, flaring in teasing defiance. “Stop dancing, Drosk, and answer already!”

Halilintar and Solar fused, power snapping taut into Supra, his scent a storm harnessed, lightning smoldering beneath solar fire. Every breath he took made the labyrinth hum like a live wire. “Enough games. Speak.”

Kaizo fought beside them, cedar-and-iron sharp as a blade, his eyes glowing red with feral rage. His strikes landed like verdicts: Answer.

Together, their fury became a storm in the labyrinth. Frostfire’s playful burns struck with deadly intent. Supra’s lightning-and-sun carved surgical devastation. Kaizo’s blade anchored them all, scent and steel woven into lethal unity.

Drosk staggered back, violet cracks splitting through the walls as he blocked, parried, deflected—but their pack-instinct rage was relentless. The labyrinth itself trembled under the collision of the two packs' scents—clashing violently against tar-and-gold corruption.

And all the while, Drosk only laughed.

“Do you think I’ll tell you?” His voice slithered through the labyrinth like a curse. “The one pulling the strings?”

Frostfire’s flames spiked, mischief gone, replaced by raw fury. “Answer us!”

Drosk’s amethyst eyes gleamed cruelly. “Why ruin the fun? You tore through my fortress, risked it all, and still—nothing. Every strike, every breath, every scream of effort—mine to savor.”

Supra’s voice cracked with lightning. “We will end you!”

Drosk’s grin widened, dripping poison-sweet pride. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll try. But the truth? The one who wants him has already set the game in motion. If you want answers… you’ll have to take them from me.”

His tar-and-gold scent pulsed outward, slamming into both packs with suffocating force. For a heartbeat, the labyrinth drowned in him.

And then, together, the two packs shoved back—instinct, scent, dominance, defiance—a tidal wave of unity colliding with corruption.

The labyrinth breathed.

Every strike, every roar, every crash of metal sent ripples through the fortress’s outer maze, its walls shuddering as if alive.

The corridors shifted, splitting and closing, stone morphing into jagged spears that lunged like fangs. Drosk’s laughter reverberated through every turn, the sound scraping nerves raw.

On the other side, Sai, Shielda, Lahap, Yaya, Ying, and Gopal pressed their wall of fury against the tide of cybernetic husks.

The pack-Betas anchored, Alpha drove back, every movement precise yet primal.

Sai’s shield cracked with each hit but never broke; Shielda’s barriers pulsed like a heartbeat, shimmering walls protecting those at her back. Lahap’s threads snapped and tangled, weaving cages of steel that dragged husks into immobile heaps.

Yaya’s fists thundered as she struck, shockwaves rippling without tearing bodies apart. Ying blurred through the corridors, sharp and merciless. Gopal’s cannons flared, his shots calculated, brutal, never wasteful.

Together, they corralled the army like wolves herding prey, not to kill—but to deny Drosk even one pawn.

Their scents clashed with the corrupted tang of oil and wire, pushing back with primal dominance. Every Beta surge reinforced the line, the Alpha flare kept the husks from advancing.

And in the labyrinth’s heart, the storm broke.

Kaizo, Frostfire, and Supra slammed against Drosk, claws and steel clashing with raw force that cracked the stone beneath their feet.

Drosk’s tar-and-gold scent pressed down like a suffocating tide, dominance flooding the corridors, twisting the labyrinth into his weapon.

Walls convulsed, slamming inward like jaws; floors split into pits that snapped shut like teeth.

But the fused Boboiboys were Alphas unleashed, scents spiking ozone, frost, fire, and solar flare in brutal defiance.

Frostfire spun, laughter sharp and wild, his scent blazing frost-flame mischief that dared Drosk to falter. He lashed fire and ice against warped stone spears, shattering them midair, his strikes chaotic yet precise. “Is this all, Drosk? A rat hiding in his own maze?”

Supra’s dominance surged opposite—controlled lightning and solar heat simmering under iron discipline. Every movement was sharp, lethal, his scent pressing calm fury into the labyrinth. He tore through collapsing walls with precise blasts, light cutting spears into dust. “Your fortress bends because you are weak. You rely on tricks. Face us head-on.”

And Kaizo’s scent burned like wildfire, Dominance snapping against Drosk’s tar-and-gold in violent waves. His blade sang arcs of blue light, each strike slicing through whips of dark energy, every clash a challenge, a declaration: You are no match for me.

Drosk roared, his aura exploding outward, labyrinth walls bending into spiked corridors, floors heaving upward into jagged ridges. “This is my domain! You think your pack dominance can shake me?!”

The scents collided, slamming against one another.

The labyrinth shook, groaning under the sheer weight of Alpha rage pressing into its stone bones.

The air was heavy, suffocating, every breath a battle of wills.

Frostfire’s grin widened, feral. “Looks like someone’s cracking.” He launched upward, ice-fire spiraling into a storm of arrows that riddled Drosk’s defenses, forcing him to guard low.

Supra darted in, his strike a sunburst of lightning, pinning Drosk against the warped wall. His voice thundered with restrained fury: “You won’t lay a hand on him. Not Fang. Not anyone.”

Kaizo drove the point home, blade cutting a vicious blue arc that scored across Drosk’s corrupted armor. His snarl was pure Alpha defiance, cedar-iron spiking so sharp it seared the air. “You think you can defeat us? You’ll break before we do.”

For the first time, Drosk staggered—his smirk faltering, his dominance faltering under the combined storm.

But he grinned still, cracked and cruel, voice dripping with venom. “Alphas… so proud, so protective. Do you not see? I don’t need to break you… only to show you what you can’t protect.”

The labyrinth warped again, walls folding inward like a closing fist, corridors splitting, the entire maze reshaping into a weaponized cage. Spears of stone lunged from every angle, driven by Drosk’s fury. His tar-and-gold scent flared violently, pressing back, testing the cracks in their resolve.

The packs shoved harder, dominance surging in unison. Betas reinforced, scents locking together like a shield; Alphas flared, fighting fire with fire, storm with storm.

The labyrinth screamed as Alpha rage met Alpha rage—stone cracking, air shattering, energy tearing through every corridor.

And in the heart of it, Kaizo and the Boboiboys pressed forward, step by step, teeth bared, refusing to bow.

The battlefield seemed to bend under the sheer force of Kaizo and the fused Boboiboys’ combined assault.

Frostfire darted through the air like a living tempest of fire and ice, leaving streaks of scorched frost in his wake.

His scent burned sharp, playful but volatile—heat layered with the tang of wildfire and frost.

Flames roared around him, twisting and snapping at Drosk’s defenses, while jagged shards of ice erupted from the ground, impaling the corrupted armor and forcing the dark tendrils to swerve.

Every movement was a blur, chaotic but precise, almost teasing in its unpredictability.

Supra moved with the counterpoint of lethal calm, and steadiness wrapped in crackling rage.

His lightning arced along his limbs like living serpents, each strike laced with the sharp scent of ozone and fury barely caged.

Unlike Frostfire’s reckless firestorm, Supra’s dominance pressed heavy and even, carrying the grounding weight of an enforcer holding the storm in check.

When his lightning met Frostfire’s flames, the explosion of plasma carried both edge and discipline, shaking the labyrinth walls until they bled dust and stone.

Kaizo cut through the chaos with certainty, blade weaving arcs of blue light through their elemental storm.

His presence was crushing in its steadiness, dominance radiating with every slash and step, the kind of Alpha pressure that demanded obedience even in the heart of battle.

His scent was sharp and filled with something primal beneath—pushed against Drosk’s own oppressive one, clashing like locked horns in an invisible war of willpower.

The labyrinth itself twisted under Drosk’s control, walls grinding and reshaping into jagged spikes, corridors tightening like the throat of a predator.

Dark energy warped the air, pressing in suffocating waves of Alpha dominance, thick with corruption.

He wasn’t just fighting with claws and shadows—he was pushing his scent through the chamber, trying to smother them, to bend their instincts beneath his.

Frostfire snarled as the pressure hit, flames flaring uncontrollably in response. His ice cracked the floor, his scent snapping back sharp and reckless. “He’s trying to cage us—”

Supra stepped closer, lightning snarling down his arms, his scent steadiness flaring to anchor them both. “Not going to work. Stay close.”

His voice cut through like iron, the steadiness of a commander keeping the other Alphas' tempers from snapping.

His scent pressed low and controlled, weaving around Frostfire’s volatile edge to keep him from spinning out under the weight of Drosk’s dominance.

Kaizo’s growl cut through both of them, a sound that thrummed bone-deep. He pressed forward, blade carving through shadows, dominance radiating outward like a storm front. His eyes burned as he met Drosk’s glare. “Your pressure means nothing to me.”

The clash was more than physical—it was three Alphas against one Alpha, dominance flooding the labyrinth.

Drosk’s tendrils lashed out, dark scent suffocating, trying to choke the air with submission.

Kaizo’s response was immediate, his own scent crashing into it with merciless force, every step forward a demand: yield. 

Frostfire fed that storm with chaotic strikes, his scent sharp and daring, while Supra grounded them both, weaving stability in so they didn’t splinter under the psychic assault.

For a heartbeat, the labyrinth itself seemed to tremble—caught between the four fighting, unyielding Alpha presences. The walls cracked, spikes retracting under the blue blaze as Kaizo’s blade tore through a psychic snare.

Then the rhythm shifted.

Frostfire launched a spiral of fire-ice, his dominance a chaotic flare that pried open Drosk’s defenses.

Supra followed with a lightning surge, steadiness driving it home like the spine of the strike.

And Kaizo’s blade slammed into the exposed joint, blue energy chaining around Drosk’s limbs, not just restraining his body but suppressing his dominance with the sheer force of Alpha authority.

Pinned, Drosk’s snarl cracked, voice breaking as his corrupted scent flickered with fatigue. “You… you think… I’ll submit to you?” His words shook, the illusion of control slipping as the three other Alphas' scents pressed down harder, heavier, crushing.

Supra’s voice cut sharply, grounding. “Captain. There is a device—he’s using it through Dreamweavebot.” His calm voice wrapped like steel bands, pulling them back from pure Alpha clash toward precision.

He tore the device free and tossed it skyward.

Frostfire, grinning through sharp teeth and blazing scent, spun in a whip of fire and ice, blasting the device until it melted into sparks.

Psychic pressure shattered across the labyrinth, the suffocating Alpha dominance faltering as the corruption broke.

The cybernetic husks faltered, scentless puppets suddenly free of the chains holding them. Confusion flickered in their eyes, movements faltering into stillness.

The two packs collapsed into instinctive exhaustion.

Sai and Shielda dropped, scents exhausted and shields sputtering.

Lahap’s threads slumped, his strength drained.

Ying’s control frayed, her scent trembling at the edges.

Yaya’s fists lowered, the sharp tang of fury giving way to raw fatigue.

Gopal’s cannons hissed silently as his scent soured with spent energy.

Though the battle had lasted barely an hour, their instincts screamed it had been longer. Their bodies trembled with overuse, and pack dynamics stretched taut under the strain of holding ground against Drosk’s overwhelming pressure.

Meanwhile, the Boboiboy fusions and Kaizo circled Drosk like predators over wounded prey. Dreamweavebot, now free from Drosk's control, pulsed with calm, neutral light. 

Kaizo’s presence stood firm, Alpha dominance coiled like a blade to the throat. His scarlet red eyes burned, his voice low, heavy with promise.

“Tell me who sent you after my brother, Drosk. Or I’ll drag it from you myself.”

Drosk glared up, lips curling into a furious sneer. “Never… I… I will never tell… You think your strikes, your storm of attacks… can make me bow to you? You’ve won the fight… but not the answers.”

Frostfire twirled midair, flames licking outward, ice sparks forming a dazzling shield. His Alpha scent burned sharp and wild, daring Drosk to deny him further. “Oh, we’re not expecting courtesy,” he said with a wicked grin, “just patience. And Drosk, patience doesn’t last forever.”

Supra’s gaze hardened, lightning crackling faintly along his arms. His voice was even, but the Beta steadiness behind it rolled out like iron, meant to anchor both the pack and Kaizo’s temper. “The battle is over,” he said flatly, though rage simmered beneath. “You’ve lost control, and your army is free. You will not threaten anyone else again. But you will answer. Eventually, you will speak.”

The labyrinth around them pulsed with leftover psychic static, its jagged corridors humming as if alive, twisting shadows still curling where Drosk’s corruption had tried to choke them.

Now, in the wake of his defeat, it felt like the fortress itself was exhaling—walls settling, the crushing weight of Alpha pressure finally thinning under Kaizo’s dominance.

Dreamweavebot hovered nearby, optics steady and calm, finally free from Drosk’s influence.

The storm had ended.

The rest of the two packs who collapsed in the narrow passage, with exhaustion written in every line of their bodies.

Even without words, their scents painted the picture—sweat, weariness, and the grounding musk of Betas holding the fractured edges of the pack together.

Sai’s shield sparked faintly as he groaned. Shielda’s scent was sharp and steady, but frayed at the edges from holding barriers too long. Yaya’s Beta weight had been the hammer of the front line; now her shoulders slumped as her fists dropped to her sides, exhaustion rolling off her like heat. Ying perched against a wall, her scent flickering faintly cool but trembling. Gopal sprawled dramatically, his Beta musk oddly spiced even in fatigue, grounding the group with relief.

The Betas had kept the labyrinth from consuming them entirely.

And now, every one of them was drained.

Kaizo stepped back, still tense, blade raised, blue chains of energy binding Drosk.

The air around him reeked of dominance, thick enough to silence even Frostfire’s quips for a heartbeat.

Frostfire and Supra lingered close, power still humming through their veins, the packs' Alpha and Beta enforcers ensuring the villain remained caged.

Drosk, though shackled and battered, still radiated resistance.

His amethyst eyes flickered with both pride and panic, his corrupted scent pushing weakly against Kaizo’s in a futile attempt to reassert dominance.

But Kaizo’s pressure pressed harder, steadier, a crushing reminder of who now held the labyrinth.

Then Dreamweavebot faltered, its glow sputtering as its strained core began to dim. With a soft hum, its lights faded. Frostfire swooped in with fast reflexes, catching it before it hit the ground. He held it carefully, his wild scent softening in an instinctive display of protection. The orb stilled, inert but safe in his arms.

Yaya groaned, rubbing her sore arms. Her scent carried exhaustion, but still wrapped faintly protective around the others. “I swear… if anyone asks me to punch one more robot today, I’m… I’m quitting. I’ll take up knitting or—heck—even interpretive dance.”

Lahap, Alpha sharpness muted by fatigue, sagged against a wall. Threads twitched limply around him, his scent sharp and bitter with exhaustion. “Knitting? At least it wouldn’t make my arms feel like jelly. Ugh.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Someone hold me. Or at least give me a sandwich.”

Sai collapsed on his elbows, sparks hissing from his shield. His steadiness had held the front, but now his scent was sharp with burnt edges. “Seriously… who designed this labyrinth? It’s like sadists and engineers competed for who could torture us best.”

Shielda thunked her shield onto a cracked wall and flopped onto her back, laughing weakly. Her scent was warm but frayed, stretched to its limit. “Sadists. Definitely sadists. And for what it’s worth, I refuse to lift this thing again… until tomorrow.”

Gopal sprawled, groaning dramatically, spiced scent filling the air like exhausted cocoa. “My body just sent me a strongly worded email. Knees demand hazard pay. Arms are striking. Back wants retirement.”

Ying exhaled hard, perched on twisted stone, her scent rolling faint but unsteady. “I thought errands in the city were the worst. Nope. This wins. My legs want a vacation. My hair? Filing for emotional damages.”

Lahap rolled his eyes, Alpha presence flickering despite exhaustion. “You’re all such babies. Try holding a line while Frostfire does acrobatics with a psychic orb.”

Frostfire twirled, flames flickering around him, grinning with sharp Alpha teeth. “Hey! Acrobatics are in my contract. And besides, I looked stylish.”

Sai groaned. “Style? I’m seeing sparks I didn’t order. Somewhere in the universe, there’s a trophy for most overworked Beta body. I nominate myself.”

Shielda sat upright, sharp Beta steadiness cracking into dry humor. “Try creating endless shields the size of trauma while dodging flying limbs. I renounce heroics until further notice.”

Gopal flailed. “At least dumbbells don’t insult you while trying to kill you. My cannons want therapy.”

Ying shook her head, exhausted but smiling faintly. “And yet here we are. Alive. Barely. My legs are filing a complaint with HR of the universe.”

Kaizo exhaled slowly, authority thrumming like iron. “You all sound like overgrown pups. Stretch, groan, whine if you must. But keep it quiet, unless you want me assigning debris-clearing drills.” His eyes burned crimson as he tightened the chains around Drosk.

Supra, calm still sparking faintly with lightning, crossed his arms. “I refuse to complain,” he said, stoic—but his mouth twitched. “Mostly because someone has to look responsible while the rest of you collapse.”

Frostfire chuckled, his wild scent flickering mischievous as flames spun lazily in his palm. “Oh, come on, Supra. Let them whine. It’s hilarious watching mighty TAPOPS agents suffer. Someone bring me popcorn.”

The labyrinth’s broken walls loomed high around them, jagged stone and twisted metal catching the last orange glow of the sun as it dipped low over the fortress’s edge.

Long shadows carved across the maze, stretching like skeletal fingers.

The floor was a battlefield of rubble—cracked stone, scorched grooves, shattered fragments of what had once been part of the fortress’s defenses.

The air carried more than exhaustion.

It was thick with the sharp edge of Alpha dominance, clashing currents of power that hadn’t yet faded since the battle.

Kaizo, Frostfire, and Supra radiated command in their own ways—steady, furious, and controlled—but now their dominance lingered like blades, cutting through the Beta exhaustion around them.

The Betas—Sai, Shielda, Yaya, Ying, and Gopal—were slumped in tired heaps, groaning, complaining, joking, their voices bouncing off the labyrinth walls in the aftershock of adrenaline.

Their pack instincts responded to the Alphas’ heavy presence by unconsciously staying lower, shoulders slouched, voices softening even when they teased.

Exhaustion softened the edges of hierarchy, but the awareness never left.

Kaizo’s blade still gleamed, energy chains binding Drosk to the cracked ground.

His stance screamed Alpha, unyielding, dominance coiled tight like a predator unwilling to release its prey.

His eyes burned as he leaned closer.

“Tell me who paid you to take my brother,” Kaizo growled, voice thrumming with raw Alpha command. “Or I’ll drag it from you myself.”

Drosk, as an Alpha himself, bared his teeth in defiance despite the chains biting into his flesh. “You think because you won… I'll answer to you? You’ve only won the fight… not the war.” His voice cracked under exhaustion, but his pride clung stubbornly.

Frostfire’s elemental energy flared, his grin sharp and mocking. “Oh, I already told you, we’re not expecting courtesy,” he said, spinning lazily midair. “Just patience. And Drosk… patience isn’t infinite.” His playful energy had the undertone of Alpha dominance too, fire-and-ice power thrumming like a warning.

Supra stood still, electricity running down his arms like coiled serpents. His quiet, steady words cut sharper than Frostfire’s taunts. “Your power is gone. Your generals are defeated. You're only choice is to answer.”

Around them, the Betas let their exhaustion bleed into banter, their voices grounding the tension in humor, easing the heavy air that threatened to crush them all. Even now, instinct guided them—they complained to one another, leaning on each other instead of challenging the Alphas, allowing the three dominant presences to keep the labyrinth secured.

But then—

A faint skitter echoed. None noticed at first, drowned by the sound of groans, laughter, and fading sparks.

A small metallic spider crept across the rubble. Its movements were precise, unnervingly deliberate, slipping through shadows like it belonged to the labyrinth itself.

It reached Drosk’s feet, began to climb, silent legs clicking faintly against his damaged armor.

Kaizo’s chains held firm. Frostfire twirled Dreamweavebot absently in one hand. Supra’s gaze flickered over the group, scanning for danger.

None of them saw.

The spider reached the middle of Drosk’s spine.

Without warning, it plunged its fangs deep.

Drosk’s scream tore through the labyrinth—a raw, feral voice twisted in agony. He convulsed violently, Kaizo’s chains straining as the energy burned against his thrashing. His eyes widened in terror, his pride cracking at last—not in surrender to Kaizo, but to something far crueler.

Within seconds, the scream cut off. His body went limp, chains humming against his weight.

“Shit—!” Frostfire darted back, flames licking at the labyrinth walls. His grin vanished, replaced by shock. “That wasn’t us.”

Supra’s eyes narrowed, electricity flashing sharp as he caught sight of the thing still clinging to Drosk’s back. “A kill-switch,” he said grimly. “Sophisticated. Deadly. Whoever sent that spider… knows how to cut ties clean.”

Kaizo crouched, eyes flashing as he inspected the puncture wounds. His instincts seethed, restrained only by his iron control. “This isn’t just some mad scientist,” he said, voice a low growl. “This is someone who plans every contingency. A mind twisted enough to kill its own pawns before they can be broken.”

The Betas recoiled, instinctively pressing closer to each other. Yaya muttered, still rubbing her sore arms, “A spider that kills instantly? Nope. I’m never sleeping again.”

Lahap twitched, Alpha edge simmering, hands flexing like he wanted to crush the spider into nothing. “We just survived a labyrinth of traps and a mind-controlling sphere… now this? Fantastic.”

Sai groaned, running a hand over his sweat-slick hair. “Drosk was insane, but whoever’s pulling the strings? They’re worse. Way worse.”

Shielda snorted, half-laugh, half-despair. “Next mission, better come with coffee. Or I swear, I’m staging a pack-wide protest.”

Gopal groaned, dramatic even in exhaustion. “And my back was already writing a complaint! Now it wants hazard pay for spider attacks.”

Ying’s sparks flickered faintly as she wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t even want to know what else this scientist has crawling around. No, thank you. Keep your nightmares to yourself, universe.”

Frostfire flipped Dreamweavebot in his hands with a sharp twist, smirking again, though his eyes stayed hard. “Oh, it’s going to be fun, all right. Dangerous, twisted, the opposite of chill fun.”

Supra didn’t move, his glare trained on the spider’s faint glow. “No. This is war. And whoever built that… doesn’t play fair.”

Kaizo rose at last, blade humming. “Then we find them before they find us. Whoever’s behind this wants Fang. That means they come through me first.”

The labyrinth fell quiet, the only sound the faint click of the spider’s legs before it stilled—lifeless, but a chilling reminder.

Drosk was gone, but the puppeteer pulling his strings was still out there.

And this time, their packs would be walking into the heart of a nightmare.

Kaizo’s chains of blue energy retracted with a low hum, disappearing into nothing.

He knelt beside Drosk’s limp form, dominance rolling off him in sharp, deliberate waves. His presence pressed over the labyrinth like a storm front, instinct reminding every Beta nearby that the danger was not yet over. The Betas—Sai, Shielda, Yaya, Ying, and Gopal—shifted unconsciously, their voices dropping, their movements subdued, instinct guiding them to yield space to the Alpha as he examined the body.

The faint metallic click of spider legs still echoed in memory, though the creature itself lay inert—its blackened form clamped to Drosk’s back like a grotesque parasite.

Kaizo’s fingers hovered over it, sparks hissing in warning. “Stay back,” he ordered, Alpha-command in his voice. “No one comes close until I’m sure it won’t react.”

Lahap bristled nearby, fingers twitching, ready to summon his threads. “That thing could have a deadman switch. One wrong pull and it blows half the labyrinth.”

Supra’s Alpha presence pressed outward in steady support, grounding the packs. “Captain’s right. Let him lead this.”

Exhaling, Kaizo pressed two fingers into a joint, sending a precise surge of energy. The carcass twitched violently, legs jerking before falling limp again.

A tense silence followed before Kaizo’s hands moved with deliberate care, prying at the fused wires that bound the spider into Drosk’s armor.

With a sharp crack, it came free.

The lifeless body was heavier than expected, its alloy dense and unnatural.

Kaizo laid it on the ground.

Frostfire stepped closer, Dreamweavebot humming in his grip, his Alpha aura restless fire. “Ugly bastard, isn’t it? Whoever made this didn’t just build a weapon. They wanted it to infest.”

Kaizo’s eyes narrowed, but Sai moved before he could answer. Sai crouched down near Kaizo. “You shouldn’t keep touching it, Captain. Not after what it did.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Shielda—container?”

Shielda sighed, unstrapping a reinforced cube-like case from her belt. “Was saving this for emergencies. Guess this qualifies.”

Sai took it, lowering the spider inside with careful hands.

The seals hissed shut, electric highlights glowing blue as the lock engaged.

Passing the container back to his twin, Sai brushed his gloves clean. “There. No legs clicking in the dark later. You can thank me when you’re sleeping.”

Only then did Kaizo return to examining Drosk's limp form.

Kaizo’s fingers traced the seams of Drosk’s armor, testing, tapping, sending small sparks of energy through the joints.

Each motion was measured, cautious. He was thorough not just for himself, but for the two packs—for safety.

The others, even the Alphas Frostfire and Lahap, instinctively held back, letting Kaizo claim the role of lead.

“Nothing here… no transmitters, no explosives,” Kaizo muttered, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed how heavily his instincts were burning. “This person thinks ahead. Every contingency accounted for. Whoever designed that spider… whoever wants Fang… they’ve planned for everything.”

Frostfire shifted, hovering with Dreamweavebot in his arms, his Alpha scent sparking bright and restless, a natural counterbalance to Kaizo’s cold focus.

The Betas around him unconsciously leaned away from his flaring energy, some shielding one another with tired shoulders pressed close.

Kaizo’s fingers paused.

Beneath the chest plate, something small and sleek clicked under his touch.

Carefully, he pried it loose—a communicator, slim and sharp-edged, nestled in a hidden compartment.

At last, something clicked under his touch. Carefully, he pried loose a sleek communicator, half-hidden in the armor.

“Found something,” he said, holding it up. “A communicator, but it’s corrupted. Whoever built this didn’t want us getting easy answers.”

Supra stepped forward, his scent heavy but contained. “Corrupted how? Is it usable at all?”

Kaizo shook his head, red eyes sharp. “Partially encrypted. Scrambled. It’s bait for impatience. Push too hard, and we lose everything. We’ll need time and specialists.”

Frostfire barked a short laugh, though frustration sparked off him like static. “Perfect. Not just a mad scientist with murder-spiders, but riddles too. Love this for us.”

The Betas groaned in unison.

Yaya sagged against Ying and Shielda, voice muffled. “Forget riddles. I want a shower, hot food, and a nap that lasts a week.”

Lahap leaned against the wall, scent prickling. “Yeah, HQ. Snacks, coffee, no spiders, and maybe a muzzle for that communicator.”

Gopal sprawled onto a slab of wall with theatrical misery. “And complaining. Don’t forget complaining. That’s mission-critical.”

Sai chuckled weakly, sparks flicking. “Nap first. Then snacks. Then coffee. Then some poor Beta tech burns their sanity on this thing.”

Shielda raised a tired hand in salute. “Mission orders received. Step one: survive. Step two: caffeine. Step three: no more spiders.”

Through it all, Ying’s calmer presence grounded them. “We can’t forget. Whoever sent that spider is already ahead. If we burn out now, we’re walking straight into their game.”

Kaizo rose then, communicator clenched in his palm, his presence reclaiming every focus. His eyes burned like molten edges in the dark. “HQ first. Rest. Specialists on this device. Then we strike back. Whoever thinks they can take Fang…” His voice sharpened, carrying a lethal promise. “…will learn what it means to challenge an Omega of two packs.”

They moved together, instinct pulling the Betas into a cluster while the Alphas formed the perimeter. Shielda clipped the sealed spider-case to her belt, its blue locks glowing faintly.

And in Kaizo’s hand, the communicator pulsed once—faint lines etched on its casing... 

A circle with weird edges and a square in the middle, both looking like an eye. 

None of them saw it.

Not yet.

Behind them, Drosk’s body lay silent in the labyrinth, the ghost of spider-legs clicking only in memory.

With Fang, Around Dinner Time

Fang was back to lying curled up in the middle of Boboiboy’s bed in his nest. The fever made him restless, shifting in small, agitated movements, soft whimpers catching in his throat even as he slept.

Ochobot hovered close, dipping a cloth into a basin of cold water and pressing it gently to Fang’s flushed forehead.

The robot’s small fans whirred low, circulating the cool air, sensors monitoring every change in the Omega’s vitals.

“Almost time for dinner,” Ochobot murmured to himself as he checked the time, then nudged Fang softly. “Fang, Time to wake up.”

Fang stirred with a small noise, his lashes fluttering open. His voice was rough, weakened by fever. “Ochobot… is something wrong…”

Ochobot tilted its head, mechanical eyes blinking as it regarded him. “It’s almost dinner. You need to change out of those sweaty clothes if you want to eat in the cafeteria.”

Fang pouted, a small frown tugging his lips down. “I don’t… I didn’t bring any clothes from my room…” His voice cracked with frustration. “How am I supposed to—?”

Ochobot whirred thoughtfully, then turned toward Boboiboy’s wardrobe.

The little robot rummaged through hangers and drawers, lifting a jacket here, pushing aside a hoodie there, scanning for something small enough to fit.

Fang’s tired gaze followed, his heart thumping nervously as Ochobot finally pulled free a dark orange hoodie and a pair of soft black pants.

“Found something,” Ochobot announced proudly. “Smallest items in Boboiboy’s wardrobe. They’ll fit you… well enough.”

Fang’s face heated immediately, a blush creeping across his fevered cheeks. “I… I can’t wear those! He’ll be mad if I—if I wear his clothes…”

Ochobot crossed its tiny arms, sensors narrowing. “Fang, remember our deal? If you followed my instructions, you’d get to eat in the cafeteria instead of here in the nest. This is part of that deal.”

Fang grumbled, his ears hot.

Still, his hand brushed the fabric, and the scent hit him—sunlight and cinnamon warmth. His chest tightened, fluttering with something he didn’t want to name or wasn't ready to name.

Wrapped in this, it felt like… like Boboiboy himself was holding him.

'I shouldn’t like this. But it smells like him.'

Despite his muttered protests, Fang took the clothes gingerly, wincing slightly as the effects of the painkillers began to fade. Every movement tugged at his exhausted muscles, and his arms shook as he tried to change without putting pressure on his legs.

He slid out of his damp, clingy clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor next to the bed, before slowly putting on the oversized hoodie.

The sleeves swallowed his arms, and the black pants sagged slightly, bunching at his ankles.

But nestled against the fabric, his Omega instincts purred with secret satisfaction.

‘Boboiboy’s scent… It’s like I’m wrapped in his arms, again. If he saw me like this… he’d call me his bunny again. And I’d—ugh—Fine... I'd...I'd melt. Why does it feel so good…’

Ochobot floated closer, sensors flickering. “Functional enough. Not sized perfectly, but comfortable. Good.”

Fang tugged at the hoodie sleeves, cheeks pink, grumbling under his breath. “I can’t believe I’m wearing Boboiboy’s clothes…” Yet his body, heavy with fever and exhaustion, relaxed deeper into the Alpha-scented fabric, nest instincts quietly thrumming with pleasure.

Satisfied, Ochobot rolled a small wheelchair to the bedside. Fang groaned when he saw it, curling tighter into his nest like a sulking cub.

“Come on, Fang,” Ochobot said, tilting its head as it gestured to the chair.

With a reluctant hiss of breath, Fang slid his legs over the edge of the bed. Pain spiked through his sore muscles, pulling a sharp hiss from him. “Ugh…” He pressed a hand against his thighs, teeth gritting as the ache refused to ease.

Ochobot scanned him immediately, hovering closer. “Careful. Don’t push yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Fang muttered, though the truth was betrayed by the tremor in his arms as he tried to steady himself.

Ochobot’s eyes softened, almost like an Alpha watching over its pack. “I know you want to be strong. But you’re still recovering. Even fighters needs help sometimes.”

Fang gave a weak little laugh as he sank into the chair, hoodie swallowing his smaller frame. “You’re starting to sound like Boboiboy…” His cheeks flushed deeper, voice barely audible.

Ochobot hummed, sensors flickering warmly as it adjusted the wheelchair. “Then let me act like him until he gets here.”

Before Fang could answer, Ochobot positioned itself behind the chair and began to push. Fang instinctively tried to help with his arms, but the moment he did, sharp pangs shot through his shoulders and upper arms.

“Ochobot! I can—” Fang huffed, half in pain, half in frustration.

“Relax, Fang,” Ochobot said with a soft chuckle, wheels rolling smoothly over the HQ floor. “You’re supposed to rest, not hurt yourself trying to prove something.”

Fang’s face scrunched in both exhaustion and amusement. “I know… I just… don’t like feeling useless.”

“You’re not useless,” Ochobot replied, sensors glowing with quiet reassurance. “Even like this, you’re strong. And smart. And fast when you need to be.”

Fang let out a small laugh, breath catching on the edge of warmth. “You really know how to flatter a guy, Ochobot.”

His chest ached—not from fever this time, but from the dangerous, secret warmth curling inside. Wrapped in Boboiboy’s scent, tucked in his nest, pushed gently along by Ochobot’s steady hands… Fang didn't want to get used to this feeling, no matter how nice it is.

They continued down the hallway toward the cafeteria, the robot’s gentle pushes keeping Fang steady.

Artificial light streamed faintly, glinting off the metallic edges of the wheelchair and warming the space just enough to make it pleasant.

Halfway to the cafeteria, a familiar shadow appeared ahead. Fang squinted through his drowsiness—and then froze.

“Captain?” Fang called, surprise mingling in his voice.

Kaizo, Fang’s older brother, strode toward them with a mixture of urgency and worry etched in his steps.

But something immediately struck Fang—his usually composed, battle-hardened Alpha brother was covered in bandages across his cheeks, forehead, and jaw. Bruises peeked through, some fresh, some fading.

The normally stoic Kaizo looked… battered.

Fang’s eyes widened further, his chest tightening. “Captain… what happened to you?”

On the outside, Kaizo’s expression may have seemed calm.

Kaizo’s mind, however, was far from calm. Ever since he had ditched the others, he had been consumed with one thought: finding Fang.

Every corridor of TAPOPS HQ had been meticulously scanned, every faint sound analyzed. The mission had been brutal—fighting Drosk, containing his illusions, learning that someone was targeting Fang, and facing the fallout of Drosk’s death.

But none of it compared to the fear gnawing at him for his little Omega brother’s safety.

And then there was Commander Kokoci. His clipped, impatient voice had demanded an immediate report: “How did you finish a week-long mission in just a few hours? Where’s Dreamweavebot? Is it safe? What about Drosk?”

Kaizo had gritted his teeth, answering carefully that they would explain when they landed, but inwardly fuming as he escaped the ship before the commander arrived.

Reports could wait—Fang could not.

When Kaizo finally saw Fang seated in the wheelchair, feverish and fragile, relief hit him like a tidal wave—sudden, consuming, leaving him breathless for a moment. “Pang…” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

The Omega’s scent of lavender and faintly sweet carrots—dulled and thinned from fever—still reached him, fragile but undeniably Fang.

Worry surged immediately after, clawing back into his chest.

Kaizo crouched slightly, bringing himself closer, his own scent of iron, cedarwood, and jasmine bleeding into the air. Jasmine—their mother’s favorite—threaded soft and protective through the sharper notes, instinctively wrapping Fang in something familiar, something safe. His hands hovered near Fang’s forehead, like a shield against every danger.

Fang blinked, surprise flickering through him.

His usually cold, distant Abang… was checking on him? And gently, too.

Despite the fever and drowsiness, Fang felt himself leaning ever so slightly into that scent, into Kaizo’s presence. Lavender stirred faintly in the air as his body instinctively responded, comforted by the Alpha’s protective aura.

“Captain… is something wrong?” Fang murmured, voice soft, barely above a whisper. His heart thumped as he felt the familiar warmth he had missed so much. The tension in his body melted just a fraction under his brother’s concern.

Kaizo’s heart twisted at the sight of Fang leaning into him—the same as when he was small and trusting, curling up against his Alpha brother’s scent. That tiny gesture sparked an unexpected, fleeting joy Kaizo hadn’t realized he’d missed so much. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to savor it: Fang still trusted him, still sought him, even now.

But reality pressed back. The heat of Fang’s fever, the weakness in his body, the thinned scent of lavender that should have been vibrant—all screamed urgency.

Kaizo’s expression softened for the briefest moment before hardening again, determination returning. “You’re still burning up, Pang.”

Then he turned his eyes toward Ochobot. “May I?”

Ochobot gave a quiet affirmative hum, sensing the Alpha tone beneath the calm words, stepping slightly back to allow Kaizo closer.

Fang’s small hands clenched lightly around the armrests of the wheelchair, relief and lingering worry twisting inside him. Even in his fevered state, he couldn’t stop the faint blush warming his cheeks as his instincts whispered. Blood pack. Safe. Abang’s here.

Kaizo’s gloved hands rested lightly yet firmly on Fang’s shoulders. He let his cedarwood-and-iron scent settle protectively around the Omega, weaving in a faint curl of jasmine like a promise. His voice stayed steady, low, carrying the weight of both Alpha command and brotherly care. “Let’s go to the cafeteria. You’re probably hungry.”

It wasn’t a suggestion—it was a promise of safety, nourishment, and protection.

Fang swallowed, lavender flaring faintly in response, comfort blooming despite the fever. “Okay… Captain,” he whispered, savoring the rare closeness.

Fang leaned just slightly more into Kaizo’s touch, and Kaizo caught himself, surprised at the swell of instinctive affection it stirred—pride, relief, and something softer, almost tender. The small Omega in his hands was still, trusting, leaning just like in simpler times.

Their scents mingled quietly in the hallway—lavender and carrots threaded with cedarwood and jasmine—an unspoken reminder of their bond, their pack, and the safety Kaizo swore to protect.

Ochobot gently rolled the wheelchair forward, but Kaizo stepped closer and gave the robot a small nod. I’ve got this, his eyes said. Ochobot understood immediately, its sensors flickering once before it drifted aside.

Kaizo gripped the handles firmly, his Alpha presence pressing forward with quiet certainty as he pushed the wheelchair himself.

Fang’s hands remained lightly on the armrests, his body resisting only faintly, his instincts overriding protest as the warmth of his Abang’s presence wrapped around him. Cedarwood and iron laced with jasmine threaded the air behind him, subtle but steady, cloaking Fang in the Alpha’s protective scent.

Every bump in the floor, every turn in the hallway, was softened by Kaizo’s careful, deliberate motions. Fang inhaled shakily, his own scent—carrots softened with lavender—curling weakly into the air.

Normally steady and sweet, it was faint now, thinned by fever.

Kaizo caught the change instantly.

His shoulders tensed, the Alpha instinct in him bristling at the reminder that Fang wasn’t well.

Without thinking, he pressed more of his cedarwood and jasmine outward, soothing the Omega’s instincts, promising safety.

Fang’s chest fluttered, a small, almost silent, contented purr escaping him. 'He’s actually… taking care of me. Just like old times…'

His instincts calmed under Kaizo’s care, the lavender notes of his scent blooming faintly again in response, as if reassured.

Despite the fever, the weakness, and the lingering pain, Fang felt safe in a way he hadn’t since those early years when he thought he’d lost this version of his brother.

They moved steadily down the hallway, Ochobot flanking protectively at the side, Kaizo guiding and guarding from behind. Fang leaned into the warmth of Kaizo’s Alpha presence without realizing it, his body seeking what part of his instinct had craved for so long—his blood pack, his brother.

For a fleeting, private moment, Kaizo allowed himself a smile—small, almost imperceptible—as Fang nestled against the faint trail of jasmine in his scent.

An echo of the past.

A spark of hope in the present.

A vow for the future.

Though Drosk had been neutralized, tension still knotted in Kaizo’s shoulders.

Reports, missions, and Kokoci’s demands could wait.

Fang could not.

His Omega brother’s safety, his little brother’s comfort, mattered more than anything.

And with every careful step, every protective glance downward, Kaizo’s scent whispered the same vow his actions did: You are safe. I will protect. Always.

The cafeteria was quiet, the long rows of tables stretching like empty corridors beneath the high ceiling. The distant hum of HQ machinery mingled with the faint clatter of trays, a hollow rhythm that seemed almost mocking in the emptiness.

Kaizo guided the wheelchair carefully, his gloved hands steady, eyes scanning the space, calculating the optimal spot. His Alpha instincts bristled at the vast openness of the room.

Too exposed.

Too vulnerable.

“This table,” he murmured, voice low, pushing toward a long bench near the center. His cedarwood-and-iron scent spread subtly, a silent claim on the space. The faint thread of jasmine softened its edges, a note that always struck Fang like a memory—warm, safe, fleeting.

His mind was already running through contingencies. It was only a matter of time before the others returned from Commander Kokoci’s briefing.

He didn’t want anyone crowding them.

No impatient glances, no questions, no intrusions.

His jaw tightened at the thought. 'Just this once… I need time with my brother. Can't the rest of the world just wait?!'

Fang, restless even in his weakened state, tried to shift in the wheelchair, his small body trembling as he attempted to climb onto the bench by himself.

His Omega instincts were screaming for comfort, to curl into his nest back in Boboiboy’s room, but pride wouldn’t let him ask for help.

Kaizo’s hands were already there before he could tip.

With a practiced gentleness, he lifted Fang fully, scenting faint lavender and carrot clinging faintly to the boy’s skin.

It was weak, but underneath, Kaizo caught the trembling edges of panic.

Fang was trying to hide it, to smother the desperate Omega scent curling out of him, but Kaizo smelled it anyway.

His instincts roared to shield, to protect.

Fang froze in his arms, cheeks heating instantly with embarrassment, ears flushing. “Ah… thanks, Captain,” he mumbled, voice barely audible.

He buried the slip of vulnerability under forced casualness, pulling his scent tight to mask the shift.

But Kaizo, sharp as ever, caught the tiny tremor of lavender beneath.

Kaizo’s expression softened for the briefest second before hardening again, his presence wrapping around Fang like an invisible shield. “Wait here,” he said, low and firm. “I’ll get us some food.” Without another word, he walked toward the serving area, iron resolve in his scent, leaving Fang and Ochobot alone.

Fang blinked after him, warmth and longing swelling uncomfortably in his chest. His Omega instincts coiled tighter, wanting to lean into that cedarwood-and-jasmine safety, but his pride shoved it down.

Ochobot tilted its head, emitting a soft, puzzled whirr.

“Looks like even your usually cold brother has a soft side,” Ochobot murmured. “He’s… showing an unusual amount of concern. It’s not… typical for him.”

Fang’s hands curled in his lap, his scent spiking faintly, lavender twisting with sharp carrot sweetness before he pulled it down again, hiding the slip. He couldn’t meet Ochobot’s gaze. “I know,” he whispered, voice fragile. A wistful smile tugged at his lips. “It’s… weird. But… it feels… nice.”

Ochobot’s sensors flickered. “Fang, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

But his chest felt too tight, his heart a fragile thing in his ribs. He shoved his face into his arms, hiding.

The voices came sharp as knives.

This won’t last. He’ll be cold again, like always.

You’ll be alone. He doesn’t really care.

You don’t deserve this. Nothing good stays.

Fang’s scent betrayed him again—lavender flooding sharp and bitter, carrot sweetness gone sour at the edges. He yanked it back, masking it under a thin veil of composure, but Kaizo would smell it the second he came back. That thought made his chest twist tighter.

‘I can’t let him see me like this. Not now. Not ever.’

Still, even as despair clawed at him, Fang clung to the memory of Kaizo’s hands lifting him, the jasmine thread in his Abang's scent weaving through cedarwood and iron, steady and warm.

Fang, still curled slightly on the bench, felt the tension around him like a tangible weight.

The voices still whispered, clawing.

This will end.

You’ll lose him again.

You always lose. You’re too weak.

You don’t deserve to be happy.

He hugged himself tighter, hiding his face as tears threatened to spill. But underneath it all, a defiant, desperate thought rooted itself. 'Even if it’s temporary… even if it’s going to end… I’ll hold onto it. I’ll remember it. I don’t care if it ends. I just want it now.'

Ochobot floated silently, observing. It couldn’t smell, but it could feel Fang’s emotional static, the tug-of-war inside him: hope against despair, longing against fear.

Kaizo returned, trays balanced in his hands, cedarwood-and-iron presence rolling with him like a tide. His scent filled the empty cafeteria instantly, jasmine brushing the edges like a protective veil.

Fang’s instincts quivered, his own scent pressing down harder, barely masking the fragile, fever-thinned lavender within.

Kaizo’s annoyance simmered low under his composure. 'Will I be able to have at least some time with Pang? I hope they take their time and leave us.' His gaze cut to the cafeteria entrance, expecting the others. His Alpha instincts spiked, scent sharpening, warning away anything that dared intrude.

Fang felt it all—the iron promise, the cedarwood shield, the jasmine warmth. And despite the whispers of despair still clawing, he let his head tilt slightly toward Kaizo’s presence. Just enough. Just for now.

Even if he had to hide the desperate bloom of lavender in his scent, even if it was only fleeting, Fang clung to it. A sanctuary built from cedarwood, jasmine, and warmth.

Kaizo carefully set the trays down on the long cafeteria table, arranging each item with quiet precision.

Two bowls of steaming carrot soup—Fang and Kaizo’s shared favorite—sat at the front, accompanied by two bowls of fluffy rice, a plate of lemon-honey glazed chicken in the center, and two bottles of water.

The savory aroma of the soup and the citrusy glaze filled the small space, nudging Fang from the spiral of thoughts that had been consuming him.

But it wasn’t just the food that pulled him back—it was Kaizo. His alpha scent, normally cool and distant like sharpened steel, pressed subtly into the air.

Though it was calmer now, softened by the quiet protectiveness that clung to every careful motion. Fang’s omega instincts reached toward it without permission, easing some of the tightness in his chest.

“Here,” Kaizo said softly, pushing the tray slightly closer to Fang. “Eat. It’ll make you feel better.”

Fang blinked up at him, startled by the tangible gesture of care. The warmth in his hands as he set the bowls down, the steadiness in his scent—solid, grounding—combined to tug Fang gently out of his fog.

His own scent threatened to waver, flickering toward neediness, but he masked it quickly, curling it into the faint herbal undertone he’d practiced projecting.

He didn’t want his brother to notice the way his instincts leaned toward him.

Not now, while he was trying to enjoy this rare moment.

Ochobot hovered quietly at the side, sensors flickering, before a small chime sounded in its system. A message from Commander Kokoci blinked across its display, instructing the robot to report to his office immediately.

Fang frowned. “Ochobot? What’s wrong?”

The robot’s eyes swiveled toward him, voice unusually hesitant. “I… I’ve been called to Commander Kokoci’s office.”

“Huh, what do you think it’s about?” Fang asked.

“I’m unsure, but it says it's urgent,” Ochobot admitted, hovering closer to hand Fang his medicine. “Here, your before and after meal doses. And your painkillers.”

Fang accepted the pills silently. Ochobot’s sensors lingered a moment, scanning his fevered frame. “Take them correctly,” the little robot instructed before lifting itself back toward the exit.

Fang swallowed the before-meal medicine with the water Kaizo handed him. The bottle was warm from Kaizo’s grip, his scent clinging faintly to the plastic. Fang couldn’t help inhaling it as he drank, relief sparking low in his chest.

When Ochobot disappeared, the air felt different—lighter, quieter.

It was just the two of them now, alpha and omega, with no buffer between.

The cafeteria slowly began to fill as people who were arriving for dinner.

A low hum of voices and shuffling footsteps echoed around them, but Kaizo’s presence remained a shield.

His scent instinctively expanded, circling Fang in a protective arc that warned the passing omegas, betas, and even alphas to keep their distance.

No one questioned it.

No one dared.

Fang ate slowly, hesitantly.

Each bite of soup was comforting, but his appetite faltered beneath the constant tug-of-war in his chest.

His omega instincts pressed him toward Kaizo’s scent, toward the warmth and steadiness that had once anchored him as a child.

But the voices in his mind whispered that he didn’t deserve it—that if Kaizo noticed, the cold mask would return.

He hid it the only way he could: by tightening his control on his own scent, dulling it to neutral herbs, forcing back the soft sweetness that wanted to bleed through.

Kaizo noticed anyway—not the sweetness Fang fought to hide, but the hesitation.

The way Fang’s fingers hovered too long over the spoon. The way his scent pulsed faintly, uneven, like a thread threatening to snap.

A frustrated growl built in Kaizo’s chest—not at Fang, but at himself. His brother was hurting, and he still didn’t know how to fix it.

Fang broke the silence first, voice fragile. “Captain… did you… Just get back from a mission?”

Kaizo nodded once. “Yes. A retrieval mission.” His tone carried more weight than usual, his scent tightening, sharpening with the memory. “It was to retrieve a power sphere called Dreamweavebot. The hunter who had it was… not ordinary. Fast, cunning, and heavily armed. We had to anticipate his moves while avoiding Dreamweavebot’s blasts.”

Fang’s eyes widened. His scent fluttered, faint awe leaking through despite his control. “And… you were injured because of it?”

“Yes,” Kaizo admitted, gesturing to his bandages. His scent remained steady, firm, though the memory stirred faint bitterness beneath it. “But Dreamweavebot is safe now. That’s what matters.”

Relief rippled through Fang, his scent trembling toward warmth before he smothered it again. “He… he must have been really strong, then.”

Kaizo allowed a small, tight-lipped smile. “Yes,” he said, choosing not to mention that a fair portion of the damage had been from the fight between BoBoiBoy and him, or that an unknown scientist who is targeting Fang.

'Not yet,' he told himself. Fang needed reassurance right now, not more worry. gave a small, tight smile. His scent softened briefly, touched with pride.

But then it shifted, sharpening again as his gaze fixed on Fang. “Also, Pang… why did I hear from the commander that you were out of commission… sick… instead of you?”

Fang froze. His scent jolted, threatening to crack into guilty sweetness. He smothered it with sharp effort, curling it into neutrality. 'Uh oh. I can’t tell him what I did… ' "I..." His throat tightened, and he stayed silent, unable to explain how he’d blocked any alerts about his health from reaching his brother to avoid burdening Kaizo.

Kaizo leaned forward, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in recognition.

He knew that avoidance, that flicker of guilt.

From Boboiboy's words, Fang thought he was a burden.

His brother was hiding from him. Kaizo’s chest ached, his scent deepening, richening with shame and fierce protectiveness all at once.

He let out a slow sigh, voice low but firm, his scent wrapping heavier around Fang like a vow. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I just want to know from now on. Anything… anything that happens to you, you tell me. No hiding. No pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Fang’s eyes widened. His heart pounded.

That scent—solid, grounding, protective—closed around him like it always had when he was younger.

Slowly, he whispered, “Okay.”

Kaizo gave a brief nod, satisfied. His scent loosened slightly, but it lingered around Fang, shielding him from the growing noise of the cafeteria.

For the first time since this rare act from his Abang, Fang let himself lean into it, just a fraction, careful not to let the sweetness of his own scent escape.

Because if Kaizo noticed—if his brother realized how badly his instincts craved that warmth—Fang wasn’t sure his fragile heart could bear the answer.

The two resumed eating in near silence. Fang’s spoon hovered as his emotions swirled beneath the surface—hesitant, wary—but he felt comforted by Kaizo’s presence, the care that radiated from him in small gestures: the way he passed the water, adjusted the soup closer, kept glancing down to ensure Fang was managing.

Kaizo, for his part, felt a protective tension knotting his shoulders. His mind replayed the mission, the knowledge that someone powerful and twisted was out there still free and after his little brother.

And yet, the most important thing—the only thing he wanted to focus on now—was Fang. If he can eat, if he can rest, if he can feel safe… that’s victory enough, for now.

Their scents spoke as much as their silence. Kaizo’s alpha scent—iron and cedarwood, underscored with jasmine—expanded in steady pulses, shielding Fang from the cafeteria’s noise.

It was a subconscious pack claim, his instincts reaching out to cocoon his omega brother.

Fang’s scent flickered faintly beneath the herbal neutrality he forced around himself, sweet carrots and lavender trembling at the edges, yearning to respond.

He buried it quickly, masking the softness, but Kaizo still caught the faintest thread—weak, tired, but there.

The cafeteria had long since quieted, the rush of clattering trays and chatter replaced by the low hum of air recyclers and the occasional hiss of the doors. The faint tang of sterilized steel mixed with the lingering aromas of their meal—savory broth, citrus glaze, the faint crisp of roasted vegetables.

Kaizo rose smoothly, collecting the plates with his usual silent efficiency, when they finished eating. “Alright, Pang,” his voice was soft, the words almost coaxing, “I will put these away, take your medicine.”

Fang’s eyelids drooped, but he nodded faintly. His voice, fragile but obedient, carried just enough sound to be heard. “Okay, Captain.”

While Kaizo stepped away to return the trays, Fang slipped the bitter capsules into his mouth, washing them down with the last cool sip of water Kaizo had left him. The familiar heaviness began almost immediately—like fog pulling at his limbs, softening his focus. 'Ugh… why does this always hit me so hard…?'

By the time Kaizo returned, Fang was already slumping, his small body swaying with the weight of drowsiness. His head bobbed up and down.

Kaizo’s lips quirked into a rare, quiet smile. A small, affectionate snort escaped him. 'Still the same stubborn Pang… always fought sleep like it was an enemy.'

Memories stirred—Fang as a seven-year-old boy, cheeks flushed, muttering about “stupid medicine” while fighting desperately to keep his eyes open. How Kaizo would sit beside him then, reading reports with one hand while the other combed through Fang’s hair until he surrendered to sleep.

Lowering himself beside Fang now, Kaizo gently guided him until the boy’s head came to rest in his lap. Fang, half-conscious, yielded without resistance. His small frame curled naturally into the motion, cheek pressing against Kaizo’s thigh.

The moment Fang inhaled, he relaxed further. The faint, familiar alpha scent clinging to Kaizo—sharpened iron, cedarwood softened by jasmine—wrapped around him like a blanket. Instinctively, his omega nature leaned toward it, soaking in the grounding presence. His body loosened, the protective scent blanketing him in safety, in belonging.

A faint sigh slipped from Fang’s lips as he nestled deeper, lashes fluttering. His own scent—carrots and lavender, gentle and sweet—rose faintly, unguarded now that sleep tugged him down. It blended with Kaizo’s without resistance, weaving together in the quiet air like threads of pack bond reforged.

Kaizo caught it immediately. The fragrance stirred something tight in his chest, a primal recognition: his little brother, his Pang. The alpha in him growled low, content, protective. His hand found Fang’s hair, combing gently through the strands.

Fang’s mind, foggy with medicine, whispered sleepily. 'He’s here… he’s really here…' Every brush of Kaizo’s fingers through his hair solidified that thought. He let his arms fall loosely, not from weakness, but from trust. His body melted fully into Kaizo’s lap, carried by the certainty of pack safety, of his Abang’s vow written in scent and touch.

'I don’t want this to end. I want this to last. I want him to always stay like this…' Fang’s chest ached with the thought, even as his body slackened into sleep. His omega instincts purred against Kaizo’s scent, seeking more—more warmth, more proof that he wasn’t a burden. 'If only I could keep this… even if it’s only now…'

Kaizo’s gaze softened, shadows of guilt threading beneath the joy. 'How many times did I let this slip away? How many times did I leave him waiting, convinced duty mattered more than moments like this? I was too blind. Too cold. And yet—he still trusts me. Still lets me be the one he rests on.'

Fang shifted again, a sleepy murmur escaping as his scent deepened, lavender-carrot notes blooming stronger with his vulnerability. Kaizo inhaled, steadying himself against the surge of warmth in his chest. He bent slightly, his voice barely above a whisper, his scent pressing heavier, a promise. “Pang… my little Pang…”

The word came unbidden, soft and possessive, his alpha instincts wrapping around Fang in a silent vow: I will protect you. Always.

And with it came the oath Kaizo had carved into himself, the same one Boboiboy carried. Neither of them would ever push Fang into anything he didn’t want. Never again would Fang be forced to carry burdens beyond what he chose. Their role was to shield, to steady, to walk beside him. Fang’s path was his own, and Kaizo would tear apart anyone who tried to twist it otherwise.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Kaizo allowed himself to simply be—no missions, no reports, no shadows of war. Just the quiet rise and fall of Fang’s breathing, the delicate warmth of his small body curled into him, the intoxicating blend of their scents weaving together like home.

His hand continued its steady rhythm, combing Fang’s hair, brushing the back of his neck in soothing patterns. Fang’s face smoothed into serene sleep, trust written across every soft line.

Kaizo leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, his scent anchoring Fang in quiet reassurance. 'I’ll make up for it. Every missed moment, every absence. Starting now. Starting here. You’ll never think you’re a burden again, Pang… Not while I’m here.'

Fang, caught between sleep and awareness, clung faintly to the rhythm of those fingers in his hair, to the warmth pressing into his cheek, to the scent that was wholly Kaizo. 'Please… don’t go away. Please don’t let this stop. If this is a dream, don’t wake me. If this is real, let it last just a little longer… just a little more.'

The world outside stirred—faint footsteps, voices echoing down the hall—but none of it touched them. For this rare sliver of time, they existed in a quiet bubble of pack instinct and bond, alpha and omega woven close, their hearts bound in the scents and promises that said more than words ever could.

Kaizo let the silence settle, his hand never leaving Fang’s hair, guarding him fiercely in the most tender way. 

Fang shifted once more in his sleep, his small body nuzzling deeper into Kaizo’s lap, face brushing against the alpha’s thigh.

The faint sound that escaped him was unexpected—a soft, rumbling vibration from deep in his chest.

A purr.

Kaizo froze, hand stilling mid-stroke in Fang’s hair. His chest tightened, the low sound stirring every protective instinct he had. Omegas only purred when they were at their safest, when instincts overrode fear and hesitation. His Pang… was surrendering to him. Trusting him so much that the barriers slipped, and his true scent blossomed.

The lavender-and-carrot fragrance surged fully this time, sweet and mellow, curling into Kaizo’s cedar-and-jasmine like threads seeking anchor. Kaizo inhaled deeply, his heart lurching with something primal. His alpha rumbled in response, low and steady, reinforcing the bond. Protect. Shelter.

But then—

Beneath Fang’s raw scent, another trace lingered. Sunlight and cinnamon. Kaizo’s sharp senses picked it up immediately, buried faintly in the fibers of Fang’s clothes. His eyes flicked down—dark orange hoodie, far too big on Fang’s slight frame. It wasn’t his. It wasn’t from him.

It was Boboiboy’s.

Kaizo’s jaw tightened, the alpha in him bristling with a wave of possessive anger before he could stop it. His teeth clenched, nostrils flaring as instincts snarled inside him. He had noticed it before—when he first saw Fang in that oversized hoodie, the scent of another alpha clinging to his brother like a silent challenge. He had forced himself to ignore it, pushing it aside with rational thoughts. 'It’s just clothing. Just comfort. Nothing more.'

But now, with Fang curled against him, purring, his true omega scent unguarded and vulnerable, the contrast was unbearable. His instincts roared at him, translating that lingering sunlight-and-cinnamon trace in the only way they knew how.

A courtship attempt.

Another alpha daring to brand what Kaizo’s blood pack-the one he sworn to protect.

His brother.

Logic whispered through the storm—' It’s just a hoodie. Fang probably grabbed it for warmth. Boboiboy probably gave it without thinking.'

But instincts drowned it out with a snarl: He let another alpha’s scent cling to him. He let Fang carry it. To Kaizo’s primal senses, it was no different than a claim.

His fingers curled tightly into his thigh, fighting the surge. Fang’s soft purr against his lap cut through the haze, reminding him—Fang wasn’t doing this on purpose. He wasn’t even aware. He was just small, tired, and wearing whatever comfort he could find. He hadn’t chosen another alpha over him. He hadn’t.

Still, Kaizo couldn’t allow it.

His instincts would not allow it.

Quietly, carefully, Kaizo shifted his hold. He unfastened his captain’s jacket, the fabric carrying his scent thick and unmistakable.

With deliberate care, he draped it over Fang’s upper body, covering the hoodie, smothering the rival scent beneath a stronger, alpha claim.

The reaction was instant.

Fang let out another faint purr, deeper this time, his scent curling tighter around Kaizo’s as if soothed by the change.

His little body relaxed fully, fingers twitching faintly before settling against the fabric that smelled of home—of his older brother.

Kaizo’s jaw unclenched, a slow breath slipping free. His instincts settled, possessive growl fading into a low hum of satisfaction.

The unwanted scent was buried now, replaced by his own—protective, grounding, anchoring Fang where he belonged.

He brushed Fang’s hair back from his forehead, watching the boy sleep, the blend of scents and the steady rhythm of Fang’s purrs in his lap, eased him fully.

But even as his alpha instincts purred with satisfaction, Kaizo’s rational side stirred uneasily.

He knew what he’d done.

He knew what it meant—covering his brother with his own scent, overwriting another’s.

He knew he was toeing the line between protective and possessive.

And yet, as Fang shifted closer, trusting him even in unconsciousness, Kaizo couldn’t regret it.

He didn’t.

It’s just a hoodie, logic whispered again.

No, his alpha growled, possessive and absolute. It was a claim. And I’ve taken it back.

Though unnoticed on the side.

A quiet figure lingered at the far end of the cafeteria, tray in hand, posture loose in the practiced sprawl of someone half-engaged in conversation.

To anyone watching, they were just another agent among many—sharing a muted laugh, murmuring back a line about the mission’s outcome, nodding at the right times.

Their fork tapped idly against the plate, eyes shifting with just enough rhythm to seem invested in the chatter around them.

But in truth, their gaze never strayed far from the corner table.

Kaizo sat there, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, his protective aura unmistakable. Fang was nestled against him, small and fever-flushed, curled into his brother’s lap beneath the drape of a captain’s jacket. His cheek rested on Kaizo’s thigh, his breathing soft, his frame trembling faintly even in sleep.

A picture of safety, of tenderness.

A picture that made the figure’s pulse hum with restless intent.

'So that’s why he wasn’t on the field. Sick. Drugged into passivity. Fragile.'

It explained everything—the absence during Drosk’s pathetic display, the wasted chance.

The memory curled bile in the figure’s throat, a twitch tugging at the scar cutting through their brow.

'All that work. All that planning. And what did that lumbering beast do? Waste. Waste, waste, waste.'

A power sphere they had amplified themselves, refined to peak output, placed into his filthy claws—and what did he produce?

Nothing. Less than nothing.

A failed equation.

A rotting sample.

The figure’s fork scraped against porcelain, sharp enough to raise a glance or two before they softened it, painting a pleasant smile across their lips for the agent speaking across from them.

Behind it, their thoughts spun into jagged, spiraling patterns.

Drosk was only ever a carrier.

A vector.

A dumb vessel meant to deliver the true specimen.

Of course, he was unworthy of wielding brilliance.

That’s why the spider was necessary.

The figure could still hear the crunch of its steel limbs, the whirring bite of its segmented body, the hiss of its toxin-laced strike. Drosk’s panic, the gargled roar as their creation sank fangs into that fool—it was exquisite.

Clinical.

A failed hypothesis terminated by the perfect control variable.

But Fang—ah, Fang was no failure.

Fang was the constant.

Even half-drugged, fever-slick, the Shadow Watch pulsed faintly against his wrist, calling, whispering, promising.

That device, that fusion of alien circuitry and flesh-born will—the boy bent shadows into cages, into claws, into living systems. He bent absence into presence.

Oh yes, yes, yes, that was potential.

That was art.

That was genesis.

Not wasted on some brute, not dulled in mediocrity—here, in him, it sang.

Through Fang, there would be more. Entire legions of perfected vessels. New children. Subjects. Iterations. 'My experiments,' the figure’s mind whispered, pulse racing.

An empire, not of thugs, but of design.

A species built, not born.

A species improved.

A new civilization—shadowborn, obedient, flawless.

Their gaze lingered on Fang as he shifted in Kaizo’s lap, a faint purr vibrating from his chest. 'Ahhh, listen… listen to that,' the figure thought feverishly, nails pressing into their palm beneath the table.

An omega’s purr. A resonance of safety, of trust, of bond.

And Fang… such a pretty omega. Too pretty. Too soft. Wasted on pack affection and sentimentality.

His face—delicate, finely cut, flushed with fever—was beauty begging to be dissected, to be preserved, to be immortalized. Not beauty for its own sake. No. Beauty as specimen. Beauty as proof of concept. To peel him open, to see the coding of his flesh, to splice it, to replicate it.

And beneath the cold clinical itch was something warmer, darker. 'Soft skin. Fragile bones. The curve of a body not yet realized.' Lust tangled with invention until the lines blurred.

Not a desire for a partner.

No.

It was a desire for a vessel. A perfect omega body, pliant, and helpless.

Their fork pressed harder against the plate again before they caught themselves, easing, chuckling softly at a joke they hadn’t heard.

Outwardly, just another weary agent.

Inwardly, a storm of spiraling equations and fever-bright longing.

Yes… It would be easier now. A sick omega meant lowered defenses. Slowed reflexes. And Kaizo—foolish, dutiful Rebel Captain—could not watch him forever.

Wait until the shield was gone.

Wait until Fang could walk again.

Wait until he thought himself safe.

Then the cage could be slipped around him like silk.

Then the vivisection could begin. The replication. The breeding of shadows into form. The birth of a new order, born from his flesh, his blood, the little omega's womb.

The scar across their brow caught in the cafeteria light as their lips curved faintly, and their mind whispered, reverent and unhinged:

'Soon, Fang. Soon, you’ll be mine. Your watch, your shadows, your body, your blood—all of it. One of my spiders has already erased one failure, and they will erase more if needed. Through you, my work will thrive. Through you, my children will rise. You are wasted here, rotting in their arms. But with me… with me, you’ll ascend. With me, you’ll become eternal. The first, the foundation. The masterpiece.'

With Boboiboy And The Others After Kaizo Snuck Away

The hangar was tense, the metallic clang of machinery and the hum of landing thrusters echoing off high ceilings. Commander Kokoci, short and green-skinned, his square head glinting under the lights, adjusted his sunglasses with a sharp click. His piercing gaze swept over the group—Yaya, Ying, Gopal, Sai, Shielda, the twins, Laphap, and Boboiboy—with unyielding scrutiny.

“So,” Kokoci began, voice clipped, “your mission was scheduled to last one week. One week! And yet, somehow, you finish it in… a few hours?”

The two packs shifted uneasily, the weight of his voice pressing down on them.

Both Alphas, Boboiboy and Laphap, instinctively straightened—shoulders squared, jaws tight—though for different reasons. Boboiboy’s pulse raced, his Alpha instincts prickling with frustration and worry, while Laphap’s calm discipline kept his presence measured, a steady counterbalance. Around them, the Betas instinctively mirrored the tension, eyes flicking toward the Alphas for guidance.

The moment they’d landed, Captain-fucking-Kaizo had slipped away, leaving the packs to weather Kokoci’s wrath alone.

Boboiboy’s fists clenched at his sides, teeth grinding. His Alpha instincts burned like fire in his chest. 'That guy… leaving us here to deal with Kokoci. He’s probably already heading toward Fang. Just wait until I get my hands on you.'

Sai hissed low, the sound of a Beta’s irritation. “Typical Kaizo… always doing what he wants…”

Kokoci’s sunglasses reflected the hangar lights as he leaned forward slightly, voice sharp. “Do you have any explanation for how you managed to finish so quickly? Or are you all just relying on luck now?”

The Betas exchanged glances, but none spoke. They felt the pressure of command, but waited—half out of instinct, half out of habit—for the Alphas to take the lead.

Ying opened her mouth, but Boboiboy’s growl cut her off—not aloud, but low in his throat, suppressed. His mind was too distracted. 'Luck? No… We fought hard. But now, the Rebel Captain is gone, off to find Fang while we’re stuck here, it should have been me who went…'

Across the group, Gopal’s eyes widened, catching the same thought. 'Well...with a madman out there, one who wants Fang for his own twisted reasons… Mister older brother won’t ignore that.'

Boboiboy’s jaw tightened, chest burning with a possessive ache. His Alpha instincts twisted, half from anger, half from something else—something raw and protective. 'I can’t just sit here. I need to make sure Fang’s okay. I can’t let anything happen to him.'

The twins muttered in unison, Beta voices sharp with annoyance: “Damn him… leaving us to handle Kokoci while he goes running off to Fang…” Their words trailed into silence because even Betas felt the pull of protecting the youngest.

Lahap, Kaizo’s right-hand and the other Alpha, kept a carefully neutral expression. His instincts bristled with irritation at Kaizo’s absence, but under it was reluctant understanding. 'Leaving us to face the heat… but I get it. Fang’s involved. Kaizo’s heart’s in the right place. And… Fang is vulnerable. The two packs can’t afford to lose him.'

Kokoci tapped a clawed finger against the console. “I expect a detailed report. Every action. Every deviation. Every… mishap.” His clipped tone sliced through the hangar like a blade, forcing even the Betas to lower their eyes.

But beneath the weight of Kokoci’s authority, the undercurrent was clear. Pack instincts churned under the surface: the Alphas biting down their growls, the Betas pressing their frustration into tense silence. Every thought converged on Fang—the fragile member, small and sick, who carried the weight of being targeted by something far worse than Kokoci’s wrath.

And Kaizo, reckless and impossible, had gone to him.

Boboiboy’s growl stayed locked in his chest, his instincts vibrating at the edge of breaking. 'Damn him… leaving us here for Kokoci… but damn it, he’s gone to Fang. I can’t just… do nothing.'

The clangs of machinery echoed in the hangar like the pounding of blood in their ears, but no one dared break the silence. The packs braced under Kokoci’s scrutiny, but all of them—Alphas and Betas alike—knew where their real focus lay.

Fang.

Commander Kokoci’s office was dim, the blinds half-drawn over the starfield outside. The faint hum of consoles filled the silence, mixed with the buzz of overworked circuits. The sharp scent of scorched alloy from the team’s armor clung faintly in the air.

Kokoci sat behind his desk, small but solid as a block of iron, arms crossed. His sunglasses reflected the holo-display that floated above the desk, mission logs flickering.

The packs stood opposite him, uneasy but instinctively aligned. The two Alphas—Boboiboy and Laphap—took the front position, squared shoulders and tight jaws betraying the weight of Kokoci’s stare.

The Betas arrayed themselves behind them, their subtle body language broadcasting stress—Yaya with her fists clenched at her sides, Ying keeping still and controlled, Gopal fidgeting, Shielda’s tail swaying like a pendulum, the twins whispering in unison under their breath.

Even after fighting through Drosk’s fortress, Kokoci’s scrutiny weighed heavier than the battle.

Kokoci drew in a deep breath before saying, “Repeat your report for me one more time.”

Sai, Beta-steady as always, stepped forward. “Mission Dreamweave Retrieval. The objective was to secure DreamweaveBot and neutralize hostiles. Infiltration was through the East Conduit. Yaya cloaked the recovery team, Boboiboy created a diversion with his Duo Split, Ying used stasis to—”

Kokoci cut him off with a sharp sniff. “One week of planning, and you storm through it in a few hours? That discipline? Or just luck?”

His tone was sharp, but not cruel. More like a teacher catching his students cutting corners than an executioner’s blade.

Sai didn’t flinch. His Beta steadiness made him immune to dominance pressure. “Adaptation, sir. No casualties. Objectives achieved. Drosk was captured by Captain Kaizo, though the captain left to check on Fang after we landed in HQ.”

At that, Kokoci’s jaw tightened. His fingers tapped against the desk, his voice dropping lower, rough with something unsaid. “Of course he did…”

Sai stepped back. Shielda pushed forward next, presenting herself with Beta confidence. “On the front line, Kaizo and Boboiboy held Drosk and freed DreamweaveBot. Frostfire and Supra pushed him back. Meanwhile, the rest of us held off the husks outside. Non-lethal. No reinforcements broke through.”

Kokoci sighed, leaning back. “Two fusions in one fight. Do you know what kind of strain that puts on a body? You’re lucky you’re not in med-bay beds right now. Still…” His voice softened. “…you pulled it off. Better than most squads I’ve seen.”

Relief flickered through the Betas like a ripple, loosening tension. Yaya’s fists unclenched, Ying’s eyes softened, and even Gopal let out a shaky breath. But both Alphas remained rigid—Boboiboy restless with smoldering instinct, Laphap calm but heavy, his presence anchoring the group.

Then Laphap stepped forward. His Alpha steadiness filled the silence. “Sir, Drosk was restrained but was killed before we could extract information. A mechanical spider struck him. Autonomy suspected. Instant kill. We retrieved the device.”

Shielda moved in sync with him, drawing out a reinforced cube-like container, its surface dark alloy veined with glowing blue highlights. Inside, suspended, was the spider itself—its legs curled tight, crystalline fangs glinting. Though it was dead it filled them with a creepy sense like it was watching them.

The office went still.

Kokoci leaned forward, lowering his sunglasses to glance directly at the container. “A spider? So someone tied up loose ends before we could question him.” His voice shifted, weight growing heavier. “Which means this wasn’t about Drosk at all.”

He sat back, sunglasses sliding into place again. “And Kaizo isn’t here to explain… because he’s with Fang.”

The air in the room thickened, instincts rippling through the packs. Everyone felt the pull of that truth. Fang who was targeted—weak, sick, already vulnerable.

Boboiboy’s Alpha instincts surged. He could feel the urge to step forward, to claim, to do something—anything—but he held it down. Laphap’s steadiness pressed against the tension like a counterweight, silently commanding patience.

Laphap spoke again, his tone measured. “There’s more. Captain Kaizo found a communicator in Drosk’s fortress. It was partially corrupted. He kept it—still has it on his person. It may connect to whoever sent the spider.”

Kokoci’s jaw worked. He rubbed his temple with one clawed finger, exhaling slow. “…So. This mission wasn’t just about DreamweaveBot. It was a distraction. Pulling TAPOPS’ eyes away from its own halls, while the real target was Fang.”

His voice dropped into something deeper, heavier. “If someone wants him… then they’ll wait until he can walk on his own. And Kaizo knows it.”

The commander’s eyes sharpened behind his glasses, he sent a message to Ochobot summoning him urgently.

In a few seconds he got an instant replay saying; On my way, Commander!

As they waited, Kokoci’s tone shifted again, gaze sweeping the pack. “You did well. Don’t mistake me—I’m glad you’re all standing here. But rushing through missions like that leaves cracks for enemies to slip through. Next time, you don’t gamble with your own necks. Clear?”

The Betas nodded in near unison, the packs instinctively falling into line. Yaya’s shoulders dropped, Ying allowed herself a breath, even Shielda softened her rigid stance. Boboiboy’s Alpha instincts simmered, but Laphap’s presence kept him from snapping out of turn.

The door slid open with a hiss, and Ochobot floated in, sensors glowing bright. “Reporting, Commander Kokoci!”

Kokoci tapped a console, pulling a containment case onto the desk. The lid opened with a hiss, revealing DreamweaveBot’s dormant frame. Its crystalline patterns shimmered faintly, pulsing like veins of light.

The two packs froze. None of them had seen Kokoci take it earlier from Boboiboy during the chaos, but there it was, sealed in TAPOPS containment.

Kokoci pressed a sequence on his wrist, and DreamweaveBot’s systems hummed. Its single optic flickered to life, casting a pale glow across the office. “This… is what Drosk built his army with. And now it’s with us.” He glanced at Ochobot. “Interface. Carefully. Awake it so the Power Sphere can tell us what it knows.”

Ochobot hesitated, turning toward him. “Commander… DreamweaveBot’s systems are… unusual. If I awake—”

Kokoci cut him off gently. “Then maybe we finally learn who wanted Drosk silenced. And maybe we figure out what danger Fang is really in.”

He gestured sharply. “Activate it. Now.”

DreamweaveBot’s optic flared brighter, the room filling with a low, resonant hum.

The two packs instinctively stiffened—Alphas bracing, Betas holding their ground—every instinct screaming that something unseen had just stirred awake.

Chapter Text

Boboiboy blinked into the void, his breath uneven. Nothing—only endless blackness. No walls, no floor, no sky.

“Where… am I?” His voice cracked, echoing too loudly in the emptiness. His own heartbeat filled the silence, frantic and uneven. He spun, searching, but there was nothing—no ground beneath his feet. Just a void, ready to swallow him whole.

Then—light.

The darkness peeled back like paint washing away, and suddenly, he was standing in his room. Too vivid, too real. Warm air carried the familiar scent of home, cinnamon and sunlight radiating faintly from his own skin, grounding him.

But then another scent cut through the air. Lavender. Sweet carrots. A scent he knew too well, too deeply—one that pulled at something instinctive inside him. His chest tightened.

Fang.

“...Boboiboy.”

The voice trembled, soft but clear. He turned—

—and froze.

Fang stood before him, visor and gloves gone, stripped of his usual armor. His cheeks were flushed pink, his eyes avoiding Boboiboy’s gaze.

Boboiboy’s eyes dragged over him, helpless, every breath stuttering in his throat.

Fang shifted his weight uncertainly, bunny ears that seemed attached to his head twitching faintly, lavender-and-carrot scent saturating the air. The uniform clung to him—a maid outfit, but unlike anything Boboiboy had ever seen outside of embarrassing daydreams.

The bodice was a glossy black, cut close to his slim frame, laced tight across his chest with pale lilac ribbons that gleamed faintly when they caught the light. The neckline dipped just enough to reveal the delicate lines of his collarbones, and the fabric scooped wide, leaving his shoulders bare and glowing faintly pink against the air.

Short puffed sleeves hung uselessly at the edge of his arms, more decoration than cover, making the naked expanse of skin across his shoulders and throat feel even more exposed. A ruffled choker of soft white lace circled his neck, the ribbon tied into a small bow at his throat.

From his waist spilled a layered skirt, black trimmed with crisp white lace, flaring just long enough to brush the tops of his thighs. The hem swayed with his every nervous shift, showing dangerous glimpses of the garters hugging his upper thighs.

Below, long black stockings climbed his legs—silken, shining, hugging lean muscle and pale skin in equal measure. The contrast was dizzying. As Fang's feet shifted against the floor, the stockings pulling taut, whispering faintly with movement, the effect was unbearably fragile and suggestive all at once.

A tiny apron, uselessly small, was tied snug at his waist, the bow at the small of his back trembling as his hands fidgeted against the skirt.

Boboiboy’s throat worked, dry. He could barely breathe, every Alpha instinct screaming as Fang’s scent poured thicker, flooding like sweet smoke. Omega. Soft. Waiting. Vulnerable.

Fang’s eyes flicked up once, only for an instant, before darting away again. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came—just the faint tremble of his shoulders, the way his bunny ears drooped, betraying his unease.

And Boboiboy’s instincts surged, fierce and unrelenting.

Mine.

Every thread of his being locked onto the boy before him—not just the costume, but the trembling Omega scent wrapped around it. And with each breath, the fragile picture carved itself deeper into his mind, impossible to ignore, impossible to resist.

Fang finally lifted his gaze, crimson eyes shimmering. His lips parted, hesitant. “…Do you… like it?”

Boboiboy’s control snapped like a thread.

In two strides, his arms were around Fang, crushing him to his chest. Fang gasped at the sudden contact, his scent spiking, and his body melted into Boboiboy’s hold almost instinctively, his warmth spreading into Boboiboy’s skin like fire. Their faces hovered so close now—barely inches.

Boboiboy could feel Fang’s breath ghosting against his lips, hot and uneven. In his arms, Fang’s body trembled, his heartbeat a frantic drum that matched his own.

Fang’s fists curled into his shirt, trembling but neither pushing nor pulling—just holding on.

“Bunny…” Boboiboy rasped, voice low and edged with growl. “What are you trying to do to me?”

Fang’s blush deepened, his voice trembling but carrying something sly beneath the shyness. “I… wanted to surprise you.”

The words clawed at Boboiboy’s chest, feeding his instincts until they howled. His grip tightened, his hands moving, tracing the lines of Fang’s back, memorizing the heat of his skin through the thin fabric.

Every tiny shiver Fang gave under his touch made his head spin. 'Mine. Don’t you know you’re mine?'

“…And what a wonderful surprise it is,” Boboiboy whispered, his lips grazing Fang’s ear, “…But tell me, bunny. What exactly were you planning with this surprise?”

Fang’s lashes fluttered. His omega instincts betrayed him—shoulders dipping, head tilting faintly to expose more of his throat, a submissive cue he didn’t even realize he’d given. Fang gave the smallest, slyest smile—blush still painting his cheeks, but eyes daring, sparking. A smile so beautiful, Boboiboy felt his restraint crumble.“…To be taken, by you, my Alpha.”

The word detonated inside Boboiboy.

A sound ripped from his throat—half-growl, half-gasp—as he slammed his lips against Fang’s.

Fang’s startled gasp was swallowed into the kiss, his body stiff for only a heartbeat before he melted, clutching Boboiboy’s shirt desperately, dragging him closer.

The kiss deepened instantly, frantic, consuming. Fang’s lips were soft, pliant, giving way to him, and Boboiboy ate him greedily.

He tilted his head, angling for more, parting Fang’s lips further—until he tasted it. Sweet, faintly spiced. Carrot donuts. The flavor spread across his tongue, mingling with Fang’s warmth, and Boboiboy nearly lost himself to it.

Every moan Fang made vibrated against his lips, feeding the fire inside him. His eyes fluttered open briefly, just to watch. To drink in every twitch of Fang’s face—the way his lashes quivered, the way his brows pinched when the kiss grew too deep, the way his lips trembled before yielding again. Each reaction made Boboiboy’s hunger sharpen, made him kiss harder, deeper, greedier.

The scent of lavender wrapped tighter around him, dizzying, drugging. The sound of Fang’s muffled moans filled his ears, sweeter than anything. The heat of Fang’s body burned against his chest, shivering and yielding under his hands. Every sense screamed the same truth. 'Mine. Only mine.'

His hands roamed lower, tracing Fang’s waist, his hips, until they reached his thighs. Boboiboy’s pulse hammered harder.

Without parting the kiss, he tightened his grip and, in one smooth motion, lifted Fang off the ground. 

Fang squeaked into his mouth, legs instinctively curling, arms wrapping tight around Boboiboy’s neck. The sound made Boboiboy’s chest ache with raw satisfaction. He didn’t break the kiss, didn’t let Fang breathe free, as he pressed forward and pinned him against the wall.

His omega scent spiked wildly, lavender and carrots flooding the air, sweet and dizzying.

Boboiboy’s scent flared in answer, cinnamon and sunlight burning warm and strong, wrapping Fang in the protective, commanding aura of his Alpha.

The mix clung to them, binding them, thickening the air until every breath screamed bond.

Fang, trapped between the wall and Boboiboy’s body, legs trembling around him. His lips were still caught, still being devoured, every helpless moan spilling into Boboiboy’s mouth as if he’d already surrendered completely, feeding the fire that only burned hotter, greedier.

His hands pressed weakly at Boboiboy’s chest—not to push away, but shaking with overwhelm. His crimson eyes shimmered dazed and wide, pupils blown open in pure Omega instinct, his body pliant and trembling in his Alpha’s hold.

Boboiboy cupped Fang’s flushed face, thumb brushing over red blush, pulling back just enough to force air between them.

Their ragged breaths clashed, foreheads pressed together, the air thick with suffocating scent—cinnamon-sunlight, sharp and grounding, pressing heavy over lavender and carrots, rich and sweet, instinct screaming claim, yield, belong.

Fang’s chest heaved, lips swollen and trembling, sweat glimmering at his temple. The maid uniform clung to him with every breath, frilled skirt brushing along his thighs, black stockings stretched thin and torn under Boboiboy’s grip. The stupid, humiliating bunny ears drooped from the force of the kiss, trembling with every shiver of his body. Fang’s blush burned down his neck, and that only made Boboiboy’s chest rumble with satisfaction.

'With those beautiful red crimson eyes—wet, dazed jewels—locked onto me. How… how am I supposed to resist this?'

“Boboiboy…” Fang whispered, lashes fluttering, voice fragile. Then—almost against his will, lips betraying him—the word slipped out, soft and trembling. “…Alpha.”

The world stopped.

That single word, paired with Fang’s flushed face, frills and ears trembling atop his head, shattered the last of Boboiboy’s restraint. A growl rumbled from his chest, primal, possessive. His mouth crashed back down on Fang’s with brutal force, devouring him.

This kiss was nothing like before—fiercer, rougher, suffocatingly possessive. Fang gasped into it, startled, his hands pressing weakly against Boboiboy’s chest, a pitiful, overwhelmed attempt at space.

But Boboiboy caught those wrists easily, tearing loose the delicate ribbons from Fang’s apron and winding them tight, binding him behind his back.

Fang whimpered against the ruthless kiss, frills brushing against the wall as he struggled, shame flooding his cheeks. Helpless—an Omega in a costume, tied and suspended—he was completely at his Alpha’s mercy.

The other hand stayed firm beneath Fang’s thighs, holding him up with ease. His legs clung tighter around Boboiboy’s waist, stockings straining, body arching as choked moans spilled unbidden into the Alpha’s mouth. His bunny ears twitched pitifully, betraying every humiliated shiver.

Boboiboy broke from the kiss just long enough to rasp against Fang’s lips, voice dripping with hunger and reverence.

“Look at you… dressed up like this. My Omega, in a little maid dress and bunny ears—so beautiful, so perfect. Do you have any idea how breathtaking you are right now? Lucky me.”

Fang’s breath hitched, crimson eyes squeezing shut as if the words themselves overwhelmed him. His face burned hotter, his chest tightened, and his body only trembled harder, pressing closer.

Boboiboy’s smirk softened into something darker, possessive. His voice rumbled low.

“You always try to hide behind that scowl, hm? But no one else gets to see this side of you. No one else sees you blushing, trembling, clinging so tightly like you can’t let go. Only me. Only your Alpha.”

Fang whimpered, ears twitching uncontrollably. His lips parted with a broken sound, “…A-Alpha…” but even his protest melted into a desperate gasp.

“That’s right,” Boboiboy murmured, his teeth brushing Fang’s jaw, his scent pouring over him in warm, heavy waves. “This outfit, these ears—they make you mine. My Omega. My Bunny. The one I’ll cherish, claim, protect. And you’ll let me, won’t you?”

Fang shuddered, instinct clawing through him until surrender was all he had left. His lips trembled, words spilling like a plea. “…Yes, Alpha.”

That answer undid Boboiboy completely. His mouth crashed against Fang’s again, kisses hungry but reverent, swallowing every whimper and broken moan.

Fang melted into lace, ribbons, and twitching ears, surrendering in the aching need to be wanted, adored, claimed.

And Boboiboy—his Alpha—praised, cherished, and held him like he was a treasure that could never be replaced.

“So good for me, bunny,” Boboiboy breathed against Fang’s swollen lips, voice rough with devotion. Not a question—an oath, a promise. His brown eyes burned bright in the dim light, merciless in their focus. A predator worshipping his only prey.

Fang’s lashes fluttered, crimson eyes blurred with tears. His lips trembled as a whisper escaped: “P-please…”

His body betrayed him beautifully—legs tightening instinctively around Boboiboy’s waist, pulling him closer, begging without words.

Boboiboy smiled, his scent rolling heavier, sunlight and cinnamon flooding the room until it clung to every breath. “So perfect,” he murmured, pressing forward with aching patience, drawing a broken gasp. “…my body craves you too. My perfect Omega.”

The kiss that followed was slower, deeper, reverent. Fang whimpered into it, helpless, the sound trembling and sweet. Every muffled cry was his. Every twitch of bound wrists was proof that he was already cherished, already claimed.

When Boboiboy pulled back, Fang was trembling on the wall, crimson eyes hazy, rabbit ears flickering with overstimulation. The maid’s outfit clung to him, skirt riding high, frilled apron torn, stockings ripped where Boboiboy’s hands had held him. The ribbons at his wrists were no longer chains—they were marks of devotion, of surrender.

But Boboiboy wasn’t done.

With a low growl, he pressed Fang on the wall more firmly, hips grinding forward with unmistakable intent. The movement drew a sharp gasp from Fang, his bound wrists straining, back arching instinctively to meet him.

'So perfect like this,' Boboiboy thought savagely, his scent thickening. 'Bound. Trembling. Dressed like a dream. Mine forever.'

His lips dragged along Fang’s throat, lower, until he found the pale skin of his shoulder—exposed, vulnerable.

And he claimed it.

Teeth and lips marked the skin, sucking until dark blossoms bloomed against Fang’s shoulder, each hickey a brand, each one proof. Fang whimpered brokenly, body trembling with every pull, every bite softened by the warmth of Boboiboy’s tongue smoothing over the ache.

“Mine,” Boboiboy growled against his skin, voice rough, reverent. He kissed the fresh marks with almost desperate devotion before biting down again, determined to leave no doubt, no part of Fang untouched by him.

Fang’s crimson eyes fluttered shut, a shiver wracking his body as he gasped out, “A-Alpha—”

Boboiboy pushed harder against him, pinning him in lace and ribbons, every movement demanding surrender. His voice was a storm at Fang’s ear, low and unrelenting:

“My treasure. My Omega. My Bunny. I’ll cover you in my marks until there’s no space left. Until the whole world knows you’re mine.”

He dragged Fang from the wall and tossed him onto the bed. Fang gasped, a broken squeak escaping as the mattress bounced. His cheeks burned crimson as he scrambled—only to be shoved flat again by a palm against his chest.

“That heartbeat,” Boboiboy rumbled darkly, palm pressing into Fang’s racing chest. “That’s mine too. Every beat belongs to me.”

Fang whimpered, ears twitching violently, his voice cracking. “W-wait—Alpha—!”

But the words melted as his body betrayed him, legs wrapping instinctively around Boboiboy, heat rolling through him like wildfire. His Omega scent thickened, lavender and carrot sweet, clinging desperately to the storm that drowned it.

And at his throat, just above the trembling line of his pulse, the soft white lace of a choker was tied neatly into a bow. The sight made Boboiboy’s breath hitch, his storm growling hotter. A bow. His Omega, tied up like a gift, waiting for him to unwrap.

“You’re even wearing this for me,” he rasped, fingers sliding up to tug sharply at the lace until Fang gasped. “My beautiful bunny, wrapped up like a present. My present. Mine to claim.”

He leaned closer, sparks crawling under the hem of the maid’s dress, dancing arcs up Fang’s thighs. Fang jolted with a cry, thighs trembling against the frills of his uniform. “Alpha—p-please!”

“Please, what, my beautiful bunny?” Boboiboy’s voice was molten, reverent even as it growled. He shoved Fang harder into the mattress, yanking at the bow of the choker, pulling Fang’s throat taut. “You don’t even realize how perfect you are like this. Ears twitching, tied up in ribbons, legs wrapped tight around me. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Fang’s crimson eyes blurred with tears, chest heaving. “I-I can’t—”

“You can.” Boboiboy’s storm pressed harder, his weight sinking Fang deep into the bed, every line of his body unyielding. He cupped Fang’s jaw gently, forcing his gaze up. “Because you’re mine. Strong. Beautiful. Perfect. And this bow around your throat proves it—you’re already bound to me.”

Fang sobbed helplessly, wrists straining uselessly against the binds, ears twitching against the pillow. “A-Alpha…”

“Say it,” Boboiboy ordered, voice thick with devotion. His lips crashed to Fang’s shoulder, sucking harshly until dark marks bloomed along pale skin, each one kissed after, each one worshipped. His grip on the bow pulled again, choking a sweet gasp from Fang’s lips. “Say you’re mine. My bunny. My treasure. My good boy.”

Fang cried out as BoBoiBoy dove for another bite, his body jolting helplessly. “I-I’m yours!” he sobbed, voice raw. “I’m your bunny—I’m your treasure—your good boy, Alpha—I’m yours!”

The words ripped from him like vows, aching and desperate.

Boboiboy growled against Fang’s skin satisfied as if branding the truth into him. “Good. That’s the truth. That’s all you are. My perfect bunny. My treasure. My Omega wrapped in lace and a bow, only for me.”

His mouth ravaged Fang’s throat again, biting deep just above the bow until another bruise bloomed, and he pressed his thumb against it, savoring the helpless cry it dragged out.

“Again,” Boboiboy practically ordered, tugging hard on the ribbon until the bow strained tight against Fang’s throat. “Say it again, louder. Until nothing else exists in that beautiful head of yours but me.”

Fang sobbed, crimson eyes glazed, his body trembling as the words spilled, cracked and trembling. “I’m yours! Your bunny, your treasure, your Omega—yours forever!”

A dark smile curved Boboiboy’s lips, storm scent rolling heavier, cinnamon and sunlight flooding Fang’s lungs until he drowned in it. “Good boy. Good bunny. My perfect Omega. My forever.”

Every word was a chain of devotion. Every kiss was a brand of worship.

“You’ll never be anything else,” Boboiboy whispered savagely, kissing the ribbon where it pressed to Fang’s throat. “Because you’re mine. My beautiful Omega. My bunny in lace. My good boy tied up in a bow just for me.”

Fang’s chest heaved, lips trembling, but the truth poured out like prayer. “Yes—Alpha—I’m yours—only yours—always yours—”

“That’s right,” Boboiboy growled, stroking his cheek with rough tenderness, the other hand still tugging possessively at the bow. “Say it until you believe it, my bunny. Until it’s carved into your soul.”

And Fang did. Again and again, words breaking into sobs, surrender turning into worship.

“I’m your bunny… your treasure… your Omega… your good boy… Alpha’s bunny… forever yours…”

Each vow left Fang trembling harder, softer, sweeter—his scent unraveling, lavender overwhelmed by cinnamon until nothing remained but belonging.

Boboiboy pressed his lips to the mark blooming just above the choker, voice a storm and a promise all at once.

“Perfect. My bunny. My Omega. My forever.”

But the storm inside him demanded more. His gaze dropped to the flushed curve of Fang’s neck, to the bow trembling against his pulse. The bruise wasn’t enough. Not for an Alpha. Not for him.

“You’re incredible,” Boboiboy murmured, voice thick with reverence. “So strong, so beautiful… and mine. Let me show you, bunny. Let me make sure your body never forgets how perfect you are.”

Fang’s breath caught, crimson eyes wide, trembling ears betraying him. “A… Alpha—”

The words melted into a cry as Boboiboy’s teeth sank into the tender skin just over his scent gland.

Pain and pleasure fused into one—sharp, searing, then overwhelming. Sparks raced through Fang’s nerves, the bond snapping alive like fire in his veins. His scream broke into sobs as cinnamon and sunlight crashed through him, filling every corner of his soul. Instinct roared.

Alpha.

Mine.

Forever.

Fang clung helplessly, legs locking tighter around Boboiboy’s waist. The ribbons cut into his wrists as his body shook, not with fear, but with the desperate need to belong, to surrender, to be cherished.

Boboiboy pulled back, lips stained with his mark, eyes blazing. A dark mark throbbed across Fang’s neck, radiating his Alpha’s scent like a brand. His thumb pressed against it, savoring the gasp it drew.

“Beautiful,” Boboiboy whispered, voice breaking into something softer, worshipful. “My good boy. My perfect bunny. My Omega. You’ve always been mine.”

Tears streaked Fang’s flushed cheeks, but his crimson eyes glowed with devotion. His lips trembled as instinct clawed at him, demanding he give back what had been given.

“…Alpha,” Fang breathed, voice reverent, desperate. “I want you too. I want you to feel it. To feel you.”

Boboiboy’s storm faltered, pupils widening. “Fang…”

But Fang didn’t wait.

With trembling resolve, he tilted his head, nuzzling against the curve of Boboiboy’s throat. His lips pressed to the pulse, then parted—and his fangs sank into the Alpha’s scent gland.

The bond snapped shut.

Boboiboy’s breath hitched, the storm inside him roaring as Fang’s lavender and heat crashed through his body. His hands slammed down against the mattress, bracing himself as instinct overwhelmed him.

Omega.

Mate.

Mine.

Forever.

Fang whimpered into the mark, clinging tighter, his body trembling with the rush of it. The moment his fangs sank in, his heat flared sharply and urgently, overwhelming his senses until it poured into Boboiboy through the bond. His ears twitched wildly, every nerve screaming need.

And Boboiboy—his Alpha—was undone. The bite ripped his rut to the surface, primal and consuming, his scent rolling outward until it wrapped Fang in a cage of instinct. His chest heaved, pupils blown wide, every muscle straining against the feral drive roaring through him.

Their scents thickened violently, cinnamon and lavender so tightly fused they were indistinguishable. The room reeked of mate-claim, of instinct, of bond-fire too new to control.

“Fang—” Boboiboy’s voice cracked, dark and reverent, storm trembling in his throat. “I can feel it. Your heat—your need. Burning. Pulling. Calling.”

Fang sobbed softly, nuzzling against the new mark on Boboiboy’s neck, trembling with the aftershock. “Me too. Your rut—Alpha. I—my whole body just wants—you.”

Boboiboy’s hand cupped his cheek, storm-fire shaking through his veins, yet his touch was unbearably tender. “That’s the bond, my sweet bunny. Instincts tying us together, making us ache for each other. Heat and rut… We’ll weather it. Together.”

Fang’s crimson eyes blurred with tears of relief and devotion, trembling beneath the bow at his throat.

The bond pulsed again—wild, primal, alive—leaving them both gasping, trembling, clinging to one another as if distance was no longer possible. Instinct pressed harder, begging for completion, for unity.

But even as the storm burned, Boboiboy’s voice steadied, full of awe and vow. “You’re mine, Fang. Not just in rut or heat. Always. Forever. My mate. My heart.”

And Fang, shuddering against him, whispered back the truth as instinct and devotion merged into one:

“…yours. Always yours.”

He shifted his grip, ready to fulfill that primal desire. To mate with Fang and bond them both for eternity. 

But then it hit.

The pain slammed into his skull like lightning turned inward.

“—nnngh!”

Boboiboy gasped, his head jerking back violently, sparks faltering as the world around him warped. The walls bled into shadow, Fang’s face and scent disorientating completely.

Boboiboy tried—tried to hold tighter—but his strength buckled.

“Fang—!” he choked, the word strangled in his throat as the darkness consumed him, ripping him from Fang’s warmth, from his bunny. His omega. His mate.

And his scream tore into the void as he fell.

Boboiboy jolted upright with a sharp gasp, sweat beading at his temples. His voice cracked as he shouted, “FANG!”

The sound carried like a desperate call across the sterile infirmary walls, sharp with Alpha-command instinct. It startled everyone present—the Shield Twins nearly jumped out of their seats, Lahap’s pen snapped in his grip, and Commander Kokoci’s sunglasses slid down his nose with a twitch of irritation.

But before Boboiboy could get his bearings, his pack surged to him.

“Boboiboy, are you okay?!” Yaya blurted, her tone pitched high with panic, her honey and vanilla scent thickening in the air.

“Don’t scare us like that, man!” Gopal shoved close, his instincts frantic as he tugged at the blanket, as if searching for wounds.

Ying leaned in, her Beta steadiness cracking as worry spiked. “You were out cold for almost 2 hours.”

Ochobot hovered at the bedside, emitting calm mechanical clicks and steady hums—the pack’s substitute medic soothing the instability with measured tones. “System readings still unstable.”

Boboiboy’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his Alpha instincts scanning the room like a storm on edge. His voice trembled, but the weight of command still threaded through it as he asked the only thing on his mind:

“Where’s Fang? Where is he?”

The question dropped heavy into the pack’s link.

Silence fell.

Commander Kokoci stepped forward, posture squared, his scent spiced with authority, cutting through the group’s fear like a blade.

“Calm yourself first, boy. Don’t strain your instincts. Before you demand answers, you need to remember what happened.”

The firm command pressed against Boboiboy’s fraying Alpha control, forcing him still for a heartbeat. He froze, frustration churning as he clawed for memory.

“The last thing I remember…” he muttered, “we were reporting to you. Sai, Shielda, Lahap, everyone. You called for Ochobot. Something about activating DreamweaveBot…”

His voice trailed, confusion souring into dread. “…And then—nothing.”

The single word echoed through the room. The pack exchanged tight glances—the Betas shifting uneasily, even Lahap was suppressing his growl.

Gopal scratched his head, his scent sour with guilt. “Yeah, uh… it wasn’t exactly nothing.”

Ying’s arms crossed, but her steady posture couldn’t mask the sharp tension in her scent. “You… really don’t remember?”

Shielda sighed, her Beta steadiness covering Sai’s unease. “Then we’ll have to tell you.”

Boboiboy’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

Ochobot clicked uneasily, his usual neutrality weighted with pack-pressure. “Well…”

2 hours and a half Earlier

Kokoci gestured for Ochobot. “Activate it. Now.”

DreamweaveBot’s optic flared, its hum deep and resonant, stirring the pack’s hackles as if a foreign scent had invaded their den. The Power Sphere twitched, optic trembling until it focused on them.

“W-where… am I?”

Its voice cracked thin, disoriented, like a newborn pushed into the open. The hum of its core rattled the desk until it stilled on the gathered pack. Sai, Shielda, Lahap, Ying, Yaya, Gopal, and Boboiboy. Ochobot and Kokoci were looming steadily at their head.

Recognition flickered. “…You were the ones who freed me.”

Pack tension spiked—their scents shifted uncertainly, instinctively bracing.

Kokoci stepped forward, lowering his Beta presence. His voice held steady calm. “That’s right. You’re safe here. But we need answers, Dreamweavebot. Just a few questions. Will you give them?”

DreamweaveBot dimmed, then gave a reluctant hum. “…If I can.”

“Then let’s start simple. How did Drosk get his hands on you?”

DreamweaveBot twitched, optic glitching. “…I was inactive. For a long time. Centuries, perhaps. Drosk… he woke me.”

Kokoci’s patience sharpened. “And before Drosk?”

“…I was given to him. By someone else. Someone who amplified me.”

“Amplified?” Ying snapped, her edge defensive. “What do you mean?”

“…My true ability is smaller,” DreamweaveBot admitted, tone shame-thin. “I can trap someone in a dream of their deepest desire for one hour and a half. Two hours at most. During that time, their body lies defenseless.”

Yaya’s scent spiked confusion. “But Drosk’s army—he controlled them! He bent people’s wills!”

DreamweaveBot shivered. “That… was not me. That was the device. The one locked to me until you destroyed it. The one built by the same man who gave me to Drosk. A scientist. He built that machine to overwrite minds, to bend people to serve. My power was only the key—to keep them under while he rewrote them.”

The two packs went still, scents tightening into sharp unease.

Boboiboy’s Alpha instincts surged. He stepped forward, scent pressing hard. “This scientist—the one who wanted our friend, the one who used and killed Drosk—can you tell us who he is? A name? A face?”

DreamweaveBot’s optic brightened. “…Yes. I can—”

But its body convulsed violently, crystal veins sparking. The flare slammed into the packs' instincts like an Alpha challenge, making the Betas flinch back, while the Alphas growled.

“Aaaaahhhhhh!” DreamweaveBot screamed, arcs bursting wild.

“DreamweaveBot!” Ochobot cried.

Boboiboy lunged, Alpha command overriding fear. He caught the Power Sphere as it collapsed. “Hang on—!”

But the instant his hands touched it, DreamweaveBot’s power lashed out—dreamlight flaring straight into his mind.

“Boboiboy!” Ying screamed, her Beta cry laced with panic.

He gasped once, scent flooding sharp and desperate, then collapsed—body limp, DreamweaveBot still in his arms.

The packs rushed forward, instinct breaking into chaos, scents colliding in fear and confusion as their Alpha went down.

The Present

The memory faded, pulling Boboiboy back to the present, where he sat on the infirmary bed, the worried faces of his pack around him.

Gopal rubbed his neck nervously. “So yeah… that’s what happened. You blacked out when DreamweaveBot fried up.”

Sai’s voice was firmer, steadier. “We carried you here. Shielda and Lahap helped get DreamweaveBot to Nut for examination.”

Lahap, standing a little straighter—an Alpha’s posture, calm but commanding—added grimly, “And before you woke up, Nut told us something disturbing. Inside DreamweaveBot, he found a circuit—a failsafe. If he ever tried to reveal certain information… his memories of the past six months would be erased instantly.”

Shielda’s arms folded tightly. “Which means that scientist had already planned for this. He made sure DreamweaveBot couldn’t betray him.”

Ying added quietly, “And that mechanical spider we sealed inside the reinforced container? We sent it to Nut as well. But its systems are way more complex than the circuit in DreamweaveBot’s system. He said analyzing it will take longer.”

The room fell heavy and quiet.

Boboiboy clenched his fists against the infirmary sheets, his heart pounding. “So… whoever they are… they’re still out there. Watching us. And Fang…”

His words trailed off, but the weight of them pressed on everyone’s chest.

The silence after the explanation was thick with the unspoken knowledge of pack hierarchy. Lahap stood steady, the quiet Alpha anchoring them, while Boboiboy—young, volatile—radiated storming tension. The Betas glanced between them, instinctively leaning toward calmness but drawn, too, to their Alpha’s distress.

And then Sai—of course it was Sai—clapped his hands together and leaned forward with that mischievous grin of his.

“Well, since that’s out of the way,” he said dramatically, cutting through the tension like a blade, “I think there’s something far more interesting to talk about. Like…” His eyes glittered. “…why did you scream Fang’s name the second you woke up, Boboiboy?”

The room froze.

Yaya blinked. Gopal’s jaw dropped. Ying raised an eyebrow, while Ochobot tilted his head with a soft electronic hmm. Even Shielda tried to hide a smirk, though Sai was already grinning like he’d uncovered a priceless secret.

Boboiboy, however, went pale—then red. His entire face lit up in a furious blush, the memory of that stupid illusion crashing back into his mind like a tidal wave. Fang’s lashes fluttering. His head tilting in submission. That sly, daring smile.

The whispered words—

“…To be taken, by you, my Alpha.”

The memory detonated inside him, leaving his instincts snarling for more.

“I–It wasn’t like that!” he stammered, waving his hands wildly as if he could physically push the memory away.

But it was too late.

The Betas had scented it—the crack in the Alpha’s composure.

“Ohhh, I get it now,” Sai drawled, dragging the words out. “The big Alpha wakes up, screaming our dear pack Omega’s name… real subtle, Boboiboy.”

Yaya leaned in, smirking. “So what was it? Fang saving you? Or maybe…” she giggled, “…something a little more romantic?”

“Romantic? Pfft, come on,” Gopal cut in, throwing his arms wide in mock drama. “He was probably dreaming of a date! You know, candlelight dinner, holding hands—maybe even—” He gasped, eyes sparkling. “A KISS!”

Boboiboy practically choked, his blush spreading all the way to his ears.

“I–No! It wasn’t—!”

Ying folded her arms, watching him squirm. “You’re deflecting. That means we’re right.” Her voice was mercilessly calm.

Even Ochobot betrayed him, his mechanical voice chiming in matter-of-factly: “Statistically speaking, the probability that you saw Fang in a romantic context is ninety-eight percent.”

“Ochobot!” Boboiboy snapped, his voice breaking halfway.

But the teasing only intensified.

“Maybe it wasn’t just a kiss,” Sai said slyly, eyes glittering. “Maybe Fang was—”

“—confessing to you!” Yaya interrupted, clasping her hands together with stars in her eyes.

“No, no, no,” Gopal countered, wagging his finger. “He was probably snuggling against him, whispering ‘Boboiboy~’ in that dramatic voice of his—”

“STOP!” Boboiboy’s face was burning so badly that it felt like his scent might flare by accident.

The Betas froze when the pressure spiked. His Alpha-scent, usually warm cinnamon, burned sharp and crackling.

And then—

Thud.

He slammed his forehead against the wall beside the bed, hard enough to silence them all at once.

The Betas quieted instinctively. Even Lahap, the other Alpha, watched closely now.

Boboiboy stayed there, forehead pressed against the wall, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. His breath came fast, shaky, his Alpha-instincts roiling out of control.

'What are you doing?! Get a grip. It was just an illusion. Just a trick.'

But the memory wouldn’t let him go. Fang’s voice, trembling but daring. Fang’s eyes, crimson and wet, but unyielding. Fang whispering Alpha like it was a vow.

And Boboiboy taking. Kissing. Holding. Claiming. Praising.

'He wanted me… in the dream. He gave himself to me. And I—'

His stomach knotted, guilt and hunger warring.

'It wasn’t real. None of it was real. But I wanted it. I still want it. His lips, his voice, the way he called me Alpha like it was everything. I wanted it to never end.'

Shame crashed over him, thick and suffocating. His Alpha-instinct screamed to claim, to keep, to bond—and it made him feel sick.

'If Fang ever smells this hunger on me… if he ever realizes how badly I wanted him… he’ll hate me. He should hate me.'

The Betas shifted uneasily.

This wasn’t playful anymore.

This was young Alpha unraveling.

But Boboiboy just pressed his forehead harder against the wall, sparks scattering faintly with each shuddering breath. His scent wavered, torn between guilt and longing.

And deep down, the most terrifying part lingered like a whisper he couldn’t silence.

He hadn’t wanted it to stop.

He still wanted more.

Everyone had been staring at Boboiboy for a few minutes in silence—half worried, half stunned—at his sudden outburst.

“…Uh.” Gopal scratched the back of his neck. “That… was a little dramatic, man.”

Sai chuckled nervously. “Y-yeah, you’re kinda scaring us now—ow!”

Shielda smacked the back of her twin’s head, glaring at him. “Apologize. Now.”

“Okay, okay! Sorry!” Sai muttered quickly, rubbing his head.

Ochobot floated closer, voice gentle. “Boboiboy, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Boboiboy forced the words out too quickly, too tightly, his face hidden by his bangs.

The single answer hung in the air, and it fooled no one.

Ochobot tilted his head slightly, the glow of his eye dimming. 'That tone again… he’s bottling things up.'

Yaya shifted uncomfortably, her usual cheer subdued. “Boboiboy… you don’t sound fine.”

Ying frowned, arms folding tightly across her chest. “You always say that when you’re not.”

Gopal bit his lip, glancing around nervously before blurting, “Yeah, like the last time you said you were ‘fine,’ we ended up chasing you across two star systems!”

The sharp pulse of cinnamon-laced scent pressed against them all—an Alpha scent spiraling out of control.

Instinctively, the Betas tensed, their own scents tightening, each glancing toward the one person who could cut through it.

Lahap.

The older Alpha didn’t speak right away. He just studied Boboiboy quietly, calm as stone, while his own scent—rich, charred oak—spread into the room.

It rolled outward, layered over Boboiboy’s storm until the sharpness dulled, the pressure easing.

The Betas relaxed instantly, breathing out in relief under the protective blanket of Alpha stability.

Sai’s grin faltered as guilt slipped into his expression. “…Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

Shielda let out a low sigh, the edge in her voice softening just slightly. “We’ll let it go—for now. But don’t think we won’t speak about it again.”

Even Commander Kokoci, silent until then, gave the faintest grunt, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Hmph. ‘I’m fine.’ You kids always think that works.”

The weight of all their reactions pressed in, but none of them pushed further.

Instead, Ying cleared her throat and steered the conversation away. “So… Ochobot, where did you leave Fang?”

Yaya nodded firmly. “We should check on him. He’s still sick.”

The reminder hit like a switch.

At once, Boboiboy’s spiraling cut off, his head snapping up. Concern replaced shame in his eyes. Fang. Sick. Feverish. Vulnerable. And somewhere out there was still a mad scientist who wanted him.

Ochobot answered carefully, sensing the shift. “I left him in the cafeteria—with Captain Kaizo. Don’t worry, he’s safe.”

But Boboiboy was already on his feet, fists clenched. “Safe or not, I’m going to him.”

His Alpha-instincts roared through the room, protective drive spilling into the pack-bond.

The Betas stiffened again at the sudden weight of it—every one of them jolted into readiness, their scents sharpening in response.

Fang wasn’t even present, yet Boboiboy’s desperation to get to him pulled at them all like a storm.

This time, Lahap stepped forward, calm as ever, his oak-scent steady and grounding. He placed a hand on Boboiboy’s shoulder, firm but not forceful.

“We will all go together,” Lahap said quietly, voice carrying Alpha weight. Not a command, but a steady anchor.

The packs' instincts soothed immediately. The Betas relaxed again, nodding in sync.

Sai cracked his knuckles. “Finally. I’ve been itching to check on the guy since we landed.”

Shielda nodded in agreement, her voice firm. “Same here. I want answers on why we didn’t know about his condition sooner.”

Ying straightened, her staff humming faintly in her grip. “And if that scientist shows his face, he’ll regret it.”

“Yeah!” Yaya added quickly, her voice fierce. “We also need to make sure Fang doesn't push himself again.”

Gopal puffed out his chest, determined. “Uh, yeah, duh, we were going to check on him anyway, so why not get food, too?”

Ochobot’s glow brightened, his tone carrying quiet conviction. “Then it’s settled. We should go now.”

Boboiboy froze for a moment, staring at each of them. They’d been thinking of Fang all along—worrying, wanting to go, just as much as he did.

The tension in his shoulders finally eased. He gave a small nod. “…Together.”

They moved toward the door as a group, but just before they left, a voice broke the silence.

“Hold it.”

Commander Kokoci, who had been unusually quiet this whole time, finally spoke up. His voice was steady, but carried the weight of authority.

All eyes turned to him.

“When you reach Captain Kaizo,” Kokoci said firmly, “tell him to go to Nuts with the communicator he took from Drosk’s corpse. After that, I want him in my office immediately.” His sharp gaze softened only slightly as he added, “Understood?”

“Yes, Commander!” they answered in unison.

“Good.” Kokoci leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Now go. And don’t waste any more time.”

Without hesitation, the group filed out, their footsteps quick and determined. Boboiboy led the charge, the others flanking him—his storm-fire pulsing but steadied by the quiet oak-scent of the Alpha walking at his side.

But as they strode through the hallways, a different kind of anticipation filled their minds.

Sai stuffed his hands in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. 'Captain is gonna catch it this time. Skipping the briefing? Oh, the commander isn't letting that slide. Can’t wait to see the mighty legendary rebel get roasted twice in one day.'

Shielda shook her head with a faint smirk. 'He really asked for it. Sneaking off was a bold move, Captain. Bold—and stupid.'

Lahap’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. 'Kokoci tearing into him… yeah, that’ll be a sight. About time it happened.'

Ying sighed through her nose, though her eyes glinted with amusement. 'No chance, Captain is getting out of this. The commander's patience ran out long ago.'

Yaya’s pout shifted into a mischievous grin. 'Ooooh, he’s totally getting yelled at again! Even the legendary rebel can’t dodge two scoldings in one day.'

Gopal chuckled under his breath, already giddy. 'Man, I live for this. The legendary rebel captain, hero of half the galaxy… getting treated like a naughty schoolboy. It would be priceless.'

Ochobot’s glow flickered knowingly. 'Even if Captain put Fang first, he isn’t above the commander’s wrath. This will be… interesting to witness.'

At the front, Boboiboy’s steps quickened, lips pressed thin. 'Kaizo, you ditched us for Fang. I can’t blame you, but now? You’re about to get grilled harder than we ever did. Hope you’re ready for round two.'

The pack instinct hummed faintly under it all—two Alphas walking point, Betas following in line, scents tinged with anticipation and the easy camaraderie that came with shared purpose.

Teasing about Kaizo’s punishment wasn’t just banter; it was the Betas venting their nerves in the safest way they knew, leaning on each other and their Alphas to set the rhythm.

Sai shoved his elbow into Gopal’s side as they rounded a corner. “Bet you five credits Commander makes Captain stand at attention for a full hour while giving a lecture about ‘discipline and responsibility of commanding officers.’”

Gopal snorted. “Pfft, too easy. Nah, I bet he makes him write a thousand lines of ‘I will attend briefings like a good captain.’ You know—like old school punishment.”

Yaya clasped her hands dramatically. “Or he’ll make him do push-ups until his arms fall off! Then he’ll have to crawl everywhere like a worm.” She giggled at the mental image.

Shielda raised an eyebrow. “Captain would actually enjoy that. Don’t give him punishments; he can turn into a workout.”

That got a round of laughter. Their scents spiked bright with amusement—beta energy buzzing in sync, like a ripple across the pack bond.

Ying tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Knowing Commander Kokoci, he’ll probably bring up all the times he skipped briefings in the past. Like… line them up chronologically, with star dates, footnotes, and detailed annotations.”

Sai groaned loudly. “Ugh, death by PowerPoint. The ultimate weapon.”

Ochobot’s glow pulsed in amusement. “Probability suggests the commander will also include charts and graphs to emphasize Captain Kaizo’s repeated offenses.”

Boboiboy cracked the faintest smile at that. The pack’s lighthearted chatter eased the last of the storm simmering in his chest. “If Commander Kokoci breaks out the charts, Captain’s done for. Nothing can save him then.”

Lahap finally spoke, his voice calm and deadpan—Alpha authority laced with dry humor. “He deserves solitary confinement.”

The others all stopped mid-step to stare at him.

“…Wait. Like… actual solitary confinement?” Gopal asked, eyes wide.

Lahap’s lips curved just slightly. “No. Sitting alone at the kiddie table in the cafeteria. With no dessert.”

The hallway erupted with laughter, Betas’ scents flaring bright with amusement until even Boboiboy’s storm settled into warmth.

Sai wheezed, holding his stomach. “Ohhh, that’s evil! Captain Kaizo, reduced to a lonely child, glaring at us while we eat pudding cups. Kokoci would totally do it.”

Yaya leaned toward Ying. “Do you think he’d ground him? Like… actually ground him?”

Ying’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh, I can see it now. ‘No missions for a week, young man. Hand over your spaceship keys.’ ”

Gopal chimed in. “And his punishment chores? Cleaning the cafeteria trays. By hand. With a toothbrush.”

Shielda snorted, crossing her arms. “Honestly, he deserves worse for ditching us before the briefing.”

They all nodded in agreement, their laughter rising again, the pack-bond humming easy and light as the cafeteria doors drew closer.

Sai grinned wickedly. “No matter what happens, this is gonna be the highlight of the week.”

Boboiboy’s lips curled into a sly smirk, the storm in him quiet under Lahap’s steady oak. “Then let’s not miss the show.”

The cafeteria doors slid open, but instead of the rowdy hum of soldiers eating, the hall was eerily still. Only the faint clatter of pots and soft voices drifted from the kitchen. Rows of empty tables stretched ahead, the vast space swallowed by silence.

And at the far end of the longest table, Kaizo sat slouched, cheek propped on his hand, eye shut as if asleep. His usually rigid posture had softened into something rare, almost peaceful.

But he wasn’t asleep.

Kaizo had sensed them the moment the doors parted, their scents bleeding into the empty air—Boboiboy’s cinnamon sharp with barely leashed concern, Yaya’s honey-and-vanilla tang bouncing restless, Sai’s dry smirk curling through, Shielda’s stormwater edges steady, Lahap’s grounded Alpha calm, Ying’s cautious restraint, and Ochobot’s faint electric hum.

They thought they were quiet, but their scents were loud. Familiar. One was his pack. The other was his brother’s second pack.

He stayed still, lashes lowered. Pretending.

Because on his lap, Fang shifted faintly in his sleep, a soft, almost imperceptible purr rumbling from his chest. It vibrated against Kaizo’s thigh where Fang lay curled, cheek pressed into him as if it were the most natural place in the galaxy. The sound tangled into Kaizo’s instincts, pressing like a weight against his Alpha core.

Protect.

Guard.

Don’t move.

So he didn’t. Not when they first entered. Not when they froze at the sight. Not even when Fang whimpered faintly, fever clinging to his skin, and Kaizo adjusted the jacket over his shoulders with a subtle tug.

They were his and Pang’s packs too, but in this moment, all his instincts narrowed to the fragile warmth against him.

The others slipped away toward the kitchens, scents shifting into hushed anticipation. Kaizo’s jaw ticked once, faintly amused. Even now, their chatter carried the charge of children about to watch their teacher scold someone else. They’d get their entertainment soon enough.

When they returned, he could smell the dishes before the trays hit the table—ginger broth, stir-fried rice, grilled meats. Comfort food. The kind of food Fang would eat if awake.

They settled down cautiously, whispers carrying across the benches. Kaizo kept still, though his ears pricked to each word. He only opened his eye when Sai’s bite finally landed.

“Skipping the briefing, Captain? Real bold. Kokoci’s gonna skin you alive.”

Kaizo cracked his eye just enough, voice low, calm, unrepentant. “Fang needed me more.”

“Typical.” Shielda’s smirk cut sharply. “You’d toss the entire chain of command just to babysit him.”

“Of course.” No hesitation. His Alpha tone left no room for argument.

Lahap hummed, steady but stern. “Even if Kokoci understands your reasons, his orders come first.”

From the edge of the bench, Boboiboy finally spoke, cinnamon storm simmering low in his chest. “You don’t even regret it, do you?”

Kaizo’s gaze softened despite himself, eyes lingering on Fang’s flushed face. One hand brushed a strand of hair from his fevered cheek. “…No. Not at all.”

The words landed heavily. The others felt it—the Alpha conviction laced with quiet devotion. But no one challenged him.

For a beat, silence stretched—until Sai leaned back, smirking. “Man, Kokoci’s gonna roast you alive. I’m betting he pulls out the lecture about ‘responsibility of command’ and makes you stand at attention until your legs give out.”

Gopal snorted, already grinning. “Nah, I say he makes you copy down the rulebook. By hand. Ten times. With citations. You know, real old-school torture.”

Sai elbowed him, cackling. “Better yet, Kokoci might ban you from dessert privileges. Imagine—Captain Kaizo sulking at the kiddie table while we eat carrot donuts.”

Yaya actually squealed with laughter at the image, Shielda chuckling despite herself.

Kaizo didn’t rise to it, only exhaled slowly through his nose. His Alpha scent stayed calm, immovable.

Which, of course, only encouraged them.

But Ying’s voice cut through, soft but sharp. “We need to tell you what happened at the meeting.”

That shifted everything. Scents pulled tight; Beta edges sharpened, Alphas braced. Kaizo’s own instincts coiled, ready.

Ying’s voice dropped, carrying the weight of memory. “When Ochobot came and awakened Dreamweavebot, Commander Kokoci stepped forward, steady. He told DreamweaveBot it was safe—but that we needed answers.”

The table still as she recited it.

“DreamweaveBot said it had been inactive for a long time. Drosk only woke it up. But before him, someone else gave it to him. Someone who… amplified it.”

Kaizo frowned. “Amplified?”

“DreamweaveBot admitted its true power is small. It can only trap someone in a dream of their deepest desire. 2 hours at most. That’s it.” Ying’s scent wavered, Beta protectiveness bleeding sharp. “But the mind control—that wasn’t its power. That was the device. A machine built to rewrite minds. DreamweaveBot was just the key to hold people down while the mind control happened.”

The words sank like poison.

Around the table, scents reacted—Yaya’s Beta tang spiking with concern, Shielda’s edge hardening into iron, Sai’s Beta bite sour with anger, Lahap’s scent dropping grave and heavy.

And Boboiboy—his scent surged sharp and furious, protective instincts flaring hard enough to make Yaya and Ying instinctively shrink back.

“The scientist,” Kaizo pressed, voice low and dangerous, “the one who wanted Fang. Can DreamweaveBot give us a name? A face?”

Ying’s voice faltered as she remembered. “…It said yes. It could. But the moment it tried, its body convulsed. Crystals sparking, like an Alpha challenge ripping through the room. It screamed, and then—”

Her gaze flicked to Boboiboy.

He remembered too well—the sear of dreamlight, the way his hands caught DreamweaveBot as it collapsed. The lash of power that dragged him under, its voice bleeding into his skull. And through it all—his last thought before the void took him—Fang. His scent. The Omega purr. The instinct that screamed mine.

Kaizo read it on him now, even without words—the way Boboiboy’s scent curved unconsciously toward Fang, protectiveness shading into something quieter, deeper.

Kaizo didn’t comment. But his Alpha senses noted it, tucked it away. For later.

Then Boboiboy spoke, his storm scent still sharp. “Shielda and Lahap took DreamweaveBot to Nuts for examining.”

Lahap straightened, grim. “Nuts found a failsafe. If it ever tried to reveal certain information, its memories of the last six months would erase instantly.”

Kaizo’s eye opened fully, narrowing. “So the scientist… the one who used Drosk… he planned for this?”

“Exactly.” Sai's voice came firm. “He made sure DreamweaveBot couldn’t betray him. And… the mechanical spider that killed Drosk? Nuts is analyzing it too. But it’s… more complicated. He said it’ll take longer before he can figure out its systems.”

Shielda's voice was as flat as steel. “Nuts thinks it’s layered tech. Old and new, spliced together. Like it was made to confuse anyone who tried to take it apart.”

Kaizo’s jaw set, gaze sweeping the pack, then dropping back to Fang curled against him. “Then he’s the real enemy. Not Drosk. Not the machine. Him.”

Ochobot’s glow flickered. “And now Kokoci’s instructions are clear. Captain Kaizo—you’re to take the communicator you retrieved from Drosk’s corpse to Nuts. Then… report to his office. As soon as possible.”

The weight of the command pressed into the packs like iron, tugging every instinct taut.

Kaizo only lowered his gaze again, hand resting protectively on Fang’s shoulder. His Alpha scent smoothed, resolute and calm.

“…Understood.”

Ochobot extended a mechanical arm. “May I see the communicator?”

Kaizo slipped his free hand into his coat and withdrew the small, blackened device.

But the moment the cool air touched it, Fang stirred. A faint sound slipped from him—half-whimper, half-purr—as his fingers curled tighter into Kaizo’s jacket sleeve. His lashes fluttered, fever-glazed eyes beginning to crack open.

Everyone froze.

Yaya clapped her hands over her mouth, whispering in panic. “Oh no, we woke him up—!”

Gopal nearly dropped his spoon. “We weren’t supposed to let him know anything! What if he—?”

Ying’s Beta edges prickled, her voice sharp with worry. “He’s sick—he should be resting right now!”

Sai muttered under his breath, eyes wide. “Great, now the sick Omega is gonna hear everything we didn’t want him to…”

The packs’ collective panic pressed tight against the air, a tangle of guilty scents, like a den of pups caught breaking the rules.

But their worries proved unfounded. Fang’s lashes lifted slowly, hazy confusion in his crimson eyes as he realized the pillow beneath his cheek wasn’t fabric at all—it was his brother.

His chest jolted.

He blinked once, then immediately tried to sit up, heat flushing his face.

“S-Sorry, Captain,” Fang rasped, his voice rough from fever. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t even notice I fell asleep on you—”

Kaizo’s jaw clenched, Alpha instincts bristling. Fang apologized for leaning on him, as if needing him was a crime. As if Kaizo might scold him for it. The thought made his chest twist, his instincts screaming that his Omega brother should never feel guilty for seeking comfort.

He brushed the apology away, voice quiet but steady. “Don’t apologize.”

His tone brooked no argument.

With practiced care, Kaizo set the communicator on the table with a faint clink, then slid an arm beneath Fang’s to help him upright. Fang swayed but obeyed, his weight briefly resting in Kaizo’s grip.

As he sat up, the captain’s jacket that had been draped around him slipped down into his lap.

Fang blinked, startled. His Abang had covered him. He hadn’t even realized. Heat crawled across his cheeks. Always watching over him, always shielding him—Kaizo was relentless.

The others didn’t notice. But one person did.

Boboiboy’s scent prickled sharply as his gaze landed on Fang’s clothes. Dark orange hoodie. Black pants. His hoodie. That should have wrapped Fang in his cinnamon warmth. But the scent on it was faint—nearly smothered by Kaizo’s Alpha presence, which clung to Fang like chains.

The realization cut into him. His instincts thrilled at seeing Fang in his clothes—Omega in his scent, his claim—but irritation burned alongside it. Kaizo’s scent eclipsed his own, blanketing Fang so thoroughly that even Boboiboy’s hoodie felt stolen.

Fang, oblivious to their silent war, finally turned toward the group, blinking groggily. “Ah—when did you all get here?”

Kaizo answered smoothly, sparing him the embarrassment. “Just moments ago. While you were asleep.”

Fang frowned faintly, still dazed. “…What time is it?”

Ochobot’s glow pulsed softly. “It is currently 10:53 p.m. Approximately three hours have passed since I left you with Captain Kaizo, Fang.”

Fang stiffened. Three hours? His breath hitched, shame pressing down like a weight. He had sprawled across his brother’s lap like a child while the others… waited? Watched? His chest curled tight with embarrassment, but his instincts whispered differently. His body felt calmer than it had in months. Safer. Resting on Kaizo had soothed something deep, primal—something Fang didn’t even know needed soothing.

“Fang.” Sai’s voice snapped across the air, sharp with worry.

Shielda’s arms crossed tightly, her tone matching his. “Why didn’t we know you collapsed?”

Their twin gazes bore into him, scolding and protective, the way older siblings looked at a reckless little brother.

“I—I didn’t plan on it,” Fang admitted, voice small. His fingers fidgeted with Kaizo’s jacket in his lap. “I just… I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

Their stares didn’t ease. Fang wilted under it, ducking his head. Watching their unofficial little brother falter cut deeper than any battlefield wound.

Desperate to deflect, Fang shifted the subject. His gaze caught on the bandages and scuffs across Boboiboy’s face that matched his brother's. His voice softened, guilt lacing through it. “…How was your mission?”

Boboiboy had already drifted closer to Fang’s side without realizing it, protective instinct pulling him like a tide. The question made the table tighten. Their scents soured with unease.

Sai shrugged too quickly. “Eh. Same old chaos.”

Shielda’s arms crossed harder. “Dangerous. But manageable.”

Lahap added in his steady Alpha tone, “Both packs worked together. Everyone pulled through.”

The way they answered together made Fang pause.

His crimson eyes darted between them, realization dawning. “…Wait. Both packs? So it was a joint mission?”

The silence that followed was instant, suffocating.

Fang tilted his head, his tone slow, cautious. “…Did something happen in the mission, though? Because… around lunch today, I felt something. Two strong pulls from both bonds. My instincts wanted to calm you all down.”

The table froze.

Ochobot’s glow flickered brighter. “It is true. Fang experienced a sharp physiological response at 13:08 hours while in my care. His distress was instinctual. Especially unusual, since it seems that both packs were deployed together at the time.”

Everyone’s scents soured.

Yaya’s scent edges wavered in guilt, her laugh too high. “E-Everything’s fine now! Totally fine!”

Gopal jumped in, voice too fast. “Yeah, solved. No problem. Nothing for you to worry about!”

Ying’s voice was gentler, but still evasive. “It’s over now, Fang. That’s what matters.”

But the truth hung in the air. Kaizo’s jaw locked tight, shame biting deep. He had fought. Over his little brother.

Boboiboy’s cinnamon rumbled low, guilt sharp and cutting. He couldn’t even look Fang in the eye. Fang’s instincts had felt the clash. Had felt their failure.

Fang searched their faces, suspicion lingering, but his fever-drained body dragged at him. They weren’t lying, not completely. So he let it slide—for now.

"Alright," He sighed, his eyes drifted down, and he caught the communicator. Its screen was facedown, revealing the strange back design: a circle with weird edges and a square in the middle. His chest tightened. He knew that shape.

“…Captain. Can I see it?”

Kaizo’s gaze snapped to his little brother. Fang’s face was serious—too serious. Without hesitation, he placed the device in Fang’s hands. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Fang murmured, voice low.

With careful fingers, he removed the center square, rearranging the strange circular pieces. The others leaned forward, confusion giving way to dawning realization. It wasn’t just a communicator—it was a puzzle.

Click.

Snap.

Turn.

At last, Fang pressed the center piece back into place. A symbol shimmered into view across the back: a puppet dangling under the legs of a spider, threads binding it tight.

Everyone stilled.

“…Fang.” Ying’s whisper cracked. “How did you know how to do that?”

Fang hesitated. His hands tightened faintly on the device. Shame flickered across his face. “…I’ve seen it before. On robots that have recently been ambushing me on my solo mission.”

The air snapped sharply.

Fang’s voice wavered despite his effort to stay steady. “They all carried this mark. The spider and the puppet. Their bodies were… tough. Stronger than anything I’ve fought before. And they never tried to kill me. Just wear me down. Trap me. Every time.”

His gaze dropped, crimson eyes dull. “…I was writing a report for Commander Kokoci. I wanted to explain it properly and then give it to him. But then I… collapsed yesterday.”

The revelation dropped like a blade.

The packs reeled.

Kaizo’s Alpha instincts surged like a storm. His little brother—his blood pack Omega—had been hunted for who knows how long.

Alone.

And he hadn’t known. His failure seared in his chest. His hands itched to tear apart every robot, every shadow tied to that spider mark.

Boboiboy’s guilt sharpened into a knife. He had fought Kaizo over Fang when this was happening. He should have been there, protecting him, not letting rage blind him. Shame burned through his chest—but deeper still, a fear: what if Fang had slipped away while Boboiboy was wasting time fighting? The thought hollowed him.

The Shield twins leaned forward instinctively, their Beta instincts swelling, shoulders squared, eyes sharp—ready to shield Fang physically from the weight of the truth pressing down on all of them.

Gopal’s spoon clattered against his bowl, forgotten. His appetite was gone. Yaya’s hands pressed together in her lap, knuckles white as she bit back the urge to comfort. Ying’s sharp eyes flicked to Boboiboy, catching the guilt and tenderness he thought hidden, her Beta sense recognizing it instantly. Ochobot dimmed its lights low, analyzing silently, though its sensors caught more than most: the shift in scents, the undercurrent of Boboiboy’s unspoken attachment.

And Lahap—his Alpha steadiness rumbled low, grounding the table from full on spiraling.

Fang, pale and fevered, didn’t even realize the full weight of what he’d revealed. He thought he was simply reporting.

But everyone else heard the truth clearly—

Fang had been targeted long before today.

And none of them had known.

The silence thickened until Lahap broke it.

His Alpha tone rolled through the space like steady thunder. “Fang.” His gaze locked onto the sick Omega, pulling his focus. “Tell us every detail you can remember about these robots.”

Fang blinked, startled at the pull, but his instincts obeyed. He nodded, voice soft. “They were… always different. No two were the same. But all of them carried the unassembled symbol, hidden somewhere on their bodies.”

He drew a shaky breath. “Some were small—the size of beetles—six legs, scuttling across walls and ceilings. They moved too fast, like they were inside my shadow before I saw them. Others were bigger—four arms, metal scraping when they crawled. Even ones who had eight legs, each tipped with blades. It made no sound when it moved, but I could feel it… following me.”

A faint tremor worked its way through his hands. “There was one that always appeared… built tall, almost human, except its spine bent the wrong way. It had eyes all over its head—like a spider’s cluster. That one didn’t even chase me. It just stood around and… stared.” His crimson eyes lowered, haunted. “Studying me.”

The unease rippled thicker. Betas shifted in their seats. Instincts pressed, heavy and sharp.

“I tried to find out who made them,” Fang whispered. “All I got was… he’s an Alpha. A scientist. A scar across his eyebrow. And even the smarter hunters—the ones with reputation—they don’t speak his name. They avoid him, saying they would rather die than come near him.”

The tension around the table stretched near breaking.

Kaizo hadn’t moved, but his fists strained against his gloves. At last, he exhaled, pushing down the fury before it could crash outward. Slowly, he reached out, his hand landing on Fang’s head, smoothing gently.

A rare touch.

A rare softness.

Fang’s eyes widened faintly before fluttering half-closed, leaning unconsciously into it. His Omega instincts clung desperately to the affection, drinking it in like water in a desert. For years, his older brother had kept his distance—always too cold, too commanding.

But now Kaizo’s hand stayed. Fang leaned further, needing it, needing him.

“You’ve done well, Pang,” Kaizo said softly. “Leave the rest to me. I’ll take this to Commander Kokoci. You don’t need to worry about it anymore.”

Fang’s chest twisted. Comfort tangled with guilt, but he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

Then Sai broke the quiet, his voice too casual. “Hey Fang… where are you resting? I mean, you’re sick, so you shouldn’t be left alone right now.”

Everyone except Fang knew what he meant. None of them wanted the Omega isolated after what they’d heard.

Before Fang could answer, Boboiboy’s scent rolled out, fierce and unshakable. His voice cut firm, immediate. “He staying with me.”

The claim landed heavy, laced with Alpha weight. Fang blinked at him, heat crawling faintly under his skin, instincts stirring. His Omega pulled at the sound—safety, claimed—but Fang was confused at Boboiboy's unusual behavior.

Kaizo’s jaw tightened. His own Alpha surged, unwilling to yield. The air thickened, pressing down on everyone. Fang shivered between them, his instincts straining, caught between wanting both their scents to calm, wanting them not to clash over him.

But Kaizo crushed it back. Slowly, he lifted his jacket from Fang’s lap and draped it carefully, adjusting it snug across his shoulders, tying the sleeves around his neck. Fang leaned again without thought, warmth and scent grounding him.

“I’ll be heading to the commander,” Kaizo said, voice iron-still. “Delivering your report and this communicator.” His gaze swept sharply across the table. “The rest of you—finish your meals. Rest. Tomorrow will be long.”

But his eyes lingered on Fang, unwilling to let go.

Fang’s chest tightened, instincts screaming Don’t leave. He wanted to reach out, to hold Kaizo’s sleeve again, to ask him to stay; he didn't want his time with the version of his brother that he thought was lost to end—but he bit it back, barely, his lips shaping a faint smile. “…Good luck, Captain.”

Boboiboy’s scent churned restlessly. His instincts burned to hold Fang close, to promise him safety—but the fear twisted deep, born from Ying and Yaya's words from earlier that day and the dream he had. What if Fang thought he was chaining him down? What if his protection felt like control? So he swallowed the urge, silent, his Beta friends across the table catching every flicker of emotion he thought hidden. Ying’s eyes softened. Yaya bit her lip. Gopal sighed quietly. Ochobot blinked knowingly.

Kaizo bent low, lifting Fang into his wheelchair with practiced care. Fang leaned without hesitation, fever-warm fingers curling faintly at his brother’s sleeve. “…Thank you, Captain.”

Kaizo’s voice dropped low, for Fang alone. “Keep the jacket. Make it part of your nest.” His hand brushed Fang’s hair back, blood pack bond whispering stronger than words.

Then, louder, he pointed sharply: “And if that boy—” almost like he couldn’t bear to name Boboiboy, “causes you any discomfort—call me. I’ll deal with him and take you.”

The table erupted—

Gopal nearly choked with laughter. Yaya giggled behind her hands. Ying smirked faintly, shaking her head. Sai’s shoulders shook with mirth. Lahap chuckled low, amused. Shielda’s lips curved with quiet agreement. Ochobot’s lights pulsed with suspiciously playful rhythm.

Fang flushed crimson, shrinking in his seat, but a deep warmth unfurled in his chest at the protectiveness underneath.

Boboiboy bristled, his scent rising sharply, annoyance flaring. His glare locked on Kaizo, an unspoken challenge, the clash simmering hot and dangerous.

Kaizo only smirked faintly, patted Fang’s head once more, and turned. With communicator in hand, he strode out, his scent lingering even after the door slid shut.

Fang’s Omega instincts buzzed in his chest, raw and restless in his brother’s absence.

Sai cleared his throat loudly, dragging everyone’s attention before the quiet could curdle again.

“Soo…” His tone was casual, but the sharp grin gave him away. “How in the world did you, Boboiboy, get Fang to stay with you? And—” he leaned forward, wolfish, the scent of burnt paper and sand-dry air sharpening, “are you gonna start courting him or what?”

The question hit like a thrown spark.

Fang almost toppled right out of his wheelchair, crimson eyes flying wide as his cheeks flamed. His scent spiked—carrots and lavender, sharp with panic, flooding the air. “W-what?!”

The reaction only fed the fire.

Gopal immediately cackled, slapping the table so hard the plates rattled, the warm, nutty scent of cocoa and roasted peanuts puffing everywhere. “Ohhh, finally! Somebody said it!”

Yaya burst into giggles, the sweetness of honey and vanilla curling through the room, peeking between her fingers like she was watching a drama unfold live.

Ying smirked, sharp as a knife, crisp mint and cold steel tang lacing her words.

Even Ochobot’s eyes flashed playful blue, voice humming with too much satisfaction. “Earlier, our Head Alpha displayed unusual behavior. Immediate volunteering. Excessive proximity. Repeated acts of physical caretaking.”

“Stop!” Fang gaped, heat climbing his ears as his scent stuttered—lavender twisting into distressed sharpness. “You’re all making it sound worse than it was—!”

“Worse?” Ying cut in smoothly, one brow raised, minty-cool scent cutting sharp. “You mean when he refused to let you walk on your own and just scooped you up like some Omega bride? Didn’t even let the medic offer a wheelchair first.”

Yaya snorted so hard she wheezed, vanilla-honey rich with amusement. “You should’ve seen his face! All frowny and broody, like, ‘step aside, this Omega is mine to carry.’”

“Don’t forget the nest!” Gopal wheezed, peanut-cocoa practically choking the air. “Blankets flying everywhere, pillows too—dragged them straight on his bed for Fang! No hesitation. Straight to ‘Omega belongs here.’”

“Gopal—!” Fang’s ears twitched violently as he tried to sink into Kaizo’s jacket, lavender scent flaring sharply. “I was sick, still am! It wasn’t—he wasn’t—!”

“Wasn’t what?” Ochobot asked in mock innocence. “Presenting courting behavior?”

Fang choked, crimson eyes darting desperately toward Boboiboy for rescue.

But Boboiboy was drowning too.

His scent flared hard, cinnamon and sunlight burning embarrassed into the room, Alpha-heavy. He shoved his hands forward. “Alright, that’s enough—seriously, cut it out! It wasn’t like that!” His voice cracked between Alpha authority and strangled panic.

Of course, the protest only fueled them.

“‘Wasn’t like that,’ he says,” Ying echoed mercilessly, mint-sharp, “right before tucking Fang in like a treasured Omega spouse.”

“And feeding him breakfast in bed!” Yaya squealed, practically bouncing, honey-vanilla dizzying the air. “I saw it! Fang couldn’t even lift his fork—our dear Alpha here did it for him!”

Gopal nearly fell out of his chair, peanut-cocoa spilling everywhere. “Next thing we know, he’ll be braiding Fang’s hair and writing him love songs!”

“Or singing lullabies at night,” Yaya gasped dramatically, slapping Gopal’s arm.

“Or scent-marking the room so no other Alpha dares to come close!” Ying added, smirk sharp as steel.

Boboiboy groaned into his hands, cinnamon-sunlight spiking hotter. “I hate all of you.”

Across the table, Lahap leaned back with a rumbling laugh, his charred oak and dark leather Alpha presence rolling out heavy, testing. “Tradition says you should’ve gotten Kaizo’s approval first before courting, Boboiboy.”

Sai tilted his head, wolf grin flashing, sand-dry scent sharpening. “Lucky for you, Captain isn’t here right now. Otherwise, I swear he’d have your head for even looking at his baby brother like that.”

Shielda hummed lightly, sipping her drink, her stormwater-and-granite Beta scent cooling but steady, directed like a wall between Fang and Boboiboy. “And he still might.”

The words sent Fang into frozen horror, crimson eyes wide, lavender spiking sharp-sour. “S-stop it!” His voice squeaked against his will, ears twitching furiously.

Sai added, tone mock-serious, scent curling protectively toward Fang. “Don’t think we’re just gonna hand him over, either. Fang’s our little brother, and our pack's Omega too. If you’re really aiming for courting, you’ll have to prove you’re worthy. Captain isn’t the only one watching.”

Shielda’s gaze slid toward Boboiboy, stormwater scent steady but cool. “If you so much as make him cry, you’ll deal with me before Captain even hears about it.”

The teasing stopped just long enough for Fang to squeak, “You’re all insane!” before the laughter rolled on again, the scents of both packs tangling like sparring claws.

Inside, Fang’s thoughts whirled, lavender twisting restless. ‘Courting? Me? No, no, no—he’s just being nice! Boboiboy doesn’t—he wouldn’t—he’s the Head Alpha, he’s just protecting the pack. He doesn’t see me like that… right? He can’t. He shouldn’t.’

But Boboiboy’s silence was killing him. He wanted denial, wanted him to laugh it off—but instead—

Instead, Boboiboy ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck, voice rough, sunlight scent flaring warm. “…I wasn’t about to leave him alone. Not when he needed me.”

The table exploded again—half laughter, half triumphant howls.

“Head Alpha confirmed,” Ochobot declared.

“OUR Head Alpha’s gone soft!” Gopal crowed.

“Soft?” Ying countered, mint-sharp. “No. Claiming.”

Yaya squealed, vanilla-sweet. “So cute—!”

Fang buried deeper in Kaizo’s jacket, trembling, mortified, lavender curling in frantic denial. ‘If Abang finds out, I’ll never survive this. He’ll kill Boboiboy. Or worse, think I… think I want it too. I don’t. I can’t. Right? Right?!’

Meanwhile, Boboiboy sat stiff, face red, but inside his thoughts burned hot and stubborn, cinnamon-sunlight steadying. ‘They’re exaggerating. Okay… maybe not exaggerating that much. And fine, Kaizo would probably try to kill me if he knew. But he won’t stop me.’

His jaw clenched, irritation sparking at the thought of the Captain’s looming shadow. ‘Go ahead, Kaizo. Try. I won’t let go of Fang, no matter what you try.’

His gaze flicked toward Fang, curled into the jacket like it was armor, Omega scent fluttering between lavender-sharp panic and soft carrot warmth. The sight made Boboiboy’s chest twist.

‘I’ll take my time. Slow. Gentle. Let him get used to me. Show him I’m safe, that I won’t leave. Let him fall for me without even realizing it. Then maybe… maybe I’ll really get to court him.’

The teasing roared around him, the scents of two packs colliding, but Boboiboy barely heard it anymore—his resolve was already set.

Fang blinked slowly, the fever creeping deeper, weighing down his limbs no matter how stubbornly he tried to fight it. His temples pulsed faintly, his cheeks flushed, lavender scent faint and muddled with heat. He rubbed tiredly at his forehead from the growing headache, crimson eyes hazing as he turned toward Boboiboy.

“Boboiboy…” His voice came soft, quiet enough that only the Alpha leaning close heard. “You’re done eating, right? Can we… go? I need to grab some clothes from my room before… resting.”

The words carried exhaustion, small and subdued.

But before BoBoiBoy could answer, Gopal’s gaze narrowed. His peanut-cocoa scent perked curiously, and he squinted at Fang. “Huh… wait a second—” He leaned forward, nose scrunching, eyes dragging over Fang as if something suddenly clicked. “That hoodie looks kinda… familiar.”

Yaya tilted her head, vanilla sweetness curling with sudden intrigue. “...Oh. Ohhh, you’re right, Gopal.” She pointed, grin widening. “That’s not his jacket under Kaizo’s!”

Ying, sharp as a blade, was already smirking. “Dark orange hoodie. Black pants. A size too big.” Minty steel laced the air as she folded her arms with deliberate finality. “Those are Boboiboy’s.”

The trio’s scents spiked in unison, like kids who had just discovered treasure. They turned toward Fang, wicked grins flashing together.

“Faaang~!” they chorused, voices sing-song.

Fang froze mid-shift in his chair, crimson eyes flaring wide as his entire body went stiff. Heat burned across his face as his lavender scent spiked, sharp and panicked. He yanked Kaizo’s jacket tighter around himself like it might make him invisible. “I-it’s not—It’s not what it looks like!”

“Oh, it’s exactly what it looks like,” Ying purred, eyes gleaming.

Yaya leaned halfway across the table, teasing in a sing-song dripping. “Somebody’s been borrowing clothes~.”

Gopal slapped the table, wheezing. “I KNEW it looked familiar! Boboiboy, you gave him your hoodie and pants?! Dude, that’s like—basically couple stuff!”

Fang’s lavender curled into distressed knots. “It’s not—he didn’t—I wasn’t—!”

Across the table, Sai tilted his head, sand-dry scent catching onto the shift. His grin curved sharply. “So that’s why you were hiding under the Captain’s jacket. Thought you could sneak it past us, huh?”

Shielda’s storm-calm voice cut in, deceptively soft. “One Head Alpha clothing on the solo Omega of two packs… That’s not subtle, Boboiboy.” Her gaze slid toward him, cool and steady, but with an edge of pointed protectiveness.

Lahap chuckled low, his leather-smoke scent rumbling with amusement. “Didn’t even need to scent-mark him. Dressing him works just as well.”

The table’s atmosphere swelled, scents clashing in waves of amusement—nutty, minty, vanilla-sweet, sand-dry, stormwater-cool, leather-smoke thick—pressing in until Fang all but curled smaller, embarrassed in his chair.

“Enough!” Boboiboy finally barked, stepping forward, cinnamon-sunlight scent sparking. He set his tray down sharply, hands raising in defense. “Seriously, guys, stop teasing him. He’s sick. It’s not funny.”

But the words, the flush at his own ears, only made the teasing sharper.

“Ohhh, Alpha’s flaring up!” Gopal whooped.

“Protective and possessive,” Ying added with a sly smirk.

Yaya giggled behind her hands. “Aww, he’s defending Fang!”

Fang looked two breaths from combusting. His lavender scent fluttered in frantic pulses, voice catching high. “Stop it! All of you! It’s not—!”

That's when Ochobot cut clean across the chaos. “Correction: Fang’s original clothes were soaked in sweat. Remaining in them would have worsened his fever. I instructed him to wear Boboiboy’s spares. My decision—not his.”

The words cut through the laughter.

Silence rippled, a subtle shift as scents eased back. Only then did everyone truly look at Fang’s flushed face, his sluggish blinking, the way his lavender scent was thinning and unraveling with fatigue.

The teasing didn’t vanish completely, but it stilled, softened.

Ochobot’s tone gentled. “You two can leave without me. I will remain in the Power Sphere chamber tonight to monitor Dreamweavebot. Fang requires rest without disruption.”

Boboiboy nodded quickly, relief smoothing his shoulders. “Got it. Thanks, Ochobot.” He collected his tray, slid it toward Gopal, then stepped behind Fang’s wheelchair, steady hands taking the handles. “Night, everyone.”

Fang ducked deeper into Kaizo’s jacket, voice small. “...Good night.”

“Good night!” Yaya chimed, vanilla bright.

“Rest well, Omega Fang,” Ying teased lightly.

“Don’t let Head Alpha hover too much,” Gopal added, cackling.

Sai gave a lazy salute. “Behave, you two.”

Lahap rumbled warmly. “Sleep. You’ll need it.”

Shielda inclined her head, calm and firm. “Get well soon, Fang.”

Fang flushed crimson, lavender scent fluttering unsteadily as Boboiboy pushed him smoothly through the cafeteria doors, into the quieter halls of TAPOPS HQ. The hum of lights overhead was soft, steady, and the air felt calmer—yet every heartbeat between them only seemed louder.

Fang shifted faintly in the chair, his fingers curling tight into his brother's jacket. His crimson eyes flicked up toward Boboiboy, then dropped just as quickly. The silence pressed at him until he finally breathed out, almost too low to hear.

“…Sorry.” His voice cracked around the word. “For wearing your clothes without permission.”

Boboiboy blinked, chest tightening with something sharp and aching. 'That’s what he’s worried about?' His cinnamon-sunlight scent warmed instinctively, wrapping around Fang like a blanket. “Don’t apologize. Really.”

But Fang didn't fully believe him. He hesitated, then admitted softly, “Ochobot made me promise I’d listen to him—if he let me come to dinner in the cafeteria instead of staying in your room. That’s why…” His voice trailed, uncertain, his lavender scent thinning into something tired, guilty.

The answer clicked into place, filling the gap that had gnawed at Boboiboy’s thoughts ever since Ochobot mentioned leaving Fang in Kaizo’s care at the cafeteria earlier. He exhaled slowly, shoulders easing. 'So that’s all it was. He just wanted to feel free, even for a little while.'

“Hey,” Boboiboy said quietly, leaning closer as his hands steadied on the wheelchair. “That’s alright. You don’t need to explain yourself, Fang.”

He didn’t say the rest—that he couldn’t stand the thought of Fang believing himself to be a burden. Even the hint of it pressed at Boboiboy’s chest like a blade.

Fang blinked up at him, crimson eyes wide, his lavender scent fluttering with confusion, a faint curl of something softer beneath it—instinct brushing tentative trust against the Alpha’s steady warmth.

And Boboiboy, caught in the look, couldn’t hold back the truth sitting heavy in his chest. He bent low, lips near Fang’s ear, his voice husky, his words rough with honesty.

“…Besides, I kinda like seeing you in my clothes. Don’t mind at all if you keep wearing them.”

Fang went rigid, crimson eyes blown wide, ears flaming scarlet. His lavender scent spiked sharp with mortification, but tangled through it was a softer instinctive curl—a buried comfort, dangerous in its honesty. “W-wha—?! Y-you can’t just—don’t say stuff like that!”

Boboiboy chuckled low in his chest, cinnamon heat brushing warmly over Fang. “Why not?”

“B-because it’s embarrassing!” Fang sputtered, ears burning red. His pout was sharp, but his scent betrayed him—fluttering with instinctive ease at the Alpha’s words, betraying that deep down, he liked being wrapped in Boboiboy’s warmth.

Boboiboy’s smile softened, though his eyes burned with something deeper. He leaned closer again, voice low, teasing but edged with truth. “…Honestly, I’d rather carry you in my arms than push you in this chair. Feels more right.”

The words struck like lightning.

Fang’s entire body went stiff, his face blazing crimson as his lavender scent spun chaotic—embarrassment colliding with something far more dangerous: the thrum of instinct that wanted that closeness. The part of him that wanted to be protected, to be held. The part he shoved down every day beneath self-loathing.

“St-stop! I-I told you not to say things like that!” His protest cracked under the weight of his own instincts.

Because in Fang's head, he wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth anyone’s warmth. Not worth an Alpha’s steady care or gentle laughter. Not worth anything except fighting until death came, protecting everyone else with what little his existence could offer. That was all he had, all he was allowed to be.

Yet his instincts—the deep, old parts of him—rebelled, curling toward Boboiboy’s cinnamon-scented warmth like a moth drawn to flame. They whispered: Safe. Home. 

Boboiboy’s chest ached with the contradiction he could feel rolling off Fang. He wanted to reach in and tear that self-hatred out of him, replace it with nothing but warmth and truth. Because to him, Fang wasn’t just worth something—he was worth everything.

Boboiboy truly was the one not worthy of him, but that won't stop him from trying to be someone worthy.

He laughed softly, but the sound carried more tenderness than humor, his hands steady on the chair as he guided Fang down the corridor. Every blush, every stuttered word, every pout—Boboiboy memorized it, letting it carve itself into him like a promise.

'Step by step. Slow. Gentle. I won’t rush him. I won’t push him. But one day… Maybe he’ll choose me.'

Fang turned his face away, cheeks burning, trying to bury the frantic flutter of his instincts. He told himself he didn’t deserve this. He told himself he couldn’t let it happen.

But deep in his chest, beneath the layers of denial and scars, his Omega instincts whispered treacherously—longing, soft, and true—' Maybe I want to.'

Chapter Text

The quiet sound of Fang’s bedroom door sliding open was followed by silence—broken only by the low hum of the lights.

Boboiboy stopped dead at the threshold, staring.

“…Fang.”

The room was in chaos. While the bed was neatly made, a thin veil of dust clung to the sheets, telling its own story—that no one had slept there in days. Maybe weeks.

The desk was littered with half-finished mission reports, coffee-stained paperwork stacked haphazardly, and at least five empty mugs crowded the corner like abandoned soldiers.

The floor was buried under scattered papers and folders, and one wall was dominated by a corkboard strung with threads—red, black, and blue—connecting reports, photographs, and notes in a spiderweb of obsession.

It looked less like a bedroom and more like the workspace of a detective who’d forgotten that humans needed something called sleep.

Boboiboy turned slowly, cinnamon scent flaring with alarm and scolding warmth as his eyes locked on Fang. “How on Earth are you even alive right now?”

Fang froze. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t stopped Boboiboy from walking straight in. His crimson eyes darted down as embarrassment prickled hot against his skin. Lavender and carrots fluttered sheepishly, tangled with sharp notes of guilt.

He gave a crooked smile, weak at best. “…Stubbornness. Training under a workaholic brother. And… a lot of coffee.”

Boboiboy shook his head, disbelief heavy in his chest.

Inside, he was both horrified and impressed. Fang had lasted this long like this—running himself ragged, eating little, barely resting. The Alpha in him flared protective, cinnamon and sunlight burning with both exasperation and deep, aching gratitude that Fang was still here, still alive.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath as he gently pushed Fang further inside, toward the desk.

Without another word, Boboiboy walked straight to the closet. Opening it revealed a stark contrast: Fang’s clothes, folded with almost military precision, untouched by the chaos outside.

Boboiboy started pulling outfits and neatly placing them into Fang’s duffel bag. His voice, however, carried that soft but firm edge that Fang knew too well.

“You overworked yourself to the point of collapsing, Fang.”

“It’s not—” Fang began quickly, lavender scent spiking with defensive denial.

“Don’t.” Boboiboy’s tone sharpened—not angry, but final. His hands kept moving as he folded shirts and slid them into the bag. “You don’t get to protest. You can’t keep treating your life like it’s worth less than a report or another mission. You don’t get to decide you’re expendable.”

Fang’s throat closed. His chest tightened, crimson eyes dropping as shame burned hot in his chest.

Inside, the voices who seemed to have been waiting began once more.

You’re nothing but a weapon. Your only worth is to bleed for them.

Don’t pretend you deserve comfort. Not from him. Not from anyone.

Better to break yourself before you break them.

His jaw clenched. He wanted to argue, to insist he had to push himself, that it was his only way of being useful—but the cinnamon blanketing the room was unrelenting. Fang sank back, shoulders curling, scent collapsing into a guilty hush.

By the time Boboiboy zipped the bag closed, the silence was deafening. The Alpha turned back, catching the way Fang’s head drooped, the way his expression pinched. His guilt was written in every twitch of his body and soaked into his scent.

Boboiboy’s chest ached. He exhaled slowly, then crossed the space between them. Without hesitation, he bent down and wrapped his arms firmly around Fang.

Fang stiffened instantly, lavender flaring in startled spikes. His heart jumped against his ribs as Boboiboy pressed close, face nuzzling against the side of his neck, right against his scent gland. Cinnamon and sunlight flooded the room, wrapping around Fang’s lavender and carrots in thick, steady waves of comfort and protectiveness.

Fang’s breath caught. His instincts screamed at him to lean in, to bare his neck, to melt into the warmth pressing against him. His scent faltered, torn between embarrassment, need, and the sharp tang of shame.

The voices clawed harder.

Pathetic. You don’t deserve this warmth.

He’ll leave once he sees how broken you are.

Better to die useful than live useless.

But Fang’s body betrayed him. His scent flicked sharply, and his hands clenched weakly at the fabric of Kaizo’s jacket still looped around him—grasping for an anchor, even as his denial fought to shove the Alpha away.

Boboiboy breathed deeply, cinnamon soaking into Fang’s skin. His voice came low, gentle, against Fang’s ear. “I don’t want to make you feel guilty. That’s not why I’m saying this.”

His arms tightened, instincts roaring to hold, keep, protect. “…But Fang—please. Don’t ever do this again. Don’t throw your life and health away like that. Not for anything or anyone.” His voice cracked faintly, truth spilling raw. “I can’t lose you like that. Please.”

For once, the voices faltered under the weight of Boboiboy's confession.

Fang’s crimson eyes widened, breath trembling. His heart raced, pounding with an emotion he refused to name, refused to even look at. His instincts clawed at the walls he had built, screaming for him to curl into Boboiboy’s arms, to accept the warmth, the claim, the promise pressed against his neck.

“…O-okay.” His voice cracked, quiet as ash. He couldn’t meet Boboiboy’s eyes. Couldn’t let the Alpha see the way his chest trembled with something dangerously close to longing.

The cinnamon wrapped tighter, soothing his lavender until it fluttered in hesitant submission. Fang’s face burned scarlet as he fought—and lost—to the comfort seeping deep into his bones.

Boboiboy lingered there, breathing him in, instincts wrapping lavender and carrots in layers of cinnamon and sunlight until Fang’s denial buckled and trembled under the pressure. His chest swelled with an ache he couldn’t shake.

He pulled back slightly, enough to see Fang’s face. His hand hovered uncertainly in the air. 'Should I…? Would it be too much?' His instincts screamed yes—to claim, to reassure, to press until Fang stopped hiding behind guilt and shame.

“Bunny…” The word slipped out before he could stop it, low and instinct-thick. His thumb brushed Fang’s bangs back from his eyes, and before doubt could claw him down, he leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to Fang’s forehead.

Fang froze.

Completely.

His face turned blazing scarlet, and lavender spiked sharp with fluster and panic. “Wh-what are you—?!” His hands flew up to his forehead, crimson eyes wide and frantic. He jerked back so fast he nearly toppled. “Why would you do that?!”

Boboiboy only stared for a moment, instincts thrumming at the sight of Fang trembling like that, scent tangled and vulnerable. A small, helpless laugh slipped from him, warm and soft.

“You’re so cute, bunny.”

Fang’s jaw dropped, his entire face igniting. “C-cute—?! D-don’t—! I-I’m not—!” Lavender spiked harder, wildly conflicted, omega instincts pulling him close while his pride shoved him back.

“I mean it,” Boboiboy said firmly, cinnamon curling rich and protective around his voice. His gaze softened, pure instinct pressing through. “I like this much better than that guilty look. This is the bunny I prefer.”

Fang’s scent spiked violently, betraying him with a fluster tangled with a nervous flutter of warmth as He whipped his face away, burying it in Kaizo’s jacket like a shield, muttering muffled denials as his heart hammered painfully against his ribs. His instincts screamed safe, even as his mind panicked.

“…Y-you’re… ridiculous…” he mumbled, trembling.

Boboiboy chuckled, low and unstoppable. He let the sound wrap around Fang, but his instincts whispered louder: don’t let this fade yet—don’t let him hide again.

“Relax, bunny. I’m not done teasing you yet.”

Fang’s ears snapped up, and he peeked out from the jacket with horrified, flustered eyes. “W-what does that mean—?”

Boboiboy smirked, shouldering Fang’s duffel bag before moving smoothly in front of the wheelchair. His instincts didn’t hesitate—his arms slid beneath Fang’s legs and back, lifting him easily.

Fang squeaked—actually squeaked—as he was suddenly cradled against a strong chest. Lavender spiked with shock and shyness, hands clutching desperately at Boboiboy’s shirt. “W-what are you doing?!”

Boboiboy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lowered himself into the wheelchair with Fang securely in his lap, holding him as though it was the most natural thing in the world. A smug grin curled his lips, cinnamon flaring with smug amusement and protective dominance.

“Taking a shortcut,” he murmured, voice dripping teasing confidence. “To my room. Unless you’d prefer me to kiss you again instead?”

Fang’s crimson eyes went wide, face burning brighter as his scent knotted in frantic denial. He buried his face in his hands with a muffled, desperate groan.

Boboiboy’s smirk only deepened. His form shimmered, golden light flickering as his body sharpened into Solar. Power radiated like heat waves, confidence settling into his frame.

Fang peeked out from behind his hands, crimson eyes flashing wide as Solar leaned closer, his grin sly and maddening.

“W-wait—” Fang stammered, pressing both palms to Solar’s chest as if he could stop him. “Y-you’re not actually—!?”

Solar tilted his head down, lips hovering scandalously close to Fang’s forehead. His golden eyes gleamed with mischief, his cinnamon scent spiking rich with smug amusement.

“Mm, don’t move, bunny,” he whispered, deliberately soft. “I might miss the target.”

“D-don’t you dare!” Fang squeaked, twisting slightly in Solar’s lap, every line of his body taut with panic. His lavender scent fluttered frantically, betraying his racing heart. He tried to push against Solar’s chest, but the Alpha barely budged, steady as stone.

Solar chuckled low, letting his breath ghost against Fang’s skin—close enough to make Fang tremble. “You’re so easy to tease,” he murmured, his tone wickedly amused.

Fang’s ears burned scarlet, his words tumbling out in flustered fragments. “I-I’m serious! Don’t—don’t you—!”

But before the protest could finish, Solar changed course. Instead of lowering his lips to Fang’s forehead, he shifted smoothly and pressed a warm kiss against the curve of Fang’s cheek.

It was quick, almost casual. But it detonated like fire in Fang’s chest.

His entire body jolted, lavender bursting bright and tangled with heat. His face went crimson from hairline to throat, hands flying up as if he could physically cover the spot Solar had kissed. “—!”

No words came out. Just a broken noise somewhere between a squeak and a strangled groan.

Solar leaned back slightly, a satisfied smirk firmly in place. His eyes glittered, every inch of him radiating shameless arrogance. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Fang whipped his face away, burying himself deeper in Kaizo’s jacket as though it could shield him from the unbearable embarrassment. “Y-you… you’re insufferable,” he muttered, voice muffled and trembling. His omega instincts betrayed him again, curling closer instead of pulling away.

Solar hummed, the sound warm in his chest. “Insufferable, hm?” He dipped his head again—pressing another kiss, softer this time, against Fang’s temple.

Fang stiffened, crimson eyes snapping open, only for another kiss to follow on the other temple. Then his hairline. Then the edge of his jaw—never quite daring too close, just enough to make heat spike across Fang’s skin.

“Stop—!” Fang squeaked again, wriggling weakly in his lap. But his voice cracked, desperate in a way that betrayed how undone he already was. His hands hovered awkwardly, torn between pushing Solar away and hiding his burning face.

Solar’s smirk curved sharper, his instincts triumphant. “Not until you stop looking at yourself like you’ve done something wrong,” he murmured, cinnamon wrapping rich and grounding around Fang’s fluttering lavender. “Not until you remember you matter.”

Another kiss—this time to Fang’s temple again, lingering a heartbeat longer.

Then, a playful brush of lips against the tip of his nose that made Fang’s entire body jolt.

Fang squealed—actually squealed—and buried his face in Solar’s chest like a flustered rabbit, fists clutching at his shirt. His scent spiraled into tangled lavender, nervous and safe and overwhelmed all at once.

“Y-you’re—!” he choked out, voice muffled. “You’re impossible, that’s what you are!”

Solar laughed low, smug and rich, though his arms tightened protectively around Fang’s smaller frame. He bent down once more, pressing one last kiss against Fang’s hair, gentle this time. “Maybe,” he whispered against the strands. “But if it makes you forget that guilt for even a second, then I can be impossible all night.”

Fang whimpered, burying himself deeper in Solar’s chest as if to disappear completely. His face was scarlet, his body trembling—but his instincts betrayed him again, clinging tighter, curling into the safety offered.

And Solar only smiled, victorious, holding him as though he were the most precious thing in the world.

“Hold on, bunny,” Solar murmured. His hand tilted Fang’s head carefully until it rested on the side against his chest, protecting him from the leap.

Then the world flared gold.

In an instant, the wheelchair, the duffel, and both boys blinked from Fang’s messy room into the warmth of Boboiboy’s quarters. The landing was smooth, seamless—Fang barely felt the shift, his head tucked safely against Solar’s chest, lavender fluttering in shy disarray as he realized how carefully the Alpha had shielded him through the leap.

Solar smirked down at him, smug and certain. “See, bunny? Told you. Shortcuts.” His arms tightened slightly, as if reminding Fang that letting go wasn’t an option.

The Alpha straightened smoothly from the wheelchair, Fang cradled in his arms as though he weighed nothing.

Solar’s confidence radiated in every step—arrogant, yes, but not careless. His mind was already calculating, dissecting, choosing: the safest way to carry Fang, the most efficient path across the room, the exact amount of pressure needed so the omega didn’t jostle. He was arrogance, laced with precision.

The bed came into view, and with it, the nest sprawled across it—layered blankets and pillows steeped in familiar scents. Cinnamon, carrots, lavender… and underneath, the softer lingering traces of Ying, Yaya, and Gopal. Solar’s chest eased slightly at those, recognizing his pack.

But then his instincts snagged, sharp and ugly, as his senses brushed against another scent woven in his room, specifically the one on Fang. Jasmine. Cedarwood. Iron.

Kaizo.

Solar’s lips pressed thin. 'Another Alpha’s claim in my room. Not mine, not pack. Irritating.' His instincts bristled, protective heat rising in his chest, but his loyalty anchored him. 'He’s Fang’s brother—blood pack.' 

Carefully, Solar lowered Fang into the nest. The omega’s body sank into it with a sigh, tension bleeding away as the scents wrapped him like a cocoon. Fang’s lashes fluttered, his expression softening despite the heat still burning in his cheeks.

Boboiboy turned, placing the duffel neatly in the closet, when a rustle caught his ear. He looked back in time to see Fang tugging Kaizo’s jacket off his shoulders. The omega laid it beside him, curling toward the familiar scent of jasmine and cedarwood with half-lidded eyes.

Solar’s jaw clenched. His instincts twisted, a growl clawing at the back of his throat. 'How long must I smell another Alpha in your nest, bunny?' he thought bitterly, before forcing the thought down. His arrogance wanted to rip the jacket away, but his loyalty—his care—forced restraint. 'He’s your brother. I’ll allow it. For you.'

“You should rest, bunny,” Solar said softly, modulating his voice with deliberate care. His arrogance would rather command, but his care whispered to soothe him instead. He reached for a pillow—not one touched by Fang’s scent—and set it on the floor by the bed. His body was running on instinct, exhaustion pressing down, but it was still calculated, chosen.

Before he could lower himself, a hand caught his wrist. Fang’s fingers, slender but unexpectedly firm, held him in place. Crimson eyes, heavy with sleep but gleaming with sudden steel, locked on his face.

“…What do you think you’re doing?” Fang’s voice was rough, sharp—the tone Tok Aba uses when scolding Boboiboy, not Fang. The words startled Solar still, instincts stuttering at the unexpected role reversal.

“I—” Solar blinked, tilting his head, genuinely confused. “…I was going to sleep on the floor so you could rest properly.”

Fang’s grip tightened. His scent spiked with firm rejection, lavender sharper now, carrying an unmistakable edge of omega instinct. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, the words clipped.

Solar’s brows lifted. 'Ridiculous? Me?' His instincts bristled at the challenge, unused to being spoken down to—but then his sharp mind noted the faint tremor beneath Fang’s tone. The flush on his face. The omega instincts tangling with exhaustion and shyness, pulling him in two directions. Fang’s body wanted closeness, safety. His words were the last defense of pride.

Boboiboy parted his lips to respond, but Fang cut him off before he could form a thought. “Get in the nest. Now.”

The Alpha froze.

For a heartbeat, surprise flashed in his chest. Then his instincts roared in triumph—finally, permission, acceptance—but his mind reeled at the bluntness. “…Bunny, are you sure? You know what it means if an Alpha enters an omega’s nest without being—”

“I trust you,” Fang interrupted firmly, no hesitation this time. His crimson eyes narrowed, voice cutting through with unyielding certainty. “With my life.”

The words landed like a blade through Solar’s arrogance, carving straight into the core of his loyalty. His chest clenched, heat flooding through his scent, cinnamon twisting deep and protective. His arrogance would have smirked, claimed victory. But his care—the part of him most loyal, most devoted—simply ached.

“…Alright,” he murmured, softer, rawer than before.

Fang shifted sluggishly, making space at his back. His movements were weighed down by fatigue, yet purposeful. The trust was deliberate. Fang’s omega instincts whispered acceptance even as his ears burned red with shy embarrassment. His back turned, a silent invitation, a trembling admission that he wanted the Alpha there.

Solar lingered, centering himself, before the golden glow peeled away. He returned to his original form, exhausted from the mission and use of his powers, finally catching up, dragging him down heavily at last.

Quietly, carefully, he climbed onto the bed.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t tease. Just lay still, watching Fang’s breathing grow slower, softer, as the omega melted deeper into the cocoon of his nest. Lavender and carrots filled the air, delicate and warm, weaving together with sunlight and cinnamon.

Only when he was sure Fang had nearly drifted off did Boboiboy move. His arm slid gently around Fang’s waist, pulling him back toward his chest with a few inches apart, while the other eased beneath Fang’s head like a pillow. His hold was protective but measured—close, but with spaces that tell Fang he could leave, an escape.

Fang murmured faintly, too drowsy to form words, but his body instinctively leaned into the warmth. His omega instincts yielded despite his shy resistance, his head pressing on Boboiboy’s arm.

Boboiboy exhaled slowly, cinnamon spreading steadily and protectively, pressing back the lingering bite of Kaizo’s scent. His eyes shut at last, fatigue claiming him. But even as he drifted, one thought held fast, loyal and arrogant and tender all at once:

'I will protect you, bunny. Always.'

And wrapped in lavender and cinnamon, with Fang’s heartbeat steady near him, Boboiboy finally let sleep pull him under.

In another part of TAPOPS, hidden behind layers of surveillance screens and dim lighting, a figure leaned back in his chair. The monitor screen lit his face in fractured bands of light, catching on the thin scar carved through his eyebrow. His expression was composed, almost detached, but his eyes—fever-bright, unblinking—betrayed the storm beneath.

The soft hum of machinery filled the room, punctuated by the faint skitter of tiny legs. His “spiders” crawled through TAPOPS, not true arachnids but coin-sized drones of his own design—perfect, obedient, undetectable. Unlike the fools he commanded by rank, these machines were his true army.

His children.

And through them, he had eyes and ears in every corner.

For five months, he had played the role of loyal agent. Infiltrating. Embedding. Waiting. No one suspected the Alpha in their midst. No one guessed that every breath, every flicker of surveillance, every scrap of routine was already his.

And all of it—every patient hour—was for Fang.

On the screen, the feed sharpened. The nest spread across Boboiboy’s bed: blankets tangled, pillows stacked, scents mingled. At its center, Fang. Curled on his side, back to Boboiboy, his body taut with exhaustion. Shadows draped across him like a second skin, the Shadow Watch gleaming faintly on his wrist even in sleep.

And wrapped around him—Boboiboy. Arms caging him close: one over Fang’s waist, another beneath his head. Protective. Possessive.

The Alpha’s jaw twitched, his fingers flexing once against the desk before stilling. Hours ago, when Fang had slept on Kaizo’s lap in the cafeteria, he had felt nothing. The Captain was blood, harmless, unthreatening.

But this—this was an insult. A theft. A contamination of what was his.

“Touching my specimen,” he murmured, voice low, venom laced with surgical calm. “Spoiling him with affection. Filth. You think love makes him stronger? No. I’ll show you what strength really means.”

His gaze lingered on Fang, reverence and hunger entwined. The Shadow Watch pulsed faintly, resonating with Fang’s presence. Shadows bent to him as if he had been born from them, not wielding them but embodying them. Perfect synchrony. Perfect resonance.

The Alpha’s lips curled, not into a smile but into something sharper. His hand twitched, restrained only by the other pressing it flat against the desk. “I will open you,” he whispered, tone filled with giddiness, as if he were a child in a candy store. “Every nerve. Every vessel. Every hidden spark. I will carve you into blueprints. And then—ah, then—we will see what children are born of such perfection. A legion of shadows. My army. My sons, my daughters… all carrying pieces of you.”

A tremor of laughter broke from him, raw and unsteady, before he inhaled deep and smoothed himself into eerie calm once again. That was what made him feared among the hunters: the composure, the patience, the mask of control caging the mania inside.

One spider clicked open a hidden compartment, releasing a faint hiss. A colorless, odorless gas seeped into the air of Boboiboy’s quarters—his own design, harmless to Alphas and Betas, merciless to Omegas. It clawed into their dreams, leaving only nightmares, breaking their minds and confidence with voices whispering in their heads, gnawing at their recovery with endless fatigue.

He had used it on Fang for four months. Most Omegas would have collapsed, cracked open by exhaustion.

But not him.

Fang resisted, fought harder. The poison sharpened him, burned him brighter.

“…Exquisite,” the Alpha whispered, eyes wide, trembling with barely leashed desire.

On the screen, Fang stirred uneasily, brow furrowed in sleep. Boboiboy’s arm tightened protectively.

The Alpha’s head tilted, his voice dropping to something cold enough to freeze marrow. “You’ll regret that touch, boy. You’ll regret standing between me and my masterpiece.”

With a flick of his wrist, he tapped a command, calling his spiders back. It wasn’t time yet. If Fang woke, his sharp senses could trace the machines, and the figure wasn’t ready to reveal himself.

Not yet.

Soon.

For now, he would watch. And wait. And let the gas do its work, even if it delays Fang’s recovery. The thought of Boboiboy’s arm around Fang burned in his mind, but he pushed it down.

Calm. Patient. Brilliant madness caged beneath a still mask.

Because eventually, Fang would not simply belong to him.

Fang would be reborn into him.

The nightmare came swiftly and cruelly.

Fang stood in the middle of a void—dark, endless, yet suffocatingly tight. The air was heavy, thick, and every breath clawed at his lungs. Shadows twisted around him, stretching tall and sharp like fangs themselves, whispering in voices he couldn’t place at first.

Then they grew familiar. Kaizo. Sai. Shielda. Lahap. Gopal. Ying. Yaya. Ochobot. Even BoBoiBoy.

But none of the words were kind.

“You’re weak.”

“You slow us down.”

“Why did we even save you?”

“You should’ve died back then. It would’ve been easier for everyone.”

The voices overlapped, louder, harsher, until they were a deafening roar.

Images flickered within the shadows—fragments of his past failures. Fang saw Lahap stand with his back to him, shielding him from harm, from the time of his very first mission. He saw Kaizo turning away from him, back rigid, choosing duty over trust. He saw the moment his parents getting killed, their silhouettes dissolving into the void while he screamed for them not to leave.

Then worse came.

Yaya crumbled into dust at his feet. Ying collapsed, whispering, "You couldn’t save me." Ochobot sparked and broke apart, machinery burning, and Gopal’s laugh twisted into a scream before silence swallowed it whole. Sai and Shielda turned to face him, eyes cold, accusing: Because of you. Always because of you.

And then BoBoiBoy stood there. No shadow, no distortion—just him. Looking straight at Fang with unreadable eyes. And when Fang reached out desperately, pleading for him not to vanish like the rest, BoBoiBoy’s face twisted.

“You should’ve died a long time ago.” His voice was low, final. “It would’ve been easier for everyone.”

The words tore through Fang like blades. His throat burned—he tried to scream, tried to shout back—but no sound came. Only a broken rasp that vanished into the void.

The shadows grew claws. They brushed against his skin, curling tight, and then sank in like venom, dragging him down into blackness. No matter how much he struggled, the weight pressed him deeper into the abyss, cold and suffocating.

And with every echo, every cruel reminder, the thought grew louder in his head; 'They're right, it would be better if I wasn’t here. They’d be happier without me.'

His chest ached. His body trembled, curling in on itself as if to make himself smaller, weaker—easier to erase.

In the waking world, Fang whimpered. Small, broken sounds slipped past his lips as his body tucked tighter into a ball in his nest. His breathing grew uneven, hitching. 

BoBoiBoy stirred at the sound.

At first, he thought he was dreaming, but when the soft whimpers continued, his eyes blinked open. He turned his head slightly, gaze settling on Fang’s trembling form beside him. 

'Why is he…?' BoBoiBoy frowned in thought. 'Why does he sound so scared?'

Concern tightened in his chest, but before he could move to comfort Fang, Fang gasped awake with a jolt. His eyes darted unfocused in the dim light, his breath ragged as if he had been drowning seconds before.

Slowly, painfully, he tried to force himself upright before realizing BoBoiBoy’s arm was still looped around his waist and another tucked under his head.

Fang froze. 

His back was still to BoBoiBoy. He glanced back, to which Boboiboy immediately closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep.

Seeing this, Fang let out a sigh of relief. 'He’s asleep,' 

Quietly, he muttered under his breath, soft words meant only to soothe himself, meant only for his ears. He tried to mask his scent, forcing the sharp tang of distress down as best as he could.

“…It’s just a dream. Just a dream. Pull yourself together. Don’t wake him.”

He swallowed hard, running through things he could do instead. Work. Training. Anything to keep him from closing his eyes again. 

“…I’ll just…get back to some reports. Maybe reorganize the files. I won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

That was when BoBoiBoy’s eyes softened. 'So this isn’t the first time… He isn’t even going to try to sleep again. Has he been… like this every night?' 

A quiet decision clicked in his chest.

Without breaking the illusion of slumber, BoBoiBoy’s arm around Fang’s waist tightened gently. He pulled, slow and steady, until Fang’s back pressed firmly against his chest. The other arm shifted from beneath Fang’s head to across his chest, pinning his arms lightly but securely.

Fang stiffened in shock, caught off guard. “Wha—”

Before he could wriggle free, BoBoiBoy’s leg shifted, tangling with Fang’s and trapping them too. Now, Fang was cocooned in warmth, locked in an embrace that was firm enough to keep him still but gentle enough not to strain his sore muscles.

His breath hitched, heat creeping up his face. 'He’s… hugging me?' 

Fang tried once, twice, to ease BoBoiBoy’s hold, whispering softly, “BoBoiBoy… wake up… you’re… too close…”

But the alpha didn’t stir. His breathing was slow, steady, feigning sleep, face buried in the back of Fang’s neck.

Fang swallowed thickly. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even think straight. All he could feel was the warmth pressed against him and the uncomfortable flutter of emotions curling in his stomach. 

And BoBoiBoy—eyes closed but very much awake—tightened his hold just a fraction more. 'You’re not running away from rest tonight, Fang. Not while I’m here.'

Fang’s body tensed, every muscle coiling, but the alpha’s embrace only grew firmer, grounding. The faintest rumble of BoBoiBoy’s chest reverberated against his back, not a growl, not even a sound—just the steady beat of his heart.

Strong.

Unshaken.

Inescapable.

Carrots and lavender spilled sharp and frantic into the air, no matter how hard he tried to clamp it down. He fought to suppress it, to choke back the panicked bloom of his own scent, but the gas’s residue and his exhaustion betrayed him. His distress tangled and twined with BoBoiBoy’s warmth—cinnamon and sunlight, rich and steady, seeping into every inch of him like heat into cold bones.

Too close.

Too much.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. The contrast was unbearable: his own fractured, desperate scent colliding with BoBoiBoy’s grounding one. The kind of scent that wrapped around him like a shield, like a home, like a promise he didn’t deserve.

“Let… let go…” Fang whispered weakly, squirming. His movements were small, almost half-hearted, as though even he didn’t believe he could break free. Every wriggle only tightened the alpha’s grip subtly, deliberately. A leg pinning his own. An arm across his chest, locking his wrists against his sternum. And all the while, BoBoiBoy’s face nestled quietly against the back of his neck, breathing even, pretending to sleep.

Heat crawled up Fang’s ears, down his throat. He tried again, whispering, “You’re… too close… you’ll smell it…” His words faded into a thin rasp, mortified.

Because he could smell it—could feel it. Every inch of him pressed against BoBoiBoy’s warmth made his body betray him. The cinnamon-sunlight scent seeped into his bones, flooding his senses until he couldn’t think straight. His chest fluttered with something sharp and hot, something he didn’t want to name.

His pride screamed to move, but his body… froze. The cocoon of warmth was suffocating, but in ways that made his pulse stumble.

Then his mind betrayed him.

The warmth against his back flickered into an image, unbidden: BoBoiBoy’s arms holding tighter, not out of slumber, but choice. Protecting him. Choosing him. He could almost see it—BoBoiBoy’s eyes half-lidded with quiet certainty, murmuring something against his ear he couldn’t quite hear.

The thought jolted him, heat flashing through his chest. He shook his head, trying to scatter the illusion, but another came just as quickly.

The hand pinning his wrists—suddenly, he imagined it holding him not in restraint, but in claim. Fingers interlaced with his own. No battle, no resistance, just belonging. His pulse stuttered violently, the phantom image clashing against the reality of BoBoiBoy’s steady breaths against his neck.

'Stop. Stop. Not him. Not now.'

But the gas had cracked the walls of his mind, leaving his barriers thin as paper. Instincts and exhaustion swirled into a fevered haze, and the cinnamon-sunlight scent pressed deeper into his head, curling like smoke around every fragile thought.

His body betrayed him again.

For an instant—too sharp, too vivid—he didn’t just imagine BoBoiBoy holding him close. He saw it: the alpha’s lips trailing along the curve of his throat, slow and deliberate, brushing just above the frantic pulse that thundered there. Heat ripped through his chest at the phantom contact, his breath hitching shallow and fast.

'No. No.'

But the haze didn’t stop. It painted more: BoBoiBoy’s mouth pressing to his jaw, firm and claiming.

The thought seared into him so viscerally, he swore he could feel the warmth of breath ghosting against his skin.

His body tensed, but another vision cut through, crueler still—BoBoiBoy’s hand sliding from his pinned wrists to lace their fingers together, squeezing as though promising he’d never let go, while the other roamed low against his waist, pulling him closer until no space was left between them.

His lungs dragged air in ragged, the clash of scents overwhelming. Carrots and lavender flared sharply with his embarrassment, his desire, colliding with the steady storm of cinnamon and sunlight pressing tighter around him.

He blinked, and for a heartbeat, he saw himself turning in the embrace, face buried against BoBoiBoy’s chest, letting go. A dangerous sweetness, impossible to untangle from reality, dug its claws into him. He shook it away, heart racing, only for another phantom to spark—BoBoiBoy tilting his head down, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was anything but tentative—hot, unyielding, demanding.

Fang jolted at the phantom spark of it, the way he could almost taste warmth and spice on his tongue. His thighs pressed together instinctively, a tremor running through his frame.

“Not real,” he mouthed soundlessly into the dark, chest heaving. But the phantom refused to vanish. Instead, it deepened: BoBoiBoy murmuring against his lips, voice low and rough with intent—mine.

Fang shuddered violently, heat pouring through him, shame and want clashing so fiercely he thought it might tear him in two. His claws flexed against his own palms, desperate for an anchor, something to claw the visions away, but all he could feel was the steady rise and fall of BoBoiBoy’s chest against his back—so real, so dangerous.

And through it all, the images kept coming.

A kiss at his temple. A mouth at his throat. A hand at his hip, pulling him tighter. The press of lips against his own. The words he was terrified to hear—terrified to crave.

You’re mine.

BoBoiBoy’s brows furrowed faintly against Fang’s neck, catching the tremors in his body, the sharp bite of carrots and lavender flooding too heavily into the air. Fang was coiled too tight, not softening under his hold but stiffening, fighting ghosts only he could see.

Quietly, instinctively, BoBoiBoy let his own scent unfurl stronger—cinnamon and sunlight spilling steadily, pushing gently but firmly against the frantic edge of Fang’s. His hold remained steady, not crushing but protective, letting his warmth sink in with every beat of his heart.

“Easy,” he breathed so low it could’ve been mistaken for sleep, his nose brushing at Fang’s nape. Cinnamon-sunlight curled heavier, layered with the subtle undertone of you’re not alone.

It worked—slowly. Fang’s frantic trembling dulled, his sharp breaths dragging longer, but exhaustion made him restless.

Fang twisted awkwardly, trying to turn, only to trap his arms between them. BoBoiBoy’s face brushed against his throat in the shift, his breath fanning hot against sensitive skin. Fang’s claws flexed weakly, heat flushing over his chest.

“BoBoiBoy…” he rasped, trying to push at him. “Wake up. Let go…”

The alpha stirred, eyelids half-lifting with convincing drowsiness, voice gravelly with feigned sleep. “…hm? Fang…?” His grip didn’t loosen.

Instead, he shifted, rolling just enough so Fang’s face pressed against his collarbone, tucked neatly under his chin.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured, voice threaded with alpha steadiness, with calm dominance that soothed like a blanket over frayed nerves. One hand rubbed faint circles along Fang’s arm, while his scent pulsed warmer, wrapping tighter around him.

Fang stilled, but only barely. His hands pressed lightly against BoBoiBoy’s chest. “…you’re… holding too tight…”

A muffled hum. “…s’for your fever… stay still…” Another subtle adjustment followed, his arm tightening just a fraction more, anchoring Fang firmly in place.

Fang’s lips parted as if to protest again, but BoBoiBoy’s chest rumbled softly against him, the faintest sigh escaping, carrying cinnamon-sunlight like warmth off a fire. “…you're safe here…”

His words faded into a near mumble, half-asleep, like instinct slipping through without thought. Fang’s muscles twitched in tension at first, but the steady repetition of murmurs—fragments of sound, soft vibrations in his chest—eroded the last of his resistance.

“…not letting go…”

“…rest, Fang…”

“…I’ve got you…”

Each subtle adjustment, each quiet sound pressed against Fang’s defenses until they crumbled. His claws relaxed, then stilled entirely. His head tipped slightly against BoBoiBoy’s collarbone, breath warm against his skin. His body, once rigid, melted slowly into the alpha’s embrace.

Little by little, his breathing steadied, syncing with BoBoiBoy’s. The nightmare’s remnants unraveled, the illusions scattering into nothing. No phantom kisses. No cruel echoes. Just cinnamon and sunlight. Just safety.

And then finally—quietly—Fang’s weight sagged fully into him, sleep pulling him down at last.

BoBoiBoy’s eyes fluttered open properly this time, the act no longer needed. He kept still, watching Fang’s face in the faint glow of the room. His lashes rested softly against flushed cheeks, his mouth parted slightly, and the fevered tension finally eased away.

BoBoiBoy’s chest loosened with a quiet exhale, relief flooding his expression. He leaned down, burying his face briefly in Fang’s hair, inhaling the faint lavender that lingered beneath the exhaustion. His hold softened, still protective but no longer iron.

'Finally… he relaxed.'

Yet even as comfort warmed his chest, questions lingered, heavy in the back of his mind. What nightmare had Fang been fighting so desperately? What fear had carved those tremors into him?

BoBoiBoy brushed the thought aside for now, pressing the lightest, almost unconscious nuzzle into Fang’s hair. 'Whatever it was, it could wait. Right now, Fang was safe—here, in my arms.'

With that thought soothing him, BoBoiBoy’s eyes slid shut again. His breathing evened out, his face tucked into Fang’s hair as sleep reclaimed him—this time genuine.

Next Morning

Morning arrived in the halls of TAPOPS HQ. The room was quiet, save for the steady hum of the station outside, the low rhythm of engines always present in the distance.

Fang stirred first, eyelids fluttering open. His body felt warm—too warm—and it took him a few seconds to realize why. He blinked down, finding BoBoiBoy wrapped around him like some stubborn octopus. An arm on his back, another locked around his waist, a leg tangled with his own, face buried against the curve of Fang’s neck.

Confusion flickered across his features until memory returned—the nightmare, the fear, the way BoBoiBoy had held him steady through the haze. Heat rushed to Fang’s ears, a flush blooming across his face.

Still… his chest loosened with something like relief. The night had been unbroken after that moment. No nightmares. No phantoms. Just warmth, just cinnamon-sunlight, anchoring him safely until morning.

He should move. He should. But the thought of leaving this cocoon of heat, of pulling away from the protective weight of BoBoiBoy’s arms, made his body rebel. Fang swallowed, burying his face slightly deeper into the collarbone he was tucked against, telling himself it was just because he was still tired. Just for a little longer.

And then—

The shrill beep-beep-beep of an alarm tore through the quiet.

BoBoiBoy jolted awake with a groan, limbs tightening instinctively before loosening just a little. Fang froze, immediately screwing his eyes shut, pretending to still be asleep as his heart pounded.

“Ugh… seriously?” BoBoiBoy muttered groggily, fumbling for his watch until the alarm finally clicked off. He flopped back down with a sigh, half into Fang’s hair. “Why does the universe have to wake me up from the best sleep I’ve had in my whole life?”

Fang’s ears burned. His face stayed buried, pretending slumber, even as the words echoed sharply in his chest.

BoBoiBoy lingered, nuzzling unconsciously into Fang’s hair, blinking blearily at the soft features so close to him. His lips moved before his brain caught up, voice low, almost unconscious. “…Honestly, I wouldn’t mind waking up to this beautiful face every day…”

Fang’s body went taut, a fresh rush of heat tearing through him. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, desperate not to react. 'Not real. He doesn’t mean it. He’s half-asleep…' Still, embarrassment crackled through every nerve, and he only dared keep up the act of sleeping.

After a moment, BoBoiBoy sighed, lifting his head. He shook Fang gently. “Hey. Fang. Time to wake up—Breakfast will be served soon.”

Fang let his lashes flutter open, feigning a groggy blink. “…Morning.” His voice was scratchy, but steady enough.

BoBoiBoy smiled softly. “Good morning.”

Fang shifted, trying to sit up—only to find himself still trapped in the octopus hold. He glanced sideways, heat curling faintly at his ears. “…BoBoiBoy. Can you let go? I need to shower and change.”

For a beat, the alpha didn’t move, reluctance flickering plain in his eyes. Then, with a faint exhale, he released him, watching closely as Fang pushed upright.

Fang swung his legs carefully off the bed. Pain tugged faintly in his thigh, but it was nowhere near the stabbing ache of yesterday. He pressed his weight down slowly, testing it. Bearable. Manageable.

He made his way carefully toward his duffel bag stashed in BoBoiBoy’s closet, every step deliberate.

“Fang…” BoBoiBoy’s voice carried lightly from behind, tinged with concern. “Your leg… are you sure? I know the medic said one day of rest, but—”

“It’s fine,” Fang interrupted, though gently. He looked back, giving a small nod. “As long as I’m careful.”

BoBoiBoy didn’t look fully convinced, but he hovered close, always within reach. He knew Fang would hate feeling chained, but if he faltered—he’d be there.

When Fang picked out a change of clothes, they entered the small bathroom connected to BoBoiBoy’s room.

BoBoiBoy gestured toward the shelves by the bathroom sink. “Hair products are there—shampoo, conditioner, the stuff I use. Feel free to grab whatever.”

Fang gave him a quiet nod as he put his clothes near the towels.

At the door, BoBoiBoy paused, glancing at him once more before stepping back. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

The door slid shut behind him, leaving BoBoiBoy in the quiet of his room, still faintly carrying lavender on his collarbone where Fang had rested.

Later

Fang stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp, a towel draped around his neck. His shirt clung neatly to his frame, sleeves rolled just enough to show pale wrists with wet bandages around his knuckles, and his expression was faintly tired but calm.

BoBoiBoy moved toward him immediately, hovering close, his eyes narrowed in quiet concern. “How’s your fever?” he asked softly, hand lifting without hesitation to rest against Fang’s forehead. His palm was warm, steady, brushing aside a few damp strands of hair. “Still hot?”

Fang stiffened at the closeness, though the touch was gentle, grounding. “It’s… better,” he muttered, trying not to let his scent spike with embarrassment.

Before BoBoiBoy could press further, a sudden commotion echoed from the hallway. Shouts, hurried footsteps, and then—

“GOPAL!!” a furious voice screamed, rattling the air.

BoBoiBoy tensed, glancing toward the door. “What the—?” He started to step toward it, but the door slid open on its own before either of them could react.

A toy mouse rolled into the room, squeaking mechanically, but this one… had a tiny straw hat perched on its head, woven from basket straw.

Both boys blinked.

Then came the thunder, Cattus burst in after it. The green alien cat’s eyes glowed as the Power Sphere BellBot on its neck tried to calm the cat down, tail thrashing like a whip. It was on a mission, growling like a demon as it locked onto the mouse.

The mouse scurried directly toward Fang. Reflexes made him step back—but Cattus lunged first, barreling straight into his legs. Fang yelped as his balance snapped, stumbling backward.

“Fang!”

BoBoiBoy dove to catch him, arms outstretched, but Cattus wasn’t finished. The cat clipped BoBoiBoy’s own feet mid-sprint, sending him sprawling forward.

The only thing BoBoiBoy managed was to shield the back of Fang’s head with one hand before—

Crash.

Both hit the floor. BoBoiBoy landed on top of Fang, and their lips collided in a shockingly perfect kiss.

They froze.

The world stilled.

Fang’s wide eyes locked on BoBoiBoy’s so close, his mind blank, his chest heaving.

For a heartbeat, it felt unreal. Too sudden. Too impossible. His heart hammered wildly in his ribs, and yet—his lips tingled, warm, soft, and the taste that lingered wasn’t just BoBoiBoy’s mouth, but something uniquely him; spiced cinnamon.

'Oh stars…' Fang’s breath caught, instincts clawing up from the pit of his being. Heat unfurled like wildfire through his body—his omega instinct screaming at him to surrender, to melt, to cling to the alpha pressing down on him. His resistance crumbled in a rush of craving. His lashes fluttered shut, body arching subtly upward as his lips parted with hesitant need, a silent invitation.

BoBoiBoy jolted at the change, stunned for only a second.

Then his own instincts roared awake, surging like thunder in his veins. The sweetness of Fang’s submission, the way he melted beneath him—it lit something primal, something hungry, something that made his alpha heart thunder with possessive exhilaration.

'He’s letting me… he wants this.'

A low sound rumbled in BoBoiBoy’s chest as he pressed back. His mouth moved harder, hungrier, devouring the taste of Fang like he’d been starving for it without even knowing. His hand cupped the back of Fang’s head tighter, tilting it, angling the kiss deeper. Their breaths tangled hotly, ragged and fast.

Fang whimpered softly, a sound he didn’t even realize escaped, and his fists curled into BoBoiBoy’s shirt with desperate strength, clutching him closer. His lips burned, tingling as they moved in sync with BoBoiBoy’s, the heat spiraling dizzyingly. His senses drowned—BoBoiBoy’s weight pressing down, the cinnamon and sunlight scent of him thick in the air, the warmth of his body searing through clothes.

'He feels like fire against my skin…'

The kiss deepened further, tongues brushing, tentative at first, then bolder. Fang gasped against him, trembling, but didn’t pull away—instead, he leaned into it, chest flush to BoBoiBoy’s, lips parting wider in a surrender that sent a thrill straight through the alpha.

BoBoiBoy’s thoughts blurred into instinct. 'So soft, so sweet—mine.' Every brush of Fang’s mouth only fanned the hunger, his lips trailing fire, his taste addictive. The kiss turned consuming, a clash of heat and want, no space left between them as if they could fuse right there.

The heat between them spiraled, every second stretching, consuming, the rest of the world forgotten.

Until—

The toy mouse zipped past Fang’s head.

Cattus lunged.

Wham!

The cat smacked into BoBoiBoy’s face mid-kiss. The alpha groaned in pain, the spell shattering.

BoBoiBoy sat up sharply, face flushed with both fury and embarrassment, vines whipping out to snag the mouse and Cattus at once. “Enough!” he snapped, furious that the moment had been shattered.

Cattus, unbothered, batted at the toy mouse until it managed to paw the straw hat from its head—and promptly ate it like a snack.

BoBoiBoy exhaled through his nose, still seething, before turning back toward Fang. His hand gentled instantly, reaching to help him up. “You okay?” he asked, voice quieter.

Fang’s cheeks burned, his lips tingling, but he nodded quickly as he stood up with BoBoiBoy’s help. “I’m… fine.”

Before either of them could say more, the door slid open again.

Gopal darted inside, panicked, and plastered himself against BoBoiBoy’s back like a human shield. “Help me, Boboiboy!” he yelped, voice cracking.

Seconds later, Yaya and Ying stormed up, eyes blazing like twin hurricanes.

“GOPAL!!” they chorused, rattling the very walls.

“You think this is funny?!” Yaya snapped, jabbing a finger at him.

“Pranking us with a mouse?!” Ying added, her glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Fang blinked, still catching his breath, and tilted his head faintly. BoBoiBoy’s gaze sharpened on Gopal, his patience already razor-thin. “What did you do?”

“It wasn’t me!!” Gopal squeaked, eyes darting everywhere but the furious girls. Then, slowly, he crumpled under Yaya’s death-glare like wet paper. “...Okay, fine, it was me. I found a toy mouse, put the straw hat on it—don’t ask why, it was funny!—then sent it toward their feet. But then Cattus saw it and went totally berserk!”

“And then,” Ying cut in icily, arms folded, “Sai grabbed the controller while everything was already in chaos and decided to add more fuel to the fire.”

Right on cue, Sai peeked around the doorframe, grinning shamelessly, the controller in his hand lighting up. “Hey! Can I have that mouse back? That was fun!”

“SAI!” another voice snapped. Shielda stormed into view, yanking her twin brother by the ear so hard he winced. “Are you serious right now?! You nearly broke half the hallway just for a prank!”

“Ow-ow-ow-ow! Shielda, come on, it was just a game!” Sai whined, trying to wriggle free, still holding onto the controller like it was a precious treasure.

Shielda smacked the back of his head with her free hand. “You don’t play by turning alien cats into rampaging beasts, you maniac!”

“I was helping the chaos!” Sai argued, grinning even through his sister’s scolding.

“You are the chaos!” Shielda shot back, exasperated.

By now, Gopal was crouching, waving his hands like a defense attorney. “See?! It wasn’t just me! Sai’s the real culprit here! Arrest him first!”

“Don’t you dare drag me down with you, Gopal!” Sai yelled, still half in a headlock under his sister’s arm.

That was the final straw.

BoBoiBoy’s vines lashed, scooping the entire mess—Gopal, Yaya, Ying, Cattus, the mouse, Sai, and Shielda—out the door in one swift sweep. “OUT! All of you! OUT, OUT, OUT!”

“But—!” Gopal started.

“No buts! OUT!”

The door sealed shut with a slam that rattled the room.

Silence dropped, thick and ringing.

Fang and BoBoiBoy stood frozen, cheeks still hot, the memory of that kiss burning even heavier now that they were finally alone.

Fang’s chest tightened, the heat of the moment curdling into a slow, suffocating dread. Horror crept in, his thoughts tripping over themselves.

'What did I do? I kissed him—no, worse, I melted into it. What if he hated it? What if I ruined everything?' The thought of losing BoBoiBoy—his friend, his anchor, his warmth, his safe place,-and damn it he will admit it-the guy that he likes—gnawed at his ribs until it hurt to breathe.

BoBoiBoy, on the other hand, was silently cursing himself. 'Idiot. You promised yourself you’d take it slow—earn his trust, let him come to you on his own terms. And what did you do? You let instincts take over. You pushed.' His jaw clenched as guilt prickled through his chest. He had sworn not to overwhelm Fang. Not to risk breaking the fragile ground they’d built.

The silence stretched unbearably, the air thick with everything unsaid.

Then Fang’s voice cracked through it, small and desperate. “...Sorry.”

BoBoiBoy blinked, startled. Fang’s eyes were wide, glassy with guilt. “I-I’m sorry, I should’ve—moved faster, or—or pushed you away—I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—” The words tumbled too fast, tripping over themselves, as Fang’s arms curled around his own body, hugging tight like he could fold in on himself. His breathing hitched, uneven, spiraling out of control.

“I made you uncomfortable—I ruined it—I—” His voice broke, his claws digging into his sleeves. Panic flooded the air, carrots and lavender sharp and frantic, stinging at BoBoiBoy’s senses.

“Fang—” BoBoiBoy stepped forward, but the omega kept unraveling, apologies spilling like water through a sieve.

Until BoBoiBoy cupped his face.

“Fang,” he said firmly, warm palms holding either side of his cheeks, grounding. Fang’s breath stuttered, tears beginning to well in his eyes.

BoBoiBoy leaned in, letting cinnamon and sunlight roll heavy, thick, and steady, pushing against the frantic spiral like a tide against wildfire. “Breathe,” he murmured, thumbs brushing gently across damp skin. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Fang’s chest shook, a small sob tearing loose before he could swallow it back. BoBoiBoy wiped the tears away softly, his heart twisting at the sight.

“I’m sorry,” BoBoiBoy said quietly.

Fang’s breath caught. He blinked, stunned, disbelief flashing across his face. 'Why… is he apologizing?' In his eyes, BoBoiBoy had done nothing wrong—nothing except save him again and again.

Before Fang could ask, BoBoiBoy leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t like before—no heat, no hunger. Just a soft press, short and grounding. Fang froze, eyes wide, his entire spiral shattering in an instant. His skin flushed crimson, his thoughts scattering to static as his body burned with heat for a different reason entirely.

BoBoiBoy pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against Fang’s, voice low and raw. “Fang, you have no idea… how much I’ve dreamed of you. How many nights I’ve stayed awake, thinking of you. How badly I....I've wanted to tell you the words—‘I love you.’”

Fang’s lips parted soundlessly, his mind reeling. His face was aflame, his entire body trembling, caught between disbelief and wonder. 'This isn’t real. It can’t be real. Am I dreaming?'

The silence stretched, Fang too stunned to answer, and BoBoiBoy read it instantly.

His chest tightened, but he didn’t push. He forced a small, soft smile instead, letting his hands slide down until he could catch Fang’s hand.

Gently, reverently, he lifted it and pressed a kiss to the back of it, where the bandages were.

“You don’t have to answer me now,” he whispered. “Take all the time you need. I’ll wait—no matter how long it takes.”

He squeezed Fang’s hand once before letting go, stepping back slowly. And then, without another word, he turned and headed for the bathroom.

The door slid shut behind him, and the sound of the shower didn’t start immediately. Inside, BoBoiBoy slid down against the wall, burying his face in his palms. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself, voice low and shaking. “You rushed him. You’re such an idiot…”

Outside, Fang sank to the floor too, his towel slipping from his neck as he pressed both hands to his burning face. His lips still tingled, his heart thundered, and his mind spun.

'He… loves me?'

Fang didn’t know if that terrified him—or made him the happiest he had ever been.

He stayed on the floor, his back pressed against the cool wall, staring blankly at the closed bathroom door. He could hear the muted rush of water, the faint echoes of BoBoiBoy moving inside. Every sound seemed louder against the silence of his mind.

And yet, that silence wasn’t empty.

The voices returned. Cold. Familiar. Merciless.

You’ll ruin this, too.

He’ll regret kissing you.

You’re nothing but a burden.

Why would he ever want you?

Fang’s fists clenched on his knees, nails digging crescent moons into his skin as his wet bandages made it uncomfortable. His chest felt tight, aching in that way it always did when the shadows pressed too close. The kiss still burned on his lips, a warmth he didn’t want to let go of—yet the memory twisted like a knife.

BoBoiBoy had said those words—I love you. Fang’s heart had nearly stopped. He wanted to believe it, to let himself drown in that warmth, but doubt clawed deeper. 'What if he only said it to calm me down? What if he regrets it already?'

His omega instincts stirred restlessly, the bondless part of him yearning for the Alpha who had kissed him so fiercely, who smelled like sunlight and cinnamon even through the veil of steam. That scent lingered in his lungs, grounding and maddening all at once. It made his instincts ache, desperate for more of that warmth, more of that safety.

And yet… his fear screamed louder.

Their friendship—the one thing he cherished most—could shatter if he leaned too far, too fast. And then… he’d lose BoBoiBoy completely.

The thought alone made his stomach twist.

Fang buried his face in his hands, whispering hoarsely into his palms, “I can’t lose him. Not him. Not ever.”

The voices mocked him anyway.

Then stay silent.

Push him away.

Pretend it never happened.

But another, quieter part of him—fragile, trembling—whispered something different: What if… just once, you didn’t run?

Fang lifted his head slowly, eyes glassy, staring at the blurred light under the bathroom door. The air around him still carried the faintest trace of his own omega scent—carrots and lavender—muted, unsteady, betraying his turmoil. It clashed with the stronger notes of BoBoiBoy’s alpha scent seeping through the steam: sunlight and cinnamon, rich and steady, wrapping around him like an embrace even without contact.

He wanted that embrace. He wanted him. His warmth, his smile, his touch.

But what if… what if there was a way to hold on without breaking everything?

An idea, hesitant and shaky, formed in his mind.

'Maybe… maybe we could try. Not forever, not yet. Just… try.'

If they treated it like a step, like a chance to see if they fit as more than friends, then maybe he wouldn’t lose him. If it didn’t work out, they could go back. Right? They could still be packmates, still be friends. BoBoiBoy wouldn’t hate him. He wouldn’t be left alone.

Fang’s heart thudded with a mix of dread and longing as the water finally shut off. He sat frozen, hugging his knees, whispering the thought again like a prayer.

'Just try. Just for a while. Please… let me keep him, even like this.'

The bathroom door slid open just a crack, steam curling out into the room.

“Uh…” BoBoiBoy’s voice came, sheepish, almost boyish despite everything that had just happened. “Fang? …Can you—uh—maybe bring me some clothes? I, um… kinda forgot to grab a change before I came in.”

Fang blinked, caught off guard, his chest tightening strangely at how shy BoBoiBoy sounded.

For a second, it almost felt normal—like they hadn’t just kissed, like his world hadn’t just tilted on its axis. He scrambled to his feet, hurriedly digging into the drawers until he found a fresh set of clothes. His hands shook slightly as he walked to the door.

He didn’t open it fully, just enough to slip the folded bundle inside without looking. “Here.” His voice cracked more than he wanted it to.

BoBoiBoy’s hand brushed his briefly as he took the clothes, warm and damp from the shower. Fang jerked back like he’d been burned, retreating a few steps before hugging his own elbows again.

Behind the door came the soft rustle of fabric as BoBoiBoy started dressing.

The silence stretched, heavy, and Fang’s chest ached with the weight of words pressing against his tongue. If he didn’t say something now, he might never be able to.

“Boboiboy…” Fang began, voice unsteady. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. “I was thinking… about earlier. About… us.”

Inside, BoBoiBoy froze mid-motion, one sleeve halfway up. 'He’s talking about my confession.'

The words tumbled out of Fang in fragments, raw and broken. “I don’t… I don’t want to ruin what we have. Our friendship. You’re… important to me. And if I mess this up, if I—if I fail—then I lose you. And I…” His voice cracked. “I can’t lose you.”

Fang’s voice grew smaller, clumsy, pained. “I don’t think I’m… suitable. For you. I’m not… good enough. I know I’m not. But… I want to try. Just for a while. To see if we can… if we can be something more. If it doesn’t work… we can go back. Just… friends again. Like nothing happened. So I don’t lose you.”

BoBoiBoy’s heart lurched. 'Wh-what is he saying?! 'Not suitable. Not good enough. If it doesn’t work, we can go back.' '

He bit down on his lip hard enough to sting. His whisper cracked the silence. “Just… please let me keep you, even like this.”

BoBoiBoy’s hands clenched in his shirt, chest aching. 'Does he really think so little of himself? Does he really think I’d ever just let him go like that?' His heart burned at the desperation in Fang’s tone, at that pleading cry.

Something inside him snapped. All the patience, all the restraint he’d promised himself—waiting until Fang was ready, waiting until the walls around his heart crumbled naturally—it all shattered in one heartbeat. He couldn’t let Fang drown in doubt, couldn’t let him believe he was unloved or unworthy.

The bathroom door suddenly slid open.

Before Fang could retreat, BoBoiBoy was there—damp hair dripping, half-dressed, eyes bright and burning. He crossed the space in two strides and swept Fang up into his arms, spinning him with a rush of joy.

“Thank you,” BoBoiBoy breathed, laughing, his voice cracking with relief. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He hugged Fang so tightly the air nearly rushed out of Fang’s lungs, but all Fang could do was cling back, stunned.

Fang blinked up at him, baffled. “W-why are you—”

“You don’t understand,” BoBoiBoy said, pressing his forehead against Fang’s, smiling through the shine in his eyes. “I don’t care if you think you’re not good enough. I don’t care about any of that. What matters is—you’re giving me a chance. Us a chance. And I swear, Fang, I won’t waste it.”

His hands framed Fang’s face, brushing damp strands away. BoBoiBoy’s own eyes glimmered, heavy with years of unsaid feelings. “You have no idea how long I’ve stayed up at night thinking about this moment. You have no idea how much I’ve dreamed of holding you, of kissing you, of hearing you say I'm more than just your friend.”

Fang’s breath caught, his face crimson. “Y-you dreamed of… kissing me?”

BoBoiBoy’s smile softened, shy and intense all at once. “Of kissing you, of hearing you tell me I was worth keeping too.”

Fang’s throat worked, his voice breaking. “I still don’t… I still don’t know if I can—”

“You don’t have to know yet.” BoBoiBoy squeezed his hands gently, grounding him. Then, with quiet reverence, he lifted one of Fang’s hands and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “You don’t need to answer now. I’ll wait for you, however long it takes. Just… let me stay beside you.”

Fang’s heart pounded so violently it hurt. His doubts still clawed, shadows whispering their cruel chorus—but BoBoiBoy’s words drowned them out, steady and unwavering.

BoBoiBoy hugged him tighter, whispering against his ear, “You’re not losing me, Fang. Not now, not ever.”

Fang trembled, overwhelmed, blushing so hard he thought he might combust. He didn’t trust himself to answer—but for once since this whole mess started, the fear didn’t feel like it was choking him completely.

BoBoiBoy slowly pulled back, just enough to see Fang’s face. His hands came up, warm and gentle, cupping Fang’s cheeks as if they were the most precious thing in the world. He tilted Fang’s chin up carefully, almost reverently, his thumbs brushing across flushed skin.

Even with a fever burning through Fang’s body, even with the damp strands of hair sticking to his face, BoBoiBoy thought he had never seen anyone so breathtaking. Fang’s crimson eyes, though tired and glassy, seemed to glow—deep pools of fire that caught BoBoiBoy’s gaze and held it captive. They were hypnotic, pulling him in without mercy, until he forgot to breathe.

“Beautiful…” BoBoiBoy whispered under his breath before he could stop himself.

Fang’s eyes widened, his lips parting in disbelief. He wanted to protest, wanted to laugh it off, but no words came—only heat that rushed down his neck, leaving him trembling.

BoBoiBoy saw the flicker of doubt still lingering in those crimson depths—the shadow of insecurity refusing to let go. His heart ached. He leaned closer, determination written across his face.

“If you can’t believe it yet… then I’ll prove it to you,” he murmured.

And then, gently, he pressed his lips to Fang’s temple.

Fang froze, stunned.

BoBoiBoy kissed lower, brushing Fang’s fevered forehead, soft and lingering as if trying to take the ache away. Then his lips ghosted over the arch of Fang’s brow, then the corner of his closed eye, then the line of his cheek. Each kiss was tender, deliberate, as though he were memorizing Fang piece by piece.

Fang’s breath came shallow, his body trembling—not from fever this time, but from the sheer rush of warmth flooding through him.

BoBoiBoy’s lips moved to Fang’s jawline, then up again to the bridge of his nose, down to the soft skin just beneath his eye. He kissed every patch of skin he could reach, feather-light but full of meaning, a silent vow with each touch: You’re worth it. You’re enough. You’re loved.

Fang couldn’t fight. Couldn’t protest. He melted, utterly undone, caught in BoBoiBoy’s embrace with no strength—or desire—to resist. His heart thrashed wildly in his chest, his hands clutching weakly at BoBoiBoy’s shirt as if afraid to let go.

And all the while, BoBoiBoy avoided the lips, saving them, savoring the anticipation. His kisses traced Fang’s face in a constellation of devotion, circling closer and closer but never landing there—until finally, he paused.

He hovered mere centimeters away, eyes locked with Fang’s crimson ones again, breath mingling in the thin space between them.

The world narrowed to just this: Fang’s flushed face, BoBoiBoy’s pounding heart, and the unspoken question trembling in the air.

And underneath it all.

Fang’s scent trembled in waves around them, carrots and lavender, sharp and fresh yet softened by nervous undertones. It betrayed everything he tried so hard to keep hidden—the uncertainty, the fear, the longing he wouldn’t voice. The lavender spiked every time BoBoiBoy’s lips brushed his skin, fragile and sweet, clinging desperately like it didn’t want to fade.

BoBoiBoy’s alpha instincts answered without hesitation. His own scent—sunlight and cinnamon—spilled into the air, warm and steady, wrapping around Fang like a protective shield. It layered over the lavender, entwined with it, instinctively marking, soothing, claiming.

Fang’s breath hitched. His body wanted to lean in, to let himself drown in the Alpha’s heat, even as his mind screamed that it was dangerous, reckless. His omega instincts didn’t care. They purred in recognition, in need, whispering that this was safety.

BoBoiBoy’s control strained at the edges. He could feel the shift in Fang’s scent, every spike of lavender, every falter of carrots when insecurity flared. His Alpha core ached to replace that doubt with certainty, to smother the shadows with sunlight until there was no room left for them.

“Fang…” His voice was a husky whisper, the cinnamon in the air deepening with his need. “You don’t have to hide from me. Not this. Not you.”

Fang’s fingers trembled against BoBoiBoy’s shirt, curling tighter. His crimson eyes darted down to BoBoiBoy’s lips, then away again, shame burning hot on his cheeks. The lavender wavered uncertainly, pleading despite the way he held back.

BoBoiBoy leaned closer, brushing their noses together, his forehead pressing to Fang’s. His voice was low, steady, the weight of Alpha promise behind every word. “I’ll prove it to you—not just with words, but with everything I am. You’re my omega. Mine to protect, mine to cherish… if you’ll let me.”

Fang shuddered, heat blooming through his chest. The word omega echoed through him like a spark, striking something deep in his instincts. His lavender scent surged, twining with BoBoiBoy’s cinnamon, reluctant but eager, betraying his answer long before his lips could form it.

Fang shuddered, heat blooming through his chest. The word omega echoed through him like a spark, striking something deep in his instincts.

His lavender scent flared uncontrollably, flooding the air—sweet, heady, submissive yet seeking. It twined with BoBoiBoy’s cinnamon in a heady rush, the scents snapping together like magnets. His body betrayed him long before his lips could form an answer.

BoBoiBoy’s pupils dilated, instincts roaring at the shift. The cinnamon in his scent thickened, sharper, spiced with unmistakable alpha claim. A rumble rose low in his chest, not threatening but primal—an answer from bone-deep instinct that he heard his omega, that he would not let go.

He tilted Fang’s chin higher, reverent but firm, and sealed that vow not in words—

—but in the hungry crush of his mouth against Fang’s.

The kiss wasn't tentative.

It burned, fierce and claiming, instinct rising like wildfire through him. His lips moved against Fang’s with barely restrained urgency, his alpha need demanding Fang yield, his every nerve screaming to mark, to claim, to keep.

Fang gasped, stiff for a heartbeat.

Then instinct overrode hesitation. His nature surged, demanding he answer, demanding he submit—not out of weakness, but out of trust. His lips parted, his body loosening as his arms moved to lock tightly around BoBoiBoy’s neck, pulling him close, scent flooding sweeter, more intoxicating, until the room itself seemed to thrum with it.

BoBoiBoy groaned low into Fang’s mouth, the sound vibrating against his lips. His hands roamed Fang’s back, grip tightening with a hunger that betrayed the alpha in him. Every line of Fang’s body under his palms sent fire racing through him. He kissed harder, deeper, his tongue brushing Fang’s lips, demanding entry, coaxing, claiming—take, hold, keep.

Fang whimpered, a broken omega sound, and his lips yielded.

That single sound undid the last of BoBoiBoy’s restraint. The kiss turned ravenous, a clash of instinct and desire, lips sliding, teeth grazing. BoBoiBoy devoured him, drinking in every gasp, every soft sound, while Fang melted against him, trembling and pliant, surrendering piece by piece.

Their scents tangled wildly—lavender and cinnamon, dominance and submission, weaving into something thicker, something primal—the bond of alpha and omega, unspoken yet instinctively known, pulsed between them.

BoBoiBoy kissed like he was branding Fang’s very soul.

Fang kissed back like he was being consumed—and willingly, desperately, unable to stop even if he wanted to. His omega instincts screamed closer, deeper, yes.

And BoBoiBoy’s alpha instincts roared back mine.

The knock of soft metal feet clinking against the floor jolted the air a second too late.

“BoBoiBoy? Fang? You two still haven’t come to breakfast, so I thought I’d—”

Ochobot’s voice cut off mid-sentence. The little robot floated into the doorway and then froze, wide glowing eyes locking onto the sight in front of him.

BoBoiBoy—half-dressed in nothing but his shirt and boxers—was practically draped over Fang, lips fused with his, arms caging him tightly. Fang’s crimson eyes flew open in shock, panic surging as his hands fumbled against BoBoiBoy’s shoulders, trying to push him away.

“O-O-Ochobot—!” Fang stammered, face scarlet. His arms, once wrapped snugly around BoBoiBoy’s neck, scrambled to retreat.

But BoBoiBoy only tightened his hold, instincts prickling in irritation at being separated from his omega so abruptly. His cinnamon spiked, spiced with a frustrated growl, as if daring Ochobot to challenge his right to keep Fang close.

“Seriously?” he groaned, annoyed, his voice muffled against Fang’s temple. “Why does everyone seem not to want to leave us alone? It’s literally the start of the day and already—interrupted. Twice too.”

Ochobot blinked once. Twice. His gaze swept down, very pointedly, from BoBoiBoy’s messy, damp hair…to the slightly wet shirt clinging to him…to the lack of pants.

Finally, his mechanical voice came out dry, unimpressed: “…BoBoiBoy. Pants. Now.”

Fang squeaked, burying his burning face into BoBoiBoy’s shoulder to avoid both the humiliation and Ochobot’s stare. His scent flickered with flustered panic, lavender clouding thickly in the air.

“And let Fang go before Captain Kaizo comes here himself,” Ochobot added flatly, crossing his small metallic arms. “You do realize he’d kill you if he saw this, right?”

BoBoiBoy’s pout deepened, but he groaned in defeat, clearly not wanting to deal with Kaizo’s wrath so early in the morning. Still, his alpha instincts resisted parting from Fang, reluctant to leave his omega unattended.

With exaggerated reluctance, he loosened his grip, though not without dipping down to press one last, stubborn kiss to Fang’s temple—a quiet claim in scent and touch that said mine even as he let go.

Fang’s knees nearly gave out, his entire body trembling from the mix of fever, embarrassment, and the lingering fire of BoBoiBoy’s touch.

“I’ll be right back, bunny,” BoBoiBoy muttered, shooting Ochobot a sulky glare as he shuffled back toward the bathroom.

But before leaving, his alpha instincts pulled him back. His hand caught Fang’s wrist, gently but firmly, turning it over to inspect the still soaked-through bandages around his hand and knuckles. His brows furrowed, cinnamon scent curling with protective urgency.

“These are wet,” BoBoiBoy said softly, almost growling, though the concern beneath it was clear. His thumb brushed across the damp fabric. “They’ll make it worse if you keep them like this.” He lifted his gaze, warm but sharp, meeting Fang’s flustered crimson eyes. “Stay here. I’ll bring fresh bandages for you once I’m dressed.”

Fang blinked up at him, overwhelmed. His heart hammered at the quiet authority threading BoBoiBoy’s voice—the unmistakable command of an alpha caring for his omega. Heat rushed to his ears, his stomach twisting, but his lips only managed a faint, shaky, “…Okay.”

Only then did BoBoiBoy nod, reluctantly letting go. His cinnamon scent lingered heavily in the air, wrapping around Fang like a shield even as he disappeared back into the bathroom.

Ochobot let out what could only be described as a mechanical sigh, floating closer to Fang. “Honestly. You two can’t even survive one morning without turning it into drama.”

Fang hid his face further into his hands, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. His crimson eyes burned, not from fever this time, but from pure mortification—made worse by the lingering curl of cinnamon scent clinging possessively to his lavender.

In The Cafeteria

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual morning noise—clattering trays, chatter, and the smell of hot breakfast drifting through the air.

At one corner table, Gopal, Yaya, Ying, Sai, and Shielda sat together, though the energy wasn’t the usual lighthearted banter.

Instead, the topic was one thing: BoBoiBoy’s very uncharacteristic burst of temper.

“I’ve never seen him that mad before,” Ying said, arms crossed, brows knit. Her beta scent—crisp mint laced with cool steel—sharpened the air around her, betraying her unease. “He didn’t even hesitate—just threw us all out like we were garbage.”

“Harsh,” Gopal muttered, poking at his toast gloomily. The faint waft of roasted peanuts and cocoa from his beta scent clung to him in his sulking, heavy, and warm. “And I didn’t even get to finish my explanation…”

“Because you caused it!” Yaya shot back, her honey-and-vanilla scent spiking with irritation as she smacked him lightly upside the head.

Gopal yelped, rubbing the spot. “Ow! But still, don’t you think it’s weird? BoBoiBoy’s usually so… chill. What could make him snap like that?”

Sai leaned back in his chair, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. His beta scent—the sand-dry air and the faint bitterness of burnt paper—hung smugly in the air. “Easy. Fang. I bet something happened between them, and BoBoiBoy didn’t want us to see.”

Shielda groaned, shoving her twin’s shoulder. Her scent—sparkling-granite dust and cool stormwater—flickered with exasperation, grounding where Sai was all sparks. “Sai, not everything is some secret romance conspiracy. They were probably just… I don’t know, arguing or something.”

“Arguing doesn’t leave him blushing to his ears like that,” Sai countered smugly.

Yaya’s eyes narrowed, intrigued despite herself, her scent curling sweeter with curiosity. “You think… they’re—”

“—definitely hiding something,” Sai finished with a wink.

Before the theory could spiral further, a familiar voice cut in, dripping with dry sarcasm.

“Fascinating. Truly. So this is how you all waste your mornings—spinning gossip like old grannies over tea.”

They froze.

Captain Kaizo stood behind them, arms crossed, sharp gaze cutting across the group. His alpha scent unfurled before him like a blade—jasmine sharp and sweet, cedarwood steady and deep, and the metallic tang of iron that sent a shiver down the betas’ spines. The sheer weight of it silenced the table instantly.

His expression was unreadable, but there was no mistaking the slight edge in his tone as he added, “Now, instead of your brilliant theories, how about you tell me where Pang is?”

The table exchanged nervous glances. None of them wanted to answer—not under that gaze, not under the pressure of his alpha weight pressing into the room.

But then—

“Careful with your steps, Fang.”

BoBoiBoy’s voice carried from the direction of the cafeteria entrance.

Everyone’s heads turned at once.

The doors slid open, revealing the scene.

BoBoiBoy strolled in with a grin so wide it nearly split his face, his scent spilling across the room like a warm tide, brushing away the tense silence Kaizo had left in his wake.

In his right hand, firmly clasped, was Fang’s. Fang walked beside him, slower than usual, muscles stiff from lingering weakness, but his scent—fragile yet present—traced through the air in soft waves, twining instinctively with BoBoiBoy’s cinnamon warmth.

Ochobot floated dutifully behind them, gaze utterly dry, as though he’d witnessed far too much already this morning.

The two of them—Fang and BoBoiBoy—looked utterly caught in their own little world, like nothing else in the cafeteria existed. Their joined scents were so tightly wound together it was impossible to miss—the claim unspoken, but instinctively understood by every nose in the room.

Kaizo’s jaw tightened. His eyes zeroed in on their joined hands, and his displeasure was instant, sharp enough to cut steel. His jasmine-and-iron scent flared cold, cedarwood grounding it with menace, crashing against BoBoiBoy’s cinnamon heat like clashing storms.

“Pang,” Kaizo called, voice clipped.

The sound froze Fang mid-step. His crimson eyes flicked toward his older brother, startled, his scent faltering into nervous lavender wisps.

BoBoiBoy’s grin faltered. His gaze snapped to Kaizo across the room, and for the briefest moment, the two alphas locked eyes in a silent clash. Cinnamon and sunlight clashed with jasmine and iron, dominance pushing against dominance. BoBoiBoy’s glare was sharp, protective, and unwilling to back down.

But then, with a heavy sigh, he tore his eyes away. He turned to Fang instead, his voice gentling, his scent softening as he leaned closer. “Go on, Fang. Sit with them. I’ll grab us food.”

Before Fang could protest, BoBoiBoy pressed Fang’s medicine into his palm. “Don’t forget to take these. I’ll bring water too.”

Fang hesitated, caught between them, but nodded softly. “…Alright.”

Reluctantly, he let BoBoiBoy’s hand slip from his and quickened his pace just slightly toward Kaizo and the group, clutching the medicine tightly in his hand. His lavender scent wavered with uncertainty but clung faintly to the cinnamon that lingered on his skin.

Behind him, BoBoiBoy lingered a moment longer, watching with a mix of pride and stubbornness—before finally turning toward the serving counter.

Ochobot floated past him, muttering just loud enough to hear. “This day’s only going to get more complicated.”

The cafeteria had fallen quieter than usual as Fang approached the table, clutching the medicine BoBoiBoy had given him.

The five pairs of eyes waiting for him told him he wasn’t escaping anything—not the curiosity, not the stares, and definitely not the whispers.

And layered beneath the stares, the air itself told the story.

Scent—sharp, cloying, impossible to ignore—hung thick in the air as the group’s instincts bristled. Sai’s scent carried a restless edge, like he was burning to spill every thought out loud. Shielda’s was steadier, grounding, though threaded with irritation at her twin’s antics. Gopal's crackled with nervous curiosity. Ying’s sharpened the tension like a blade’s edge, cool, assessing. Yaya’s bloomed thick with concern, soft but smothering, her worry radiating like comfort food left too long on a table.

And Kaizo—

Kaizo’s alpha scent pressed above them all, iron and cedarwood braided through jasmine. Normally controlled, balanced, but now… sharpened, iron cutting heavier than the rest. His dominance hummed against Fang’s skin like static, a quiet demand for answers.

Gopal was the first to break, leaning over the table with his mouth hanging open like a fish. “Fang. Buddy. Was that—was that BoBoiBoy holding your hand?!” His voice cracked so loud that Sai nearly dropped his juice.

Yaya whacked Gopal’s arm. “Keep it down! People are staring!” But her own eyes betrayed her, darting toward Fang’s hand as though expecting to still see BoBoiBoy’s fingers there. Her honey-vanilla scent thickened in curiosity, sweeter than usual.

Ying crossed her arms, her expression sharp but more calculating, mint-steel rolling off her in quiet scrutiny. “It wasn’t just handholding. He smiled. Did you see? BoBoiBoy doesn’t smile like that unless he’s fighting villains or winning something. That was… different.”

Shielda leaned back in her chair, squinting, stormwater cooling the air around her. “More like he looked like a lovesick puppy. Honestly, I thought Fang was the serious one here, but nope—the world’s flipped.”

Sai, meanwhile, looked way too pleased with himself, burnt-paper scent sparking with smugness. He tapped his chin like a scientist making notes. “Okay, okay, hear me out: first the vines, then the glaring at Kaizo, and now this whole handholding-grand-entrance thing? I’m calling it. BoBoiBoy’s in deep.”

Fang froze mid-step, heat crawling up the back of his neck. The instincts in the room were pressing on him from every side, suffocating in their scrutiny. He wanted to vanish into the floor.

Instead, he sat down stiffly beside Kaizo, who had just sat as well, trying not to meet anyone’s gaze.

But Kaizo’s eyes were harder to dodge. His stare was sharp as glass, and his scent pressed heavier—iron and cedar, demanding honesty. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, voice low and cutting. “Pang.”

The Omega stiffened. “…Yes, Captain?”

“Care to explain why BoBoiBoy was looking like he just won the galaxy’s lottery walking in with you?” Kaizo asked flatly.

A pause stretched. Fang fumbled with the medicine in his hands, his lips pressing thin. “…He was just… helping me.”

“Helping,” Kaizo echoed, his brow arching. The jasmine note in his scent deepened, warning. “With what exactly?”

Fang’s throat felt tight, but he forced the words out, vague as mist. “…Walking. My muscles are still stiff.”

“Mm.” Kaizo’s gaze narrowed further, clearly unsatisfied. “And the handholding?”

Fang coughed lightly, pretending to look at the table instead. “…Stability. That’s all.”

Across the table, Gopal muttered under his breath, cocoa-scent warm with disbelief, “That didn’t look like stability to me…” which earned him a synchronized glare from both Yaya and Ying.

Sai grinned like he’d just discovered buried treasure, scent sparking again. “So if that was just ‘stability,’ then what about the smiling? Because BoBoiBoy was practically glowing—”

“SAI,” Shielda snapped, granite-dust scent rolling out heavy as she kicked him under the table.

Kaizo’s eyes didn’t move from Fang’s face. He studied every flicker of hesitation, every too-careful word. His cedarwood deepened, iron humming. “…You’re sure there’s nothing else?”

Fang met his captain’s stare for the briefest moment, then quickly dropped it, his tone clipped but soft. “…Yes. I’m sure.”

The table didn’t believe him—every single one of them wore their own brand of skepticism, scents shifting with it—but no one pushed further when Kaizo finally leaned back, lips pressed in a thin line. His dominance relented, but only just.

Fang exhaled, wishing—just wishing—that BoBoiBoy would hurry back with the food and break this suffocating tension.

Ochobot, hovering just behind him, gave a long-suffering hum that cut through the layered scents.

Gopal perked up instantly, leaning across the table with wide eyes. “Ochobot! You were with them, right? What happened? Was it really just ‘stability’ or… something more?”

The AI’s single lens swiveled toward him, unimpressed. “I am not answering questions that will make BoBoiBoy rip apart the cafeteria with his powers.”

“Come on,” Gopal whined, roasted-peanut scent sharpening with desperation. “Just a hint—”

“No,” Ochobot said flatly, his tone bone-dry.

Yaya tried instead, her honey-vanilla curling like a blanket. “Ochobot, seriously… is Fang okay? He seemed… different when he came in.”

“Fang is fine,” Ochobot replied, just as dry. “Though if you people keep interrogating him like prisoners of war, he will not be fine for much longer.”

Even Ying’s lips twitched faintly at that, mint-steel cooling. “He has a point,” she murmured.

But Sai couldn’t help himself, burnt-paper scent already crackling. “Okay, but on a scale of one to ‘BoBoiBoy’s scary alpha temper,’ how bad would it be if we guessed out loud that—”

“Catastrophic,” Ochobot cut in before he could finish. “Potentially fatal for you. I recommend silence.”

The group exchanged looks, some stifling laughs, others raising brows. Fang pressed a hand to his forehead, wishing Ochobot’s words weren’t so painfully accurate.

And then, like a thundercloud breaking, BoBoiBoy returned.

Two trays balanced in his hands, his grin hadn’t dimmed, and his brown eyes lit up the moment they found Fang. He strode over without hesitation, cutting through scents, dominance, and whispers alike.

“Move over,” BoBoiBoy said simply, voice light but leaving no room for argument. He set one tray down in front of Fang—neatly stacked with food he could actually eat alongside his medicine—before sliding the other in front of his own spot.

Fang’s eyes softened at seeing his favorite dessert, his cheeks warming again. “…Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” BoBoiBoy interrupted, softer now, before plopping into the seat on Fang’s left side. Not across, not at the corner—beside. So close, their shoulders nearly brushed.

The group, collectively, froze. Their scents wavered, tangled—sweet, sharp, bitter, confused.

Gopal’s jaw dropped again. “He… he just…”

Yaya elbowed him so hard he wheezed, honey-vanilla rolling heavier.

Shielda muttered under her breath, stormwater cooling her scent. “Nope. This is definitely not just stability.”

Sai smirked like a cat who’d found cream, burnt-paper scent smug. “Called it.”

Kaizo’s stare, however, was thunderous. His alpha scent pressed down, cedarwood sharp with jasmine, iron ringing through the air.

BoBoiBoy noticed.

For a moment, his brown eyes met Kaizo’s from above Fang’s head. The smile didn’t fade, but there was steel beneath it—defiance, plain as day.

Then, deliberately, BoBoiBoy leaned ever so slightly closer to Fang, sliding the bottle of water toward him. “Take your medicine first,” he said quietly, tone full of care that was impossible to ignore.

Fang, acutely aware of every eye and every scent pressing on him, lowered his gaze and nodded. “…Right.”

The atmosphere at the table was a storm—scents colliding, dominance clashing, tension coiled like lightning waiting to strike.

Chapter Text

It didn't take long for Kaizo’s patience to snap like glass under strain.

Before anyone could blink, his hand shot out, fisting the collar of BoBoiBoy’s shirt. The alpha captain rose to his full, imposing height, cedarwood and iron scent spiking sharp as steel.

“You,” Kaizo growled, low enough to rumble through the table. “Outside. Now.”

The scrape of the bench echoed as he hauled BoBoiBoy up by the collar like he weighed nothing, ignoring the startled gasps around them. BoBoiBoy, to his credit, didn’t fight back—though his grin only widened in reckless defiance.

“Wait—!” Fang’s voice cracked as he half-rose from his seat. His crimson eyes were wide, panic flashing across them. “Captain!” 

The grip on BoBoiBoy’s shirt tightened, but before they reached the sliding doors, BoBoiBoy twisted just enough to throw Fang a look over Kaizo’s shoulder.

Despite the collar strangling his neck and Kaizo’s iron scent crushing the air, his voice carried with infuriating ease:

“Don’t worry, bunny! I’ll be fine!”

The nickname dropped like a bomb.

Fang froze, color flooding his face so fast it burned. His hands clenched the medicine, heat crawling all the way up his ears. “B-Boboiboy!” 

The cafeteria rippled with shock, muffled laughter, and whispers.

Kaizo, however, went utterly still. His cedar-jasmine scent spiked, dominance slamming down like a wall of iron. His jaw locked, eyes narrowing dangerously at the word.

“Bo. Boi. Boy.” The captain’s voice was the calm-before-a-storm kind of deadly.

BoBoiBoy only wiggled his eyebrows in open provocation. “What? He’s cute. He’s my bunny.”

Kaizo’s rage detonated. Without another word, he dragged BoBoiBoy through the sliding doors with such force that the panels rattled, the pair vanishing into the hall beyond.

The cafeteria exploded into whispers.

At the table, Fang had sunk back into his chair, crimson eyes glued to the floor, mortification and worry twisting his gut into knots. His pulse thundered in his ears. Why… why did BoBoiBoy have to call him that here? In front of Kaizo? In front of everyone?

“Okay, hold on.” Sai slammed both hands on the table, leaning forward with wide, feral eyes. His scent snapped with glee. “Since when has BoBoiBoy been calling you bunny?”

“Yeah,” Shielda cut in immediately, scent cooling with sharp suspicion. “Don’t dodge. We heard that. Since when?”

Fang stiffened. “I—It’s not—He—” His words tangled, heat rising again. He couldn’t even look at them.

But Gopal, Yaya, and Ying exchanged glances, and it was Yaya who sighed first, honey-vanilla scent blooming heavier with reluctant honesty. “…Since yesterday.”

“What?!” Sai’s voice cracked, sharp enough to draw stares from the next table.

Fang’s face was still burning when Gopal groaned loudly, throwing his arms up. “Oh, come on, guys—don’t act like this is new! He’s been calling Fang that so much since yesterday, we all lost count.”

“You were counting?!” Fang’s head snapped up, crimson eyes wide with disbelief.

Yaya nodded, honey-vanilla scent thick with exasperation. “It’s true. Every time he spoke to Fang when we were away from other people's eyes, Boboiboy dropped it; that's why you guys didn't hear Boboiboy calling Fang that. He didn’t let anyone else call Fang anything, either. Not ‘Snowball,’ not ‘Carrot,’ not even a simple ‘Kitten.’ Only him.”

Ochobot bobbed closer, whirring. “Accurate. BoBoiBoy displayed unusually possessive behavior. Attempted monopolization of nicknaming rights: confirmed.”

“E—enough already,” Fang’s voice cracked, mortification swelling so high he could barely breathe. His palms pressed flat against the table, like he could anchor himself before the heat in his chest consumed him.

Sai, however, was grinning like a wolf smelling blood. His burnt-paper tang sparked wildly in the air. “Ohhh, he’s so dead. Absolutely dead. Kaizo’s gonna roast him alive.”

Gopal thumped the table with both hands, laughing helplessly. “I give him what, two hours before Kaizo’s dragging his charred corpse out of the training deck?”

“Stop it, both of you!” Ying snapped, glaring between them, her scent sharp, scolding. “This isn’t funny! Kaizo might actually kill him, and you’re making jokes!”

Sai only leaned back, smirking, while Gopal shrugged unrepentantly.

But Shielda didn’t laugh. Her stormwater scent shifted, heavy with realization as her silver-blue gaze narrowed on Fang. “…Wait. Fang.”

He stiffened. “…What?”

Her voice was calm but cutting, like the first crack of thunder before a storm. “Is BoBoiBoy courting you?”

The table went dead silent. Even Sai’s grin fell. Every gaze—Yaya’s soft concern, Gopal’s wide-eyed curiosity, Ying’s piercing clarity—snapped to Fang.

Fang’s blush deepened to the roots of his hair. His throat worked, words catching like tangled threads. “…It’s not—He’s not—”

“Fang,” Shielda pressed, her tone firmer now. “Answer.”

He looked away, crimson eyes darting down to his clenched hands. His voice dropped to a whisper, shy and fragile. “…We’re not… official.”

The air in the cafeteria seemed to shift again, heavy with the weight of his confession.

“…Not official?” Yaya repeated softly.

Fang nodded once, heat curling tighter in his chest. “I—I asked him if we could… try, first. Just to see if we’re… suitable. For each other.”

There was a long, stunned pause.

Then Gopal let out a sound between a gasp and a squeal, slapping both hands over his mouth. Sai, wide-eyed, sat frozen for all of three seconds before smacking the table and bursting into wheezing laughter. Yaya nearly reached across to throttle him, cheeks pink but eyes shining with unspoken warmth. Shielda sat back, thoughtful, her stormwater scent cool but not unkind. Ying simply tilted her head, sharp and observing.

And Fang? Fang wanted to sink straight into the floor and never come back out.

His chest twisted with embarrassment and shy longing in equal measure.

BoBoiBoy’s reckless grin burned into his mind. They weren’t official—yet. But the idea of trying was enough to terrify and steady him all at once.

With Kaizo And Boboiboy

The hallway outside the cafeteria stretched quietly and starkly, only the hum of the sliding doors sealing shut behind them breaking the silence.

Kaizo didn’t slow, boots echoing like war drums against the floor. BoBoiBoy stumbled in his grip, shirt collar biting into his throat, yet his grin never faltered.

Finally, halfway down the hall, Kaizo came to an abrupt halt. His hand unclenched with a sharp shove, releasing BoBoiBoy with far less care than he should’ve.

BoBoiBoy staggered back a step, coughed once, then smoothed the wrinkles from his collar like it was nothing more than dust. His grin stretched wider, maddeningly unbothered. “Careful, Captain. You’ll ruin my shirt.”

Kaizo stood rigid, every line of his body thrumming with barely caged fury. His cedarwood-jasmine scent was thick, oppressive, spiking sharp as tempered steel. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled—but the edge of it could cut glass.

“Explain yourself.” His eyes narrowed, burning like embers. “Holding his hand. Calling him—” his jaw flexed, “—that name. In front of everyone.”

BoBoiBoy tilted his head, pretending to think, then smirked. “What you saw is exactly what it was. Fang’s my bunny. And I like holding his hand.”

Kaizo’s shoulders went rigid, rage spiking.

But before he could snarl, BoBoiBoy straightened suddenly, mock-formal, one hand raised to his chest. His grin turned sharp, teasing yet deliberate.

“Since you’re his first pack Head Alpha… and his older brother,” BoBoiBoy said, voice ringing with feigned dignity, “I suppose it’s only proper I do this right. So—” he bowed, theatrically deep, “—by tradition, Captain Kaizo, I ask for your approval to court your younger brother Fang.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

Kaizo went utterly still.

For one breath, then another, the hall froze with him. The cedar scent around him shifted—then spiked so violently it was suffocating. His chest rose and fell once, heavy, before the rage ignited, pure and primal.

His hand shot to his belt. The hum of energy lit the air as his sword ignited, a blade of shimmering blue light blazing to life. His voice was blunt, merciless.

“No.”

Then he lunged.

BoBoiBoy’s grin sharpened. “Knew you’d say that.” His body shimmered, splitting into golden light—Solar. The transformation flared, burning bright as the sun itself.

In the heartbeat before Kaizo’s blade could cleave him, BoBoiBoy vanished in a flash, reappearing several meters away with a Solar Leap.

The clash began instantly.

Kaizo’s blade whistled through the air, strikes precise, deadly, meant to break, not spar. BoBoiBoy darted around them, light blazing off him in brilliant bursts as he teleported, laughing between dodges. Every attack Kaizo launched, BoBoiBoy answered with a flare, a leap, or a counterstrike of radiant energy.

The corridor thundered with the crack of blade against solar shields, the hiss of scorched walls, and the sharp ring of impact.

But Kaizo didn’t relent. His fury drove every blow harder, faster—an alpha protecting blood, a brother defending what little family he had left.

And BoBoiBoy, reckless grin blazing, met him strike for strike, as if daring Kaizo to try and stop him.

Kaizo’s blade clashed against another burst of solar energy, the corridor blazing with sparks and searing light. The floor plates shuddered under their feet, walls denting with each blow. Kaizo’s strikes carried the weight of command, of blood, of fear sharpened into fury. His cedar-iron scent rolled like a storm front, suffocating in its intensity.

“You don’t get to touch him!” he roared, voice cracking with the weight of more than anger—fear, grief, protectiveness wound into one.

His energy sword carved an arc so powerful the air screamed, and only BoBoiBoy’s split-second leap saved him. The boy reappeared mid-flip in a corona of gold, eyes blazing, grin fierce despite the sweat streaking his brow.

“Too late for that, Captain!” he shouted, voice burning with certainty. “I want to be with him! I’m not backing down!”

Kaizo snarled, slamming forward. Their powers collided with an earthshaking crack, steel biting against solar heat. Kaizo’s every blow was precise, merciless. He had cut down armies with less effort. But this wasn’t an enemy—this was a reckless boy daring to lay claim to his brother.

“You’ll hurt him!” Kaizo’s voice cracked, the words heavier than steel. “You’ll leave him. Just like—” His throat locked, pain clawing free beneath the rage. 'Just like everyone else who’s been taken from us.'

BoBoiBoy blinked once, and then in a flash of solar leap, he vanished. He reappeared behind Kaizo, fingers shot light lasers with raw defiance. “I’m not leaving! Not him! Not ever!”

The corridor groaned under the power of their clash, cracks zigzagging across the bulkheads. Sparks rained, alarms flickering in the ceiling from the strain. Both alphas pushed harder, their dominance rolling like colliding storms.

Kaizo roared, slashing upward in a burst of blue energy that nearly split the corridor in two. BoBoiBoy ducked, firing a volley of solar lasers that scorched across Kaizo’s shield. Both staggered, neither giving ground.

And then—

“HEY!”

A startled shout rang as two figures rounded the corner. Commander Kokoci froze, anthers twitching in panic, as Kaizo’s blade hissed past his anthers by mere inches. His scent spiked sharply with alarm.

“WHAT the—?!” he yelped.

But before chaos swallowed him whole, Admiral Tarung stepped in.

The towering alpha’s aura exploded outward, his fur turned red as his dominance slammed into the corridor like a tidal wave. His roar shook the air, rattling panels loose from the ceiling.

“KAIZO! BOBOIBOY! STAND. DOWN!”

The order wasn’t just heard—it was felt, suffocating, overwhelming. Kaizo’s blade faltered mid-swing, BoBoiBoy’s solar aura flickered uncertainly, both forced back by sheer authority.

Tarung’s blood-fire scent filled the corridor, heavy and suffocating with command. His towering form loomed, eyes blazing like molten iron.

Kaizo’s grip trembled on his blade, chest heaving with ragged breaths. BoBoiBoy landed in a crouch, still glowing faint gold, but his grin faltered at last under the Admiral’s crushing gaze.

Kokoci pressed himself against the wall, pale, ears ringing from the force of their clashing dominance. “You two nearly sliced me in half—ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MINDS?!”

Neither Kaizo nor BoBoiBoy spared him a glance. Their glares stayed locked on each other, sparks and steel humming faintly between them even as Tarung’s aura kept them caged.

“Explain,” Tarung snapped, voice booming with authority that brooked no refusal. “NOW. Why are two alphas of my fleet tearing each other apart in the halls like feral cubs?”

Silence.

Kaizo’s jaw clenched, his cedar scent sharp with frustration. “It’s… about Pang.”

BoBoiBoy, still glowing faintly, straightened, defiance flashing again. “I asked him for permission. Permission to court Fang.”

The words dropped like a blast charge.

Kokoci choked, nearly toppling over. “You—you WHAT?!”

Tarung’s aura surged hotter, his growl thunderous. “You mean to tell me that THIS—” he gestured at the scorched, cracked corridor, at the dented walls and still-glowing sparks, “—is because you two decided to fight like rabid dogs over COURTSHIP?!”

Kaizo’s jaw stayed locked, shame and anger twining in his scent. BoBoiBoy crossed his arms, refusing to look guilty, though his grin was gone.

The Admiral’s voice dropped lower, sharper, cutting like a blade. “Kaizo. You’re a captain. An alpha entrusted with lives. And yet you drew sword against your own ally—over your personal issue.”

Kaizo flinched, but said nothing.

“And you—” Tarung’s molten gaze burned into BoBoiBoy. “Reckless pup. You think throwing yourself into a fight with your superior proves your worth? That mouthing off about ‘never leaving’ makes you ready to shoulder Fang’s heart?”

BoBoiBoy’s fists tightened, but his voice rang clear. “I meant every word.”

Tarung snarled, dominance pressing harder, forcing both alphas to still. “Words mean nothing when they leave behind wreckage! Until either of you learn that—until you prove you can protect without destroying—you don’t deserve to stand by him. Not as his brother. Not as his mate. Not as anything.”

The weight of his scolding hung like fire in the air, crushing, searing. For a long moment, neither Kaizo nor BoBoiBoy could answer; both struck silent under Tarung’s fury.

BoBoiBoy’s Solar glow dimmed, golden light fracturing as he let the transformation fall. His breathing slowed, and though his grin lingered, it was smaller now, tighter. Kaizo stood opposite him, sword half-raised, chest heaving with the effort of restraint.

“Raise a shield,” Admiral Tarung ordered, voice low but edged with authority.

Kaizo froze, then lowered his blade in one sharp motion. He understood instantly—this wasn’t about their squabble anymore.

Silently, he extended his hand, summoning the energy barrier around them, sealing the four inside a dome that swallowed all sound. Outside, the station buzzed on, unaware.

Commander Kokoci’s eyes were sharp, cutting through the silence. He wasted no time. “We were going to summon you both with your packs,” he began, “but fate saved us the effort. Since you’re here, we’ll tell you directly.” His gaze landed firmly on BoBoiBoy. “You will take Fang to Earth. Alone.”

BoBoiBoy blinked, stunned. “What?”

Kaizo stiffened, a low growl almost escaping his throat. “Commander-” he started. 

Tarung lifted his hand, silencing them both. “Before questions.” His voice was iron. “Understand the why.”

He drew from his coat the communicator Kaizo had taken from Drosk’s corpse. “This—” he held it up—“was wiped of all standard information. No contacts. No codes. Nothing… except a riddle, hidden deep.” 

He tapped the device. A projection flickered into the air, broken words stitched together in an eerie cadence:

“Eight legs weave in halls of glass,

Their silken paths where no eyes pass.

A hand that speaks, a face concealed,

Its name erased, its truth unsealed.

Threads pull not the living’s breath,

But bind the fragile close to death.

In sleepless dark, the dreamer cries—

The puppet wakes where the shadow lies.

Already near, already known,

The spider builds within your home.”

The words lingered like a shadow.

Kaizo's eyes narrowed, pulse quickening. “That sounds like—”

“Exactly.” Tarung’s eyes narrowed. “The scientist—the one who killed Drosk and the one tied to the spider-bots that attacked Fang. Appears to haven't shown his face for the past five months. Yet with Fang's description of the spider bots, symbols, and puppets. Add this riddle, and...the conclusion is clear.” His jaw hardened. “He may already be here. In this station.” 

Kaizo’s hand clenched on his sword hilt. A chill slid down his spine, realization striking like lightning. “…Then Nuts,” he muttered. “Has he figured it out?”

BoBoiBoy turned, blinking at him. “What do you mean, Captain?”

Kaizo exhaled sharply. “Last night. After I brought the communicator to Kokoci’s office, we went straight to Nuts’ lab.”

The memory flashed before his eyes—Nuts, hunched over the mechanical spider, grease on his cheeks, goggles tilted. The engineer greeted them with a distracted wave, but his voice had been steady as he spoke. 

“There’s something hidden,” Nuts had said, tapping a panel on the spider’s abdomen. “A veil… holding gas. Odorless. Colorless. Its purpose? I'm still unsure of it.” 

Back in the present, Kaizo’s eyes darkened.

Commander Kokoci picked up where the memory ended, voice grave. “Our engineers analyzed it. The gas is harmless to alphas and betas. But to omegas?” He paused, letting the weight of it settle. “It's poison. Subtly. Nightmares. Sleeplessness. Insomnia. Mental destruction.”

The words sank like stones. BoBoiBoy’s chest tightened, his breath catching. Slowly, dread coiled in his gut. 'Fang’s nightmares… his exhaustion… the way he hasn’t been able to sleep properly…' 

His fists clenched. '…It was all because of that gas.'

Tarung’s expression hardened, his alpha presence pulsing with controlled fury. “These findings were buried too deep to be uncovered by accident. No—they were planted. Deliberately. To make us paranoid. To turn us on ourselves.” His eyes burned into both of them. “Which means Fang is a target better hidden far from HQ. And until this infiltrator is caught, he must be kept safe. Away.”

BoBoiBoy and Kaizo shared a glance.

Fight forgotten, their answer was the same.

“I’ll see to it that both of us reach Earth,” BoBoiBoy said, his voice sharp with certainty as he saluted. “Before this day ends.”

Kaizo’s grip on his sword loosened. He straightened, saluting as well, though his eyes still blazed with restrained fury. “And I will see to the investigation. Quietly. Immediately.”

Commander Kokoci and Admiral Tarung exchanged a look, then both nodded.

“Good,” Tarung said at last, his voice dropping into something almost approving. “Finally, you put him above yourselves.”

The shield shimmered faintly around them, a dome heavy with silence.

For once, Kaizo and BoBoiBoy stood side by side, the weight of Fang’s safety binding them tighter than their clashing tempers.

Commander Kokoci’s tone cut through the quiet. “Captain Kaizo. Bring both packs to my office immediately after this. There are things your teams must be briefed on directly.” His eyes narrowed, sharp as flint. “No one else is to know until I say so.”

Then his gaze turned to BoBoiBoy. “And you—use Ochobot’s teleportation to get Fang to Earth. No ships. They can be tracked, and we don’t yet know how deep the infiltration goes. Before you leave, both your luggage and Fang’s must be checked for trackers. Thoroughly.”

“Yes, Commander,” BoBoiBoy replied instantly, bowing his head with obedience.

Kaizo gave a single curt nod. “Understood.”

The Admiral’s hand swept downward, dismissing them both. “Go. And don’t waste time.”

At once, Kaizo dropped the shield. The hum of the station filled the silence again, faintly too loud after the suffocating quiet of the dome.

Neither spoke as they strode down the corridor, boots echoing in unison.

Finally, BoBoiBoy broke it, his voice quiet but firm. “Captain… I should apologize. The way I asked for your approval—it wasn’t the right way. I shouldn’t have done it like that.”

Kaizo’s jaw tightened, his silence stretching long before he finally answered. “You shouldn’t have asked me in the first place.” His eyes darkened. “But I also should not have drawn my sword on you. Again.” His voice was low, edged with guilt and restraint. “That was… unworthy of me.”

The corridor fell silent again, heavy with the admission neither had expected.

BoBoiBoy exhaled slowly, then added, “For what it’s worth… Fang and I aren’t official. Not yet. It was his idea that we try, for a while. See if it works. If it doesn’t… we stay as friends.”

Kaizo stopped in his stride for half a breath, something sharp flickering in his gaze. The hidden message was clear: Fang doubted himself. Fang feared being a burden, even in love.

Kaizo took a long, steadying breath, then looked at BoBoiBoy with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Do not think this means you have my approval. If Fang chooses you, I will not stand in his way. But if you hurt him—if he sheds even a single tear because of you—” His voice dropped into a growl, lethal and cold. “I will end you. Slowly. Painfully.”

BoBoiBoy didn’t flinch. His eyes burned with equal fire as he snapped back, “Hurting Fang is the last thing I’d ever do. I’d die before I let him get hurt—especially by me.”

For a long moment, the two alphas glared, steel against fire.

Kaizo’s lips pressed into a thin line. He said nothing, but in the silence, he acknowledged it—reluctantly. BoBoiBoy might be a good match for Fang.

“Remember that,” Kaizo muttered at last, turning forward.

They reached the cafeteria doors, and as the panels slid open, the noise of chatter crashed into them. Heads turned instantly.

“BOBOIBOY?!”

Gopal’s shout nearly rattled the entire cafeteria. He shot to his feet, eyes wide. “YOU’RE STILL ALIVE?!”

Sai, right beside him, looked just as shocked. “AND WALKING WITH NO INJURIES?!”

The entire table turned toward the two alphas, a mix of disbelief, curiosity, and—on Fang’s part—sheer worry flickering in his crimson eyes.

But Kaizo didn’t even flinch at the commotion. His voice cut through the cafeteria like steel. “Sai. Shielda. Gopal. Ying. Yaya. With me. Now. We are heading to Commander Kokoci’s office.”

He didn’t wait for reactions.

With a flick of his wrist, his watch flared, and Kaizo sent a direct order to Lahap: Report to Commander Kokoci’s office immediately.

The abrupt order made the betas exchange uneasy looks. “Uh—what?” Gopal said, still half rising from his seat. “Wait, why? What’s going on—”

“Yeah, Captain,” Shielda frowned, brows knitting. “Why are we being dragged into the Commander’s office? Did something happen?” 

Yaya and Ying exchanged a glance but got up wordlessly, both sliding their trays onto the rack. Sai muttered under his breath, “This is serious…”

Kaizo didn’t answer, his jaw set. His expression said enough: questions wouldn’t be entertained. Not now.

Still muttering among themselves, the group disposed of their trays, falling into step behind their captain with tense faces, the air heavy with unanswered questions.

BoBoiBoy, however, moved in the opposite direction.

Quietly, he slid into the empty seat beside Fang. His tray sat untouched on the table, food now cold.

Fang’s sharp eyes darted over him immediately, scanning for injuries. His scent, faintly edged with unease, betrayed his worry. “…You’re fine?” His voice was low, uncertain, as if expecting the opposite.

BoBoiBoy leaned closer, his grin softening into something gentler. “I’m fine, bunny.” The word slipped out easily, almost carelessly, but his tone carried reassurance. “It’s all alright.” 

Fang’s ears tingled faintly at the nickname, his eyes narrowing a fraction. He didn’t believe him—not fully. Not with Kaizo’s earlier fury. But seeing no new wounds, no blood, nothing beyond the same faint scrapes from yesterday’s mission, he let it go. Reluctantly. “…If you say so.”

BoBoiBoy nudged his untouched tray toward himself, only to pause when Fang frowned.

“You should eat,” Fang muttered, his tone sharper than he meant it.

A small smile tugged at BoBoiBoy’s lips. He obeyed without argument, picking up his fork.

Fang leaned back slightly, exhaling slowly, and lifted a hand to wave casually at their friends as they trailed after Kaizo. The betas waved back, still looking over their shoulders with curiosity before disappearing through the cafeteria doors with their captain. 

For a brief moment, the cafeteria felt quieter. Just BoBoiBoy, Fang, and the cold tray between them.

Fang’s crimson gaze lingered on him, his thoughts running darker than he let on.

He wanted to believe BoBoiBoy’s words, to let the reassurance sink in, but the unease inside him wouldn’t quiet. 'Why was Abang so furious one moment, then silent the next? Why does BoBoiBoy keep smiling like nothing’s wrong? Why do I feel like I’m missing something?'

The voices in his head stirred, whispering cruel reminders.

You already ruined it. You always ruin it.

He’ll leave once he sees how broken you are.

Fang shut them out, digging his nails lightly against the underside of the table, grounding himself in the faint scrape of wood. He wanted to trust. He wanted to stay close. But the fear of losing what little he had… it twisted in his chest.

Ochobot hovered closer, breaking the silence with his gentle voice. “BoBoiBoy… are you sure you're truly alright?” His mechanical tone carried unusual softness, tinted with concern. “Your energy signature is stable, but…” His digital eyes flicked, narrowing slightly. “…something feels off. Both Fang and I can sense it.”

BoBoiBoy paused mid-bite, fork clinking softly against his tray.

For a moment, the grin faltered, slipping into something quieter—more careful. He glanced at Fang, then at Ochobot, then leaned in closer across the table.

“Keep your voices down,” he whispered, his tone a shade more serious than either of them expected. His eyes darted to the room around them, scanning as if the walls themselves might be listening.

Fang stiffened immediately, eyes narrowing. “What is it?” His voice was low, almost a growl.

BoBoiBoy hesitated, then whispered even softer, just enough for Fang and Ochobot to catch. “Commander Kokoci told me earlier. Before the day ends… You and I are to head to Earth. Ochobot’s going to teleport us.”

The words struck Fang like cold water. His entire body tensed, breath catching. “What?” he hissed under his breath. “But—I’m out of commission. The medics forbade me from missions for two weeks. Why would the Commander—”

“Surprise!” Ochobot blurted softly, then clamped his mouth shut, lowering his tone. “That order makes no sense. Why send you two specifically, and in such secrecy?” His eyes blinked rapidly, unreadable lines of code running across them.

Fang leaned closer, the disbelief in his eyes flaring into suspicion. “…Do you know why?” His voice was sharper now, demanding.

For a split second, something flickered in BoBoiBoy’s eyes—hesitation, calculation, guilt.

Then his smile returned, thin but practiced. He shook his head slowly. “No idea. Maybe just a briefing. Or… something routine.”

It was a lie, and Fang felt it in his gut. His instincts screamed it.

But BoBoiBoy’s tone was steady, his act almost flawless. Only the faint unease in his scent gave him away.

The omega’s nails dug into his palm beneath the table, his chest tight with frustration. He wanted to push, to demand the truth. But with the cafeteria still buzzing around them, with too many ears nearby, he bit it back.

“…Fine,” Fang muttered at last, his voice clipped.

His crimson eyes narrowed as he leaned away, but inside, the voices surged louder.

He’s hiding something.

He doesn’t trust you enough to tell you.

You’ll be left behind, again.

Ochobot lingered beside them, his small form humming with quiet tension. He said nothing more, though his glowing eyes flicked between the two boys, storing the exchange away in silence.

The corridors had quieted since the cafeteria uproar. Fang’s steps were slow, heavy with drowsiness. The after-meal medicine made his eyelids droop, his body looser than usual. He tried to straighten his posture, to hide the limp in his stride, but BoBoiBoy caught it instantly.

Without hesitation, the alpha reached for his hand. Fang blinked at the warmth that laced through his fingers, startled at first, but too tired to pull away. His crimson eyes softened against his will, tightening his grip on Boboiboy's hand.

Ochobot hovered beside them, humming low, sensors whirring as he monitored Fang’s vitals. He said nothing, but his digital gaze flicked between the two with the quiet observation only he could manage.

When they reached BoBoiBoy’s quarters, the door hissed open. The alpha wasted no time.

With a surprising firmness, BoBoiBoy steered Fang inside, leading him directly toward the nest on the bed.

“BoBoiBoy—” Fang began, ears tinting faintly pink as the alpha nudged him down.

“You need to rest, bunny,” BoBoiBoy cut him off, guiding him until Fang sank into the cushions. His voice was firm but laced with care. “I’ll handle the packing.”

“But—”

The protest was cut short by BoBoiBoy’s lips brushing his. A soft, quick kiss that silenced the omega mid-word.

Fang’s crimson eyes widened, his breath caught. He tried again. “I can—”

Another kiss, firmer this time, pressing the objection away.

“You don’t have to—”

A third kiss, slower. BoBoiBoy lingered just enough that Fang’s drowsy body betrayed him, melting into the warmth. His muscles, still aching, couldn’t muster much resistance.

Across the room, Ochobot hovered still as a stone, staring with the blank, unblinking look only a machine could give. The scene played out as if he didn’t exist. As if he’d been reduced to background furniture.

By the sixth kiss, Fang gave up, breathless and flushed, his protests dying in his throat. His eyes fluttered, lids heavy. Drowsiness finally won, and he slumped into the nest, asleep before he could form another word.

BoBoiBoy adjusted the blankets around him carefully, gaze softening at the sight of Fang at ease.

But the moment was broken by a voice, flat and unimpressed.

“Wow,” Ochobot said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Truly inspiring. Silencing protests with kisses. Very professional, BoBoiBoy. I’ll be sure to note that as leadership material in my logs.”

BoBoiBoy jolted, sheepish grin flashing across his face. He rubbed the back of his neck, ears heating. “…Right. Forgot you were still here.”

“Clearly.” Ochobot’s digital eyes narrowed into the driest look imaginable before he turned, humming low as he floated nearer to the nest. His sensors scanned Fang’s vitals again, ensuring the omega’s breathing remained steady, his heartbeat even.

BoBoiBoy forced a chuckle, trying to lighten the thick air clinging to the room.

But as the laughter faded, so did the smile. He busied himself instead, pulling out two duffel bags. His hands worked with surprising gentleness on Fang’s belongings—folding each shirt, each jacket, tucking them neatly as though Fang would rise and scold him for being sloppy. Only once everything of Fang’s was in place did BoBoiBoy turn to his own items, his motions brisk, rougher, less concerned.

Then, his jaw tightened. The subtle scan from his wristwatch hummed faintly, a pulse of light brushing over every strap, zipper, and device. He checked, double-checked, turning gear over in his hands as if willing hidden trackers to reveal themselves.

The unease in his chest wouldn’t fade.

From the corner of his sensors, Ochobot had been watching. Silent. Observing every flicker of BoBoiBoy’s expression, every shift in his movements.

Finally, the little Power Sphere floated closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely disturbed the air.

“…Why did you lie?”

BoBoiBoy froze, gaze still locked on the open duffel. Slowly, he exhaled through his nose and whispered back, just as quietly, “Because I don’t want to be overheard. Not here.” His eyes flicked toward Fang, then back to Ochobot. “I’ll tell him everything when we’re safe. On Earth.”

Ochobot’s digital pupils shrank slightly, his processors whirring with the weight of the implication. The air seemed heavier, thicker. Something was going on. Dangerous enough that BoBoiBoy refused to speak of it within TAPOPS walls.

“…I see.” The Power Sphere’s voice was softer now, tinged with something like worry. He backed away, drifting toward his recharging pot. His blue light dimmed as he settled in, but his sensors remained on alert.

BoBoiBoy zipped the duffel bags shut. His shoulders slumped as he turned back to the nest. Fang had curled deeper into the blankets, lips parted faintly, fever flush resting against pale cheeks. He looked younger like this—unguarded, fragile.

Climbing into the nest carefully, BoBoiBoy eased down beside him. One arm slipped under Fang, pulling him close until the omega’s head rested against his chest. Fang murmured something incoherent in his sleep, nuzzling faintly against the warmth, and BoBoiBoy’s grip instinctively tightened.

He stayed awake, though. Eyes locked on Fang’s face, tracing each steady rise and fall of his breathing. The weight of the coming day pressed down on him, but he refused to close his eyes. Not yet.

On the nightstand, Ochobot sat silently in his pot, lenses dim but still watching. Waiting.

The room fell into a quiet lull—Fang’s soft breaths, the faint hum of recharging circuits, and BoBoiBoy’s heart pounding steadily beneath it all—as they waited for the omega to wake.

Around Lunch Time

The silence of the room had lulled into something steady—Fang’s breathing even, BoBoiBoy’s gaze still fixed on him, and Ochobot softly humming in recharge mode.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sharp sound jolted both BoBoiBoy and Ochobot, who snapped out of standby with his lenses widening. BoBoiBoy stiffened, heart skipping, before carefully slipping out of the nest. The shift made Fang stir, lashes fluttering as he half-woke, awareness flickering back in.

BoBoiBoy crossed to the door and opened it cautiously. On the other side stood Captain Kaizo.

For once, the older alpha’s expression softened—ever so slightly. A flicker of relief crossed his features, silent but clear: they hadn’t left yet.

“Captain,” BoBoiBoy greeted quietly, stepping aside to let him in. “How… how did it go? With Commander Kokoci? With the packs?”

Kaizo entered with his usual commanding presence, though his voice was steady, unreadable. “It went well.” He didn’t elaborate; his words were clipped short.

But BoBoiBoy understood. Not here. Not out loud. 

Behind them, Fang shifted again, sliding off the nest and padding over, still drowsy but awake enough to greet. His eyes landed briefly on the duffel bags, then on Kaizo.

Kaizo’s gaze, sharp as ever, flicked to Fang—and for the briefest moment softened again. His eyes caught on his captain’s jacket tucked into the nest, and a rare breath of relief left him.

He had asked Fang to keep it close. And Fang had.

“Will you be leaving now?” Kaizo asked, his tone cool but his eyes betraying something heavier. 

BoBoiBoy moved toward the duffel bags, hoisting them onto his shoulders with ease. “Yes,” he answered simply, but as he shifted the weight, his watch pulsed faintly—scanning again for trackers. Subtle. Careful. But even when Ochobot joined in with a quiet scan of his own, lenses glowing as he swept over the bags in silence, the uneasiness inside Boboiboy didn't disappear.

With BoBoiBoy’s back turned, Kaizo stepped closer to Fang. Without warning, he pulled the omega into an embrace.

Fang stiffened, shocked. Kaizo rarely, rarely allowed such closeness.

But his instincts—the omega yearning for comfort, for family—melted into it instantly, his head tucking against his brother’s chest before he could stop himself. 

Kaizo bent his head, his voice dropping into the barest whisper by Fang’s ear. “I know you’re confused right now, Pang. Don’t ask here. Don’t press. When you and BoBoiBoy are safe on Earth… then ask him everything.” 

Fang’s eyes widened. The weight in his brother’s voice sank deep. Something serious was going on. Dangerous. Dangerous enough that words themselves could not be trusted within these walls. He gave the smallest, most subtle nod he could manage.

Kaizo pulled back, mask of composure already sliding back over his features.

“The others won’t come to see you off,” he said firmly, tone shifting back to business. “Commander Kokoci has given them tasks. All of them.”

Both BoBoiBoy and Fang nodded, understanding.

Fang moved to the nightstand where his stuff sat, slipping on his visor, the familiar tint darkening his gaze. Then the gloves—covering the faint but still bandaged hands. His movements were precise, quiet, the weight of Kaizo’s words still lingering.

But Kaizo’s eyes flicked again to the nest. To the jacket.

Before Fang could fully turn, Kaizo strode forward, his hand closing around the fabric in one swift, deliberate motion. The captain’s jacket—worn, commanding, still rich with the layered scents of cedarwood, iron, and faint jasmine—slid from the nest. Fang blinked in confusion as Kaizo shook it once, then stepped closer.

Without hesitation, Kaizo draped it around Fang’s shoulders, tying the sleeves loosely at the front of his neck like a protective mantle. The action was firm but careful, practiced like a ritual. The jacket dwarfed Fang, swallowing him in its weight, its scent clinging instantly to his skin, hair, and even the faint warmth of his visor.

Fang froze, throat tight. Kaizo’s alpha side radiated through the gesture—wordless, primal, protective. A claim and a shield all in one.

“Stay safe,” Kaizo said, his voice low, almost gravelly against the air. His eyes burned steadily on Fang’s, making sure the words sank deep. “If you ever doubt, let this remind you—you’re not alone. Not once. Not ever.”

The scent surrounded Fang completely—cedarwood grounding him, iron sharp and strong, jasmine whispering of rare gentleness. It broke through his walls in ways words never could. His lashes lowered as something hot ached in his chest, and he gave the smallest nod, clutching the jacket like it was armor.

Kaizo’s composure snapped back into place just as quickly. The faintest ghost of his touch lingered on Fang’s shoulder before he pulled away, resuming the mask of a captain once more.

Ochobot floated forward, breaking the heavy silence. “Send my regards to Tok Aba,” he chimed. His lenses brightened as his systems flared, generating energy until a glowing portal bloomed open in the center of the room—its edges shimmering, its heart swirling with light. On the other side lay Earth. Near Tok Aba’s house. Home.

BoBoiBoy shifted the bags securely on his shoulder, giving Kaizo and Ochobot a small wave. “We will.”

Fang lifted his gloved hand, waving faintly. Kaizo’s nod was short, clipped. Ochobot raised a mechanical hand in return, his sensors following them until the very last second.

Side by side, BoBoiBoy and Fang stepped into the light of the portal.

And in a blink, they were gone.

The glow of the portal spat them out into the warm midday air, just outside Tok Aba’s house. The sun was high, casting long shadows across the familiar wooden walls. A cicada buzzed lazily in the distance, and the faint smell of food from nearby stalls drifted on the breeze.

BoBoiBoy adjusted the weight of the two duffel bags on his shoulders, steadying his breath. Beside him, Fang tugged absently at the sleeves of Kaizo’s captain’s jacket tied around his neck. Its scent still clung—steadying, anchoring—but it also made the hollow in his chest ache more sharply.

BoBoiBoy strode to the door first and knocked three times in quick rhythm. Silence answered. His brows furrowed, and he tried again—louder this time. Still nothing.

It hit him suddenly. 'Ah… I never told Tok Aba about us coming today.' His stomach dropped. 'Of course, Tok Aba would be at the shop right now—it’s lunch hour, the busiest time…'

He turned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at Fang. “Sorry… I forgot to let Tok Aba know we’d be here today.”

Fang tilted his head slightly, eyes half-shadowed under the visor as he clutched the jacket closer. “…He’s at the shop?”

“Yeah,” BoBoiBoy admitted, crouching by a flowerpot near the step. He reached underneath, fingers brushing against cold metal until he found the spare key. Holding it up, he gave Fang a small, apologetic grin. “Good thing Tok Aba always keeps this hidden here.”

Fang let out a quiet sound—half sigh, half chuckle. “It’s fine. But you do realize… you’ll be getting a lecture later.”

BoBoiBoy froze mid-step, his face paling. “…Lecture?”

“Mhm.” Fang’s tone was almost dry, almost teasing, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of warmth. “About responsibility. Communication. And probably one of Tok Aba's ear twists for good measure.”

BoBoiBoy winced at the image so vividly that his shoulders actually hunched. “Ugh… why’d you have to remind me of that?”

Unlocking the door with a reluctant sigh, he ushered Fang inside. Once the bags were set down by the entryway, Fang reached out a hand. “My duffel bag, please.”

But BoBoiBoy shook his head firmly, lifting it out of Fang’s reach. “Nope. You’re staying in the same room as me.”

Fang blinked, caught off guard. A blush crept across his cheeks beneath the visor, heat rushing in so fast he had to turn his face aside. “Y-you didn’t even ask—”

BoBoiBoy only grinned a little sheepishly, but with a stubborn set to his jaw. “I didn’t have to, bunny. You’re not staying alone.”

Fang’s lips parted as if to argue, but nothing came. He only tugged the jacket closer, the blush deepening as he followed BoBoiBoy upstairs.

They entered the familiar room together. The sunlight filtering through the window painted the floor in warm gold.

BoBoiBoy set the bags aside, flicked on the fan, and immediately moved to the closet. Without hesitation, he began unpacking both his own and Fang’s clothes, neatly arranging them side by side on the hangers and shelves as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Meanwhile, Fang sank down onto the edge of the bed, hands tightening on the sleeves of Kaizo’s jacket. The scent clung thick around him, mixing with the faint smell of wood and dust from the house. Kaizo’s words echoed in his head. Don’t ask here. Don’t press. When you and BoBoiBoy are safe on Earth… then ask him everything.

Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the quiet sound of folded fabric sliding into drawers. Fang’s thoughts tangled with Kaizo’s warning, with BoBoiBoy’s steady presence, with the terrifying knot of uncertainty twisting in his chest.

At last, he couldn’t hold it anymore.

“BoBoiBoy,” Fang said suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended.

BoBoiBoy paused, a shirt still half-folded in his hands. He turned, brows knitting. “Yeah?”

Fang tightened his grip on the jacket, lifting his crimson gaze. “What is really going on?”

The words struck like a blade through the quiet.

BoBoiBoy froze. His throat worked, but no answer came right away.

Slowly, carefully, he set the shirt aside and exhaled a long, heavy sigh. The weight of it made the room feel smaller, tighter.

He crossed the short distance and sat down beside Fang, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hand rested against his knee, tense but steadying, as his gaze met Fang’s head-on.

“…Okay,” BoBoiBoy murmured at last, voice low, serious. “I’ll tell you. But…” His hand clenched briefly, then loosened again. “I need you to promise me something first.”

The omega frowned faintly. “Promise?”

BoBoiBoy nodded, expression grave. “Let me explain everything from start to finish without cutting me off. Please. No interruptions. Some of it’s… hard to say, and I don’t want to lose my nerve halfway through.”

Fang’s chest tightened. The unease pricked sharper—if BoBoiBoy had to ask this, then whatever the truth was, it wasn’t simple. His grip on Kaizo’s jacket sleeves tightened until the fabric strained under his gloves.

But still, he gave a small nod. “…Alright. I promise.”

BoBoiBoy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, shoulders easing just slightly. His eyes softened, but the weight in them didn’t lessen.

“Good,” he murmured.

He hesitated, gaze flicking away before he forced himself to meet Fang’s eyes again. “Yesterday’s mission—the one with the two packs joined—it wasn’t just about rescuing the power sphere.”

Fang’s brow furrowed faintly. The words already carried a weight he didn’t like.

BoBoiBoy went on, voice steady but low. “At first, when we were deployed to retrieve the power sphere Dreamweavebot, we thought it was routine. Just another mission.” His hands tightened briefly on his knees. “But when we got there, we realized it wasn’t random. That hunter—his name was Drosk, the one controlling DreamweaveBot—was after someone.”

Fang blinked slowly. “…Who?”

BoBoiBoy’s jaw tightened. “You. The hunter had been hired to capture you, Fang.”

The words landed like a stone in Fang’s chest. His breath caught, shoulders stiffening beneath Kaizo’s jacket.

BoBoiBoy’s tone darkened as he pressed on. “We defeated him. But before we could question him, a mechanical spider appeared out of nowhere. It killed him. Just like that. No chance for answers.”

Fang’s mind flashed to the spiders. The symbol etched into metal. The haunting clicks in the dark. His stomach twisted.

BoBoiBoy continued, softer now. “At first, we didn’t know who was behind it. But yesterday when you told us about the robots that attacked you, about the symbol you found…” He paused, expression tightening. “It clicked. The scientist you’ve been trying to find—the one you’ve been chasing info about—it’s him. He’s the one after you. He’s the one who created those robots. Everything connects back to him.”

Fang’s grip on the jacket sleeves trembled. 'The scientist… I knew he was dangerous, but… after me? All along?'

“And it doesn’t stop there,” BoBoiBoy added, voice grim. “Remember the communicator with the symbol you reassembled? Nuts analyzed it. It contained a hidden message. It was a riddle whose words meant that the scientist may have been infiltrating TAPOPS for at least the last five months.”

The air drained from Fang’s lungs. 'Infiltrating? For months? And I—'

BoBoiBoy’s eyes hardened. “And in the spider that killed the hunter… Nuts found a vial. Inside was a gas. Potent. Engineered specifically to affect omegas. Nightmares. Insomnia. It destabilizes them from the inside out.”

Fang’s blood ran cold. The voices that haunted him, the restless nights, the gnawing dread—suddenly they all had sharper edges.

BoBoiBoy’s shoulders sagged as he finally explained the rest. “That was the last piece for Commander Kokoci. He made the call immediately. You—and me with you—were to be sent to Earth. For your safety. While Kaizo and the others… they’ll stay behind, investigate, and root out who the scientist was.”

The silence stretched on, unbearable. Fang’s throat worked, but no words came. His grip on Kaizo’s jacket tightened until his knuckles went pale beneath the gloves, crimson eyes flickering with disbelief.

He hadn’t known. Not a single piece of it. He had given them the scraps of information, tossed the fragments their way, and walked away thinking he had done his part.

But it had all been so much larger, so much heavier. And all of it—every last thread—pointed back to him.

His breath hitched. 'They knew. They all knew. While I—'

A shaky exhale slipped out, his chest knotting tighter with each beat of his heart. His abang’s embrace that felt different—so rare, so desperate. The strange affection that wasn’t like Kaizo at all. His warning. The empty goodbyes. The silence from the others.

It aligned. All of it aligned in one brutal truth: he was the reason.

Fang sank onto the edge of the bed, curling forward as though the weight of it all pressed him down. His hands dragged through his hair, fists tangling, pulling until his scalp ached, as if pain could drown out the roar in his head. His shoulders shook, his body caving in on itself, tighter and tighter.

“This… this is my fault. This is all happening because of me. Because I couldn’t even—” His voice cracked, harsh against the trembling that gripped him. “Useless. That’s what I am. A risk they have to protect instead of a packmate they can count on.”

His words tumbled faster, harsher, as if trying to outrun the burn in his chest. “I should’ve pieced it together. I should’ve known. Instead, I handed you guys bits of the truth like a clueless idiot and just—watched. I—” His fingers twisted tighter in his hair, tugging almost desperately. “What good am I to anyone if all I do is drag them down?!”

BoBoiBoy sat frozen at first, watching the spiral unfold. His gut twisted tighter with every word, every self-inflicted wound Fang threw at himself. He could see it—how Fang’s body curled small, how his breathing fractured, how guilt had sunk its claws so deep the omega couldn’t see anything else.

It boiled inside him. The sight of Fang—his Fang—crumbling like this, tearing himself apart from the inside out.

“No.”

The word cut like steel.

Before Fang could blink, BoBoiBoy moved.

In one swift motion, he shoved Fang onto the bed, the mattress creaking under the sudden weight. Fang’s knees caught on the edge, balance lost as BoBoiBoy pressed forward, trapping him against the sheets.

A sharp gasp escaped him, crimson eyes wide as his wrists were caught, pinned above his head in BoBoiBoy’s iron grip. He pushed instinctively, but the alpha’s weight bore down, unyielding.

BoBoiBoy’s gaze burned into him, fierce and unrelenting. His voice came low and tight, every word ground out as if wrestled from the fire in his chest.

“You don’t ever get to say that again. Do you hear me, Fang?” His grip tightened, not cruel but unshakable, holding Fang still. “Not once. Not ever. You don’t blame yourself for this. You don’t carry guilt that was never yours to begin with. You—” his breath hitched, jaw clenching before he spat the words with almost military sharpness— “are forbidden to think like that again.”

Fang’s breath shuddered, his lips parting, voice breaking with protest. “But if I—”

The words never finished.

BoBoiBoy silenced them the only way his anger, his frustration, and his desperation knew how. His mouth crashed onto Fang’s, the kiss rough and unrelenting. Fang’s muffled gasp bled into it, every protest stolen away, dragged out of him as BoBoiBoy devoured his resistance.

The alpha kissed him hungrily, recklessly, as if trying to burn the poisonous guilt from Fang’s lips with every press, every pull, every clash. Fang squirmed beneath him, hands trapped tight above his head, but the heat, the force of it swallowed his voice whole.

His lips claimed Fang’s over and over, relentless, as though each kiss could overwrite the self-hatred Fang carried. He pressed harder, tongues clashing, desperate to drag every gasp and sound out of the omega until Fang couldn’t breathe anything but him.

Fang let out soft, startled sounds—tiny gasps, sharp exhales—that only drove the alpha further. BoBoiBoy consumed him wholly, hungrily, his fire burning through every muffled cry. Fang arched beneath him despite himself, body torn between resistance and the dangerous pull of heat boiling in his veins.

The alpha drank him in—every sound, every shiver, every quiver of breath—as if proving through sheer fire that Fang could never be unwanted, never be a burden. His teeth grazed Fang’s lower lip, tugging gently, pulling another gasp free, before crushing their mouths together again in another fevered kiss.

Fang's body trembled under Boboiboy's hold as wave after wave of sensation broke him down. The sounds he made—those small, fractured cries—only spurred BoBoiBoy’s hunger further, his mouth refusing to give him space, claiming him again and again.

But then—

A sob slipped free.

Small.

Quiet.

But enough to cut through the haze.

Fang’s eyes brimmed under his visor, tears trailing down his temple, his voice shaking, raw with fear. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry... I just… I just don’t want to lose anyone,” Fang whispered, breaking beneath the fire. “Not again… I just can’t…”

Everything inside BoBoiBoy stilled. The fire, the hunger, the anger—it all snapped tight, replaced by something deeper, heavier.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled back from the fever of his assault. His grip loosened, his body shifting so Fang was no longer pinned but cradled, sheltered beneath him.

BoBoiBoy buried his face in Fang’s hair, his scent rolling out strong and steady—sunlight and cinnamon, warm and grounding, wrapping around Fang like a blanket. The air grew thick with it, coaxing calm, anchoring the omega against the spiral.

His voice softened, low and steady, carrying that undeniable weight of an alpha voice's command but tempered with care. “Don't apologize, bunny. You won’t lose anyone. Not me. Not them. Not ever.” His words vibrated against Fang’s skin, strong and unwavering. “I will make sure of that. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep all of us safe. That’s my promise. You hear me?”

He nuzzled against Fang’s forehead, his thumb brushing the wetness from his cheek. “You don’t carry this alone. Not while I’m here. Not while I’m breathing.”

The alpha’s scent thickened, warm and unshakable, seeping into every corner of Fang’s being—forcing belief where doubt had rotted. Each syllable of BoBoiBoy’s vow dug deep, imprinting itself like stone against Fang’s heart, steadying the frantic beat beneath his ribs.

The room was drenched in warmth—BoBoiBoy’s sunlight-and-cinnamon wrapping Fang in a cocoon of safety, steady and unwavering.

And slowly, almost shyly at first, Fang’s own scent began to seep through.

Carrots and lavender, faint and trembling, like a fragile breath of spring breaking through frost. It clung to BoBoiBoy’s skin, lacing itself between the alpha’s promise, bleeding vulnerability into the air.

The knot in Fang’s chest unraveled. His breaths hitched, sharp and uneven, before crumbling into soft sobs. He pressed his face against BoBoiBoy’s shoulder, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only tether keeping him grounded. Tears slipped freely now, each one heavy with fear and guilt, finally given voice.

BoBoiBoy held him tighter. Rocking him ever so slightly, murmuring against his ear with unwavering resolve. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere, Fang. Not ever. You’re not losing me. You’re not losing anyone.” His scent pulsed stronger, driving the words deeper, steadying the trembling omega until the storm inside him found rhythm against BoBoiBoy’s heartbeat.

Minutes passed like that. Fang cried quietly, breath hitching, chest heaving, until the tears finally tapered into soft shivers and silence. His face was flushed, lashes wet, but the unbearable weight seemed a fraction lighter, resting now between two instead of one.

And then—

Growl.

The sound broke the quiet like a thunderclap.

BoBoiBoy froze. His eyes went wide, the tips of his ears burning red as the unmistakable rumble of his stomach echoed between them. “Ah—uh—” He scrambled, fumbling for words, utterly undone. “I-I didn’t— I mean—”

For a beat, Fang just blinked at him, dazed.

Then his lips twitched.

Once.

Twice.

Until a sound slipped free—a laugh, sudden and bright, breaking through the fog of tears. He clutched at his stomach, shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Hah—BoBoiBoy—” he gasped between laughter, his voice raw but lighter. “You—your timing—”

BoBoiBoy groaned, burying his face in his hands, half mortified, half relieved just to hear that laugh. “Don’t laugh—it’s not funny! We… we missed lunch, okay? That’s all!”

Fang only laughed harder, the sound bubbling up even as heat flushed across his skin—not just from laughter, but from the fever creeping back into his body. He pressed a hand against his forehead above his visor, still grinning through the dizziness.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, the air in the room felt lighter.

But BoBoiBoy’s eyes narrowed when he noticed the slight tremor in Fang’s shoulders, the sheen of sweat gathering again at his temple. The laughter didn’t disguise it—not from him. The alpha didn’t need to reach for Fang’s pulse to know his fever was climbing again, subtle but steady.

The realization twisted something deep inside him. He knew why. The tears earlier, the weight Fang had been carrying until he finally broke—his body was punishing him for it now. It made BoBoiBoy’s chest ache. He hated seeing it. Hated knowing Fang had cried himself into this state.

Fang must have seen that flash of worry, because he softened, voice gentler. “Hey… don’t look like that. I’m okay, really.” His eyes met BoBoiBoy’s, steady and reassuring despite the heat flushing his cheeks. “See? I’m fine.”

But reassurance only went so far. BoBoiBoy’s alpha instincts wouldn’t be soothed so easily. The fire in his chest cooled, softened, shifted into something else entirely—care. Protection. The overwhelming urge to make sure his omega was safe, comforted, and tended to.

Even if Fang believed he was fine, BoBoiBoy knew better.

“Even if you are okay,” BoBoiBoy said quietly, voice rough but steady, “it was still a hard day. And I…” he hesitated, the admission sticking in his throat before he forced it out, “I want to take care of you. Can you let me do that? Please.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than he intended. Fang blinked, surprised, his laughter fading into something softer. He really wasn’t used to this kind of attention. Not from anyone. Certainly not from BoBoiBoy—who normally carried himself with fire and fight, not tenderness. Even if BoBoiBoy had been giving him that tenderness for the past two days.

Heat rose across Fang’s cheeks for a different reason this time. Embarrassed, flustered… yet not unwilling. Slowly, hesitantly, he let out a small sigh and sank back on the bed. “...Fine. Do what you want.”

BoBoiBoy’s heart clenched at the quiet surrender, and for the first time since receiving his orders from Commander Kokoci, he allowed himself a small, genuine smile.

But as he leaned forward to fuss over Fang, his nose caught a scent he’d been studiously ignoring until now—one that wasn’t his. The fabric draped loosely around Fang’s neck carried a claim that was not his own. Captain Kaizo’s jacket.

The alpha bristled before he could stop himself. His voice slipped lower, edged with jealousy he couldn’t quite hide. “...Can you put Kaizo’s jacket on the bed? Please?”

Fang blinked at him, confused for a moment. “The jacket?”

BoBoiBoy avoided his eyes, ears burning. “It’s—distracting.” His tone came out clipped, sharper than intended, almost growled.

Realization dawned, and Fang’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous grin. “Wait… are you jealous?”

BoBoiBoy clenched his jaw, the tips of his ears betraying him in furious red. He didn’t answer, but his silence was loud enough.

“Oh, you are jealous,” Fang drawled, dragging out the words like honey, savoring every drop of BoBoiBoy’s discomfort. “Of Captain Kaizo. My alpha Abang.” He tilted his head, crimson eyes gleaming with mischief. “You do realize it’s just his jacket, right? Or do you think he’s still here somewhere, hiding in the fabric, glaring at you?”

BoBoiBoy’s nostrils flared, shoulders stiff. He stared at the jacket as if it had personally insulted him. Then, dead serious despite the playfulness in his tone, he muttered, “If it doesn’t get off you soon, I’m burning it.”

Fang burst into laughter, startled and delighted, even as he gawked at the alpha. “You wouldn’t.”

BoBoiBoy’s eyes snapped to him, unwavering, all fire and possessiveness. “Try me.”

The way he said it—firm, certain, one hundred percent serious—sent Fang into another fit of laughter, though this one softer, more breathless.

Slowly, deliberately, Fang tugged the jacket off his shoulders, holding it loosely between his fingers before tossing it onto the bed. He leaned forward, grinning wide, voice dropping low in mock innocence. “Better?”

BoBoiBoy’s hands twitched at his sides. His voice came out rough, begrudging, but honest. “Yes. Better.” His eyes lingered on the discarded jacket like he might still set it on fire later when no one was watching.

Fang chuckled, amused at how transparent the usually composed alpha had become. He leaned back on the bed, crimson eyes still dancing. “Wow. Who would’ve thought? The mighty BoBoiBoy, jealous of a jacket. What’s next? You growl every time Captain walks into the same room as me?”

BoBoiBoy didn’t bother denying it. His silence was answer enough.

Fang laughed again, softer this time, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

And then, without another word, BoBoiBoy bent down and slipped his arms beneath Fang. He lifted him easily, cradling him against his chest with a gentleness that didn’t match the sharp lines of jealousy still burning in his gaze.

Fang didn’t resist.

In fact, he leaned into it, his grin widening as he continued to tease, voice warm with laughter. “So all it takes to make you jealous like this… is Captain’s scent, huh? Good to know.”

BoBoiBoy shot him a look—half warning, half flustered—but refused to rise to the bait. He carried Fang out of the room, steps steady, until they reached the couch in the living room. He settled the omega down against the cushions with utmost care, tucking him close, as though the very act of tending to him was something sacred.

Fang chuckled again, his voice soft but warm, teasing still lingering in his tone. “You really don’t know how to hide it, do you?”

BoBoiBoy only shook his head, leaning close enough that his forehead brushed Fang’s. His voice came low, hoarse, unguarded. “Not with you. Never with you.”

Fang blinked, a little caught off guard at the raw honesty. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, BoBoiBoy was already pulling back, scanning him with a sharpness that made Fang feel like he was under inspection.

“You’re too warm,” the alpha muttered under his breath, brushing Fang’s damp hair away from his forehead. Without waiting for permission, he tugged the throw blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it snugly around Fang’s shoulders, tucking the edges in like he was afraid even a draft of air might slip through.

Fang raised a brow, half amused. “You do realize I’m not going to shatter if you don’t swaddle me, right?”

BoBoiBoy ignored him, adjusting the pillow behind Fang’s back until it was just right. “You need rest. And food.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the kitchen. “We still hadn't had lunch yet.”

He was already on his feet, determination etched into every line of him. “Stay here. I’ll make something.”

“Wait—since when do you cook?” Fang called after him, amusement thick in his tone.

BoBoiBoy glanced over his shoulder, giving Fang a flat look. “I can handle soup.”

Fang snorted softly but stayed where he was, watching as the alpha moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency. The faint clatter of pots and the soft hiss of boiling water filled the space, blending with the steady rhythm of Fang’s own heartbeat.

When BoBoiBoy returned, it was with a steaming bowl of simple chicken broth, balanced carefully on a tray alongside a glass of water and a small plate of crackers. He set it down on the coffee table before crouching in front of Fang, lifting the bowl like it was something precious.

Setting the spoon aside for a moment, he reached into the tray where he’d tucked away a small packet. “Medicine first,” he said, tone matter-of-fact though his hands were as gentle as ever. He unwrapped the tablets, poured Fang a little water, and pressed both into his palm with quiet care.

Fang raised a brow, obediently swallowing them down before smirking. “You do realize your stomach’s the one complaining, right? Shouldn’t I be the one fussing over you instead?”

BoBoiBoy blinked, caught off guard. 'He’s teasing, hiding behind it. But I don’t want him to hide anymore. Not from me.'

With exaggerated flourish, the omega scooped a spoonful of broth and held it up. “Say ‘ah,’ Alpha. Don’t make me force it.”

For a heartbeat, BoBoiBoy just stared.

Then he leaned forward without hesitation, lips parting as he let Fang slip the spoon into his mouth. Casual on the surface, but the way his eyes stayed locked onto Fang’s made it feel far from innocent. He swallowed slowly, deliberately, as though making a point of savoring it.

And then… he leaned in further, close enough that Fang could feel the ghost of his breath brushing his lips.

“Your turn,” BoBoiBoy murmured, voice low. He tilted the spoon Fang was holding and guided it right back to the omega’s mouth—his hand brushing Fang’s fingers in a lingering touch that made Fang’s pulse skip.

'I really shouldn’t push this. He’s tired, he’s fevered. But if I don’t show him—let him feel how serious I am—he’ll hide from me again. And I can’t let that happen. Not ever again.'

Fang froze, heat flashing across his face that had nothing to do with fever. His smirk faltered, words stumbling out in a whisper. “T-that’s not how this works…”

BoBoiBoy’s smile lingered—soft, but edged with something that sent Fang’s chest twisting tight. “It works if I say it does.”

Fang’s heart thudded wildly. He wanted to roll his eyes, to throw some quip back, but his voice betrayed him, breaking under the weight of heat crawling through his veins.

And then BoBoiBoy moved again—slow, deliberate. Not for the spoon this time. His lips brushed against Fang’s fingers still curled around the handle, warm and feather-light. Fang’s breath hitched sharply. Before he could even process it, BoBoiBoy’s tongue flicked, a daring sweep against the pad of his finger, catching a stray drop of broth.

'Did—did he just—' Fang’s mind scrambled, blanking under the rush of fire in his chest. Every nerve lit up at once, his body betraying him with a shudder. “B-BoBoiBoy—!”

The alpha only leaned back a fraction, eyes glinting with mischief and something far deeper. “Couldn’t waste it, bunny,” he said simply, voice low and rich with intent.

Fang opened his mouth to retort—but the words never came. Because BoBoiBoy didn’t give him the chance.

The alpha took another spoonful of broth… and held it between his own lips. Then he leaned forward again, steady and unyielding, until Fang had nowhere left to retreat. Their noses brushed, the heat of the soup mingling with the warmth of his breath.

BoBoiBoy tilted, pressing his mouth to Fang’s, feeding him directly, the broth slipping between them with a heat that burned far beyond fever. Fang made a strangled sound, caught between protest and surrender, his entire body tightening under the blanket. His mind screamed this was too much—but his body didn’t push away. Couldn’t. 

Fang’s fingers clenched against the fabric at his sides, trembling. His chest hurt, but not with guilt this time—with something far scarier. Something dangerously close to need. 

When it was done, BoBoiBoy pulled back just enough to look at him. His lips glistened, eyes heavy with unspoken words that pressed down on Fang harder than his body ever could.

“See?” BoBoiBoy murmured, voice husky, intimate, a promise and a command all at once. “That’s exactly how this works.”,

Fang’s pulse thundered in his ears, face burning as he struggled to catch his breath. He couldn’t tell if he was falling apart or being stitched back together—and that terrified him most of all.

Fang’s cheeks flamed hotter, the heat of the broth and the heat of BoBoiBoy’s proximity colliding until he could hardly tell which was which. He swallowed hard, fingers fumbling at the blanket.

“St-stop,” he squeaked, voice embarrassed and small. “You don’t want to catch anything. You’ll get sick.”

BoBoiBoy’s grin was impossible to resist. He leaned back just enough to watch Fang’s face, amusement dancing in the warmth of his eyes. “Me? Sick?” He tilted his head, mock-offended. “Please. I don’t get sick from you. Besides—” his voice dropped, soft and wickedly proud, “—that was a little payback for you teasing me earlier.”

Fang spun a glare that was half-protest, half-delight. “That was mean! You enjoyed that, didn’t you? You—” He cut off, heat curling through him as he realized his words sounded like an accusation and like something more tender at the same time. “You enjoy seeing me embarrassed.”

BoBoiBoy snorted, the sound warm and fond. “I enjoy how cute you get when you try to hide it,” he said, unable to stop the honest softness in his tone. Cinnamon and sunlight wrapped the words like a pledge. “Too cute to resist.”

Fang’s retort dissolved into a helpless, bright sound—part annoyed, part helpless laugh. He scrunched his nose, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly. “Shut up,” he muttered, but the smile betrayed him.

The bickering settled into comfortable warmth. BoBoiBoy scooped another careful spoonful and fed Fang, and Fang, in a burst of teasing payback, held out the spoon and told BoBoiBoy to open up. When the alpha complied—this time with a playful roll of his eyes and an exaggerated “ah”—Fang couldn’t help but laugh, breath hitching between sips and chuckles.

They finished the broth like that: small jokes, soft protests, and the occasional quiet look that said more than either of them dared speak. The tension that had been coiled tight in the room eased a little with each bite. Fang’s fever still clung, but the color leaving his cheeks was more from the warmth between them than anything else.

When the bowls were empty, BoBoiBoy gathered the tray and rose. He moved through the small kitchen with practiced care—stacking plates, rinsing bowls, and wiping the table—every motion tidy, almost ceremonial, as if tending to these little things meant more than just keeping order.

From the couch, Fang watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, toes tucked beneath the blanket, his chest lighter than it had been in days.

“You’re still mean,” Fang muttered under his breath, the words more fond than accusing, a faint pout tugging at his lips.

BoBoiBoy glanced back over his shoulder, caught the look, and smiled with that familiar softness that always cut through Fang’s defenses. “And you’re adorable, bunny.”

Fang made a small scoffing noise, snorting as though to brush it off, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch upward. He leaned deeper into the cushions, hand curling in the blanket, letting himself simply exist in the quiet.

For a few moments, the world stilled—lavender and carrots clinging faintly to Fang’s scent, cinnamon and sunlight wrapping around BoBoiBoy’s presence—two threads weaving together in the stillness of their small living room.

But upon BoBoiBoy’s return, his gaze immediately fell on Fang. The omega had already taken his after-meal medicine, obedient in his quiet way, putting his visor on the coffee table, and the drowsiness it brought was settling fast. His lashes fluttered against his flushed cheeks, breath uneven, soft. A shiver ran through his frame, small but sharp, rattling the blanket around him.

BoBoiBoy’s brow furrowed as he hurried over, crouching at Fang’s side, his hand brushing against the omega’s shoulder. “You’re shaking again,” he murmured, worry threading his voice. “Feeling cold?”

Fang, half-adrift in sleep, let instinct speak where words tangled. He gave the faintest nod, lips parting with a quiet hum, surrender written across every line of his face. His body leaned unconsciously toward the warmth at his side, seeking heat the way his instincts demanded.

BoBoiBoy bit his lip, frustration tugging at him, before an idea formed in his head.

“Hang on,” he whispered, rising quickly. He strode to the hall closet, yanking out another blanket—thicker, heavier—and shook it out before hurrying back.

Kneeling again, he carefully spread it over Fang, tucking the corners snugly around his frame until the omega looked like nothing but a bundled burrito on the couch.

For a moment, BoBoiBoy stared at him, but the shivering hadn’t eased. His chest clenched. “Still cold,” he muttered, more to himself. His jaw tightened, fire itching at the edge of his skin. “Maybe… this will work.”

Closing his eyes, he reached inward, pulling at the blaze that was always there, restless and impatient. The air shimmered, his aura flaring. Then the transformation took hold—BoBoiBoy Blaze standing in his place, warmth rolling off him in waves.

Blaze leaned down, slipping his arms beneath Fang and lifting him effortlessly before lying back on the couch with the omega sprawled across his chest. His arms wrapped securely around him, the weight of the blankets mixing with the steady furnace of his body, heat pulsing in soft, rhythmic waves.

The effect was instant. Fang’s body eased, tremors softening until they faded into nothing more than little twitches. His lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks, and a quiet sound—half sigh, half groan—slipped free as he rubbed his cheek against Blaze’s shirt, instinctively chasing the warmth like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Blaze’s smirk curved slowly and sharply, voice a molten drawl. “Figures. All that tough act, and yet the second I turn up the heat, you melt right into me.”

Fang stirred, managing to murmur hoarsely against his chest, “Shut up… you’re too warm.” The words carried a petulant edge, but his arms betrayed him, clinging tighter, refusing to let go.

Blaze chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his chest where Fang rested. He tilted his head, lips brushing deliberately against Fang’s ear. “Don’t play coy, bunny. You’re holding on like your life depends on me. Admit it—you love this.”

Fang’s fingers twitched as though to swat him, but Blaze caught the hand before it moved away. Slowly, deliberately, he raised it to his lips, kissing each knuckle with a teasing softness that made his grin curl wider. “Cute. Always so shy. You have no idea how dangerous that pout of yours is. Makes me want to ruin you with kisses until you stop pretending.”

Fang’s breath hitched, the fog of drowsiness thinning under the weight of those words. His eyes cracked open, hazy but sharp enough to cut when paired with his flushed cheeks. “You’re impossible,” he whispered, voice caught between protest and surrender. “Always saying things just to watch me squirm.”

Blaze’s smirk lingered, but there was warmth beneath it, steady and unyielding. He dipped his head lower, lips brushing Fang’s temple, lingering there until the omega’s breath evened out for a moment. “Maybe I do enjoy it,” he admitted softly, murmuring against skin. “Because shy looks too damn good on you. Better than anything else. Makes me want to keep you right here—pressed to me—where you can’t hide.”

Fang’s throat worked, words stuck, until finally he buried his face against Blaze’s neck again, muffling a quiet, “You’re so damn mean…” The mutter was weak, stripped of venom.

“Mean?” Blaze laughed under his breath, the sound softer now, intimate. “No, bunny. I’m honest. And right now?” His arms tightened, holding Fang closer still. “Right now, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to keep anyone warm the way I want to keep you.”

Fang’s reply was faint but clear this time, whispered into his skin like a secret. “Then… don’t stop.”

For a heartbeat, Blaze froze, chest clenching at the naked truth of those words. His grin softened into something raw, something that burned quieter but deeper. He tipped Fang’s chin up with gentle fingers, coaxing his gaze. Their eyes met—sleep-heavy but open—and then Blaze closed the distance, pressing a kiss to Fang’s lips.

It wasn’t rough, wasn’t claiming. Just warm, slow, and deliberate, as if he was pouring every bit of fire in his chest into the contact. Fang gave the faintest hum, lips parting just enough to return it, brief but unmistakably real, before his drowsiness pulled at him again.

Blaze lingered a moment longer before pulling back, resting his forehead to Fang’s, smirk faint but voice gentler than fire had any right to be. “See? Told you. You love it.”

Fang’s cheeks burned even hotter, but his answer slipped out without hesitation this time. “...Maybe I do.”

Blaze kissed his hair again, arms tightening protectively. “Good,” he whispered, letting his warmth flood the room. “Because I’m not letting go.”

And wrapped together in heat and heartbeat, the fire between them glowed steady, unshakable.

Back At TAPOPS

The sterile corridors of TAPOPS Space HQ hummed with quiet energy—too quiet. Every echo of footsteps, every distant hiss of a door opening or closing seemed sharper, heavier, as if the entire station itself was holding its breath.

Captain Kaizo walked tensely, eyes narrowed and alert. Behind him, Lahap kept pace with steady precision, the alpha’s stance radiating tension.

The betas fanned out in a careful spread around the station—Sai and his twin sister Shielda mirroring each other’s steps, Ying and Yaya pretending to scroll through their scanners as if running routine sweeps, while Gopal kept his posture loose and casual, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.

None of them spoke. None of them dared.

The investigation had already begun, and to raise suspicion in a place like this—a station crawling with agents, engineers, and officers—would be suicide.

The deranged scientist could be anywhere.

Could be anyone.

So they played their roles well, moving as though they were only carrying out standard patrol duties, blending into the sea of agents. Their real coordination was carried only in glances, in the tilt of a head, in the way a hand brushed subtly across a comm link without pressing it.

The weight of their orders pressed down on them like iron. Commander Kokoci and Admiral Tarung had made it clear: root out the infiltrator. A dangerous alpha who had slipped into TAPOPS nearly five months ago without so much as a ripple, walking the halls under their noses while planting roots.

Fang had given them what little he could find—male, alpha, scar cutting across one eyebrow. But the omega had never been told the full picture.

Not by them.

Not by Kokoci.

Not by Tarung.

All of them believed Fang didn’t know the truth—that he had no idea how closely he had brushed against becoming prey.

But Kaizo knew better. Kaizo told Fang to wait until they reached the safety of Earth.

The omega wasn’t a fool; he already knew something was wrong. Sooner or later, Fang would press BoBoiBoy for answers, and BoBoiBoy—deeply in love with Fang, protective to his very core—would not hold them back.

Kaizo’s jaw tightened at the thought. It was a comfort and a risk all at once.

Comfort, because Fang deserved to know the danger that stalked him.

Risk, because if the scientist had eyes and ears in TAPOPS, he might have ears close enough to catch whispers from Earth as well.

Shielda’s gaze swept the passing crowd of agents, her eyes sharp but her expression carefully blank. Sai adjusted the readings on his scanner, lips pressed thin, feigning boredom. Yaya forced a yawn, Gopal stuffed his hands into his pockets, and Lahap quietly prepared his threads without drawing attention.

Everyone of them was hunting. Every one of them was pretending they weren’t.

Kaizo stopped briefly at a junction, his red eyes scanning the streams of agents filing past. His presence was commanding even in stillness, his body radiating authority that made other agents unconsciously give him space. He didn’t speak—the risk was too high—but the glance he threw over his shoulder at the others when they left Commander Kokoci's office was enough.

They understood.

Find him.

Root him out.

And when they did—

The monster who wanted to turn Fang into nothing more than an incubator for twisted, vile experiments would never touch him. Not while they still drew breath.

The oath hung heavy between them, unspoken but absolute.

And yet unease lingered.

Because in the back of every mind ran the same relentless thought:

The scientist had already been inside TAPOPS for nearly five months.

What if he were watching them right now?

And Kaizo alone carried the sharper edge of fear—because while the others believed Fang was blissfully unaware, Kaizo knew better.

Fang would demand answers.

And BoBoiBoy would give them.

Though unknown to anyone, high above the polished corridors and briefing rooms, well beyond the sterile hum of TAPOPS’ main arteries, something else stirred.

Maintenance shafts, ventilation tunnels, and forgotten storage bays were the arteries of his little network—dozens of spider-like machines clung to walls and ceilings, their jointed legs whispering along conduits. Each black carapace was studded with glassy eyes that glowed faint red as they skittered and fed every sound, every flicker of light, back to a darkened chamber far removed from the station’s watchful centers.

There, under the sick pallor of the console light of his private room, the scientist watched.

The monitors painted his scarred face in shifting blues. The one crooked eyebrow that split his forehead cast a permanent shadow over a mouth that had taught itself to smile like a blade.

The feeds showed the two packs breaking into careful patterns—splitting, sweeping, drifting through the station as if on tiptoe. To most, their movements might have looked tactical; to him, they were exactly what he’d predicted.

“They’re dancing exactly how I thought they would,” he murmured, each word a greasy pleasure. One long finger tapped the glass of the main screen in time with their cautious strides. “Predictable. So very predictable.”

He leaned forward until his reflection rippled in the monitor—Kaizo’s wolfish profile cutting across the feed—and the grin widened. He enjoyed that image: captains hunting what he had already arranged to move. He allowed himself the smugness of an architect watching his plan take shape.

On a secondary screen, a timeline unspooled: a dozen tiny anomalies, each one his own deliberate fingerprint that, in the hands of a mind like Kaizo’s, would resolve into the single, irresistible narrative he needed: exposure.

They would pry.

They would panic.

They would protect the asset in the wrong place.

“They did exactly as expected,” he said, tapping the schematic with satisfaction. “They moved the rabbit to the burrow I prepared.”

A spider drone’s feed crawled across the monitor. Its mission was to watch Fang, but the subject was not where to be found. A red alert blinked: SUBJECT MISSING.

The scientist’s eyes narrowed, then widened. The air in the chamber seemed to taste electric to him. The missing mark only confirmed something he had planned for: Fang had been taken off-station. There was only one place they would hide him.

Earth.

The omega was on Earth.

A small, manic laugh escaped him. “Good,” he whispered. “Better this way.” The words were hungry. “Away from sterile cages and endless soldiers. On Earth, you’ll be softer. Easier to pluck. Easier to break.”

He turned to the workbench with a practiced motion. Beneath the harsh lamp lay the instruments he’d been shaping for months—clinical and terrible in their precision.

This was no crude tool.

It was a design of possession: a collar only in the literal sense, a lattice of dark, matte alloy that would hug throat and nape like a crown of thorns. Segmented plates flexed in the blueprint, micro-actuators threaded through polymer ribs, and along the interior rim, a filigree of conductive filaments and microscopic injectors gleamed. Each one was engineered to interface with microcirculation and the nerve bundles at the base of the skull.

He traced the collar’s cruel contour with a fingertip. “Possession is a better word,” he told the empty room, voice dry with satisfaction. “Not merely restraint. A promise: you will yield to me, and you will believe that yielding was your desire.”

Beside the collar, a compact sphere rested—the ghost of Dreamweavebot reborn. He had reverse-engineered the hunter’s power matrix, twisted it, and grafted it to his own implants.

Where the Dreamweavebot once lulled others into a rest of their deepest desire, this device had been calibrated to a single mind: dream-echoes tailored to a particular wiring.

The collar would operate as a complete lock. It would trap its wearer in an infinite dream of their desires, and the wearer's body would obey his every command without question.

He pulled up schematics on the console. Neural harmonics, frequency envelopes copied from the Dreamweavebot, dampening layers to hide telemetry from routine scanners—everything rose on the screen in neat, cruel logic.

Crucially, he tuned the invasive components sub-threshold for Alphas and Betas; the spider that killed Drosk showed him which biologies yielded the right responses. Omegas alone reacted the way he needed.

Only Fang—fragile, singular—would be malleable in the precise light he planned to use.

“A few more calibrations,” he murmured, hunched over the arrays, fingers moving like a pianist’s. He set stealth handshakes to confuse diagnostics and folded obfuscation into the collar’s signature. He scheduled the execution for the next day, aligning it to the station’s weakest pulse: a lower-deck shift change when attention thinned and solitary workers slouched through maintenance corridors.

He knew how to wait. He had mapped the station’s rhythms and fault lines.

And now, Earth presented the perfect theatre. Off-station, they would not be layered with the same redundancies of surveillance and armed response; their attention would be elsewhere. He imagined the collar closing on that slender neck with a quiet pulse finding home in sleep, dream after dream stitching the same tidy delusion until reality and longing braided together.

Compliance would not be brute force; it would be home-made, a lock clicking into place.

He let himself a long breath and smiled into the screen as Fang’s packs swept the corridors below—searching, nervous, careful. Every step they took fed his spider-feeds; every corridor they cleared was now a rung on the ladder he had built. He tapped one last line of code, and the console confirmed the plan: stealth relay active, telemetry masked, dream matrix queued.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, and the word was now a promise and a countdown. “Tomorrow, I will finish what I started five months ago.” He rose and ran a hand across the instruments—tools, wires, syringes of biochemical vector—each item placed for a precise motion. Beside them lay the collar’s inner padding, innocuous in shape but monstrous in intent.

The spider-machines continued to hum and click, dozens of small eyes sweeping the station’s skin. The feeds looped back to the dark chamber, where the scientist watched his choreography with the patient satisfaction of a predator who had prepared a trap and then walked away to wait.

“Let them hunt,” he breathed as the console lights flickered across his face. “Let them scrub the station till they’re raw. It won’t matter. He’s on Earth now. He’ll be trusting—soft, separated. Easier to make into what I designed.”

He shut the surveillance loop and leaned back, the mask of a contented craftsman settling over him.

Outside, in the corridors, the team moved under orders and oath—determined, blind to the way the web tightened. In the dim chamber, the scientist pinched the bridge of his nose and, for the first time in months, allowed himself to savor the closing gears of his plan.

Tomorrow, the last adjustment.

Tomorrow, the prize.

Chapter Text

The keys jingled in Tok Aba’s hand as he turned them in the lock, the faint clatter echoing down the quiet street. He’d closed the shop earlier than usual today—the last of the customers had gone hours ago, and his shelves were emptier than expected. The comforting scent of cocoa and caramel still lingered faintly in the air of the shop behind him, but not a single can of cocoa was left.

He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling to himself with a tired chuckle. “All gone… guess I should’ve checked the stash last night,” he murmured. His voice carried that familiar mix of exasperation and amusement.

Still, it wasn’t the worst problem to have. Maybe tonight he’d relax for once—brew a pot of tea, watch the stars, enjoy the rare silence of a house not filled with chaos or explosions.

But when Tok Aba opened the front door, silence wasn’t what greeted him.

He stopped in the doorway.

The scent hit him first—a strange but familiar layered warmth that made his nose twitch. A comforting undertone of sunlight and cinnamon, sharp yet unmistakably BoBoiBoy’s scent, mingled with something gentler, softer, and sweeter. Lavender and carrots, faint and delicate but laced with fevered heat, the signature scent of Fang—and right now, it carried an edge of distress that made Tok Aba’s heart clench.

He took one step inside, and the scene came into view.

On the couch, curled together like something fragile and sacred, were BoBoiBoy and Fang.

BoBoiBoy—still in his Blaze form—was fast asleep, his usually bright expression smoothed into something weary but peaceful. His arms were locked around Fang as though shielding him from the world—one hand resting protectively over the omega’s waist, the other curled loosely over his shoulder.

And Fang… the boy was almost buried in BoBoiBoy’s chest, cocooned in two blankets—one thin and worn, the other thick and warm, probably pulled from the closet. Fang’s breathing came in shallow waves, his cheeks flushed an unhealthy pink, his lips pale.

Even from here, Tok Aba could see the tremor that occasionally ran through his fingers.

The mingling scents told their own story—BoBoiBoy’s sunlight and cinnamon were strong enough to steady, grounding the air, while Fang’s was weaker, fading in and out like a flickering flame.

Tok Aba’s chest tightened.

“...Oh, my boys,” he whispered, his voice soft with both affection and worry. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

He crouched beside the couch, the faint creak of his knees the only sound in the still air. Up close, he could feel the heat radiating off Fang’s skin.

Fever—definitely. A strong one. He could smell the imbalance in the omega’s scent, the way lavender was fighting against something acrid, the chemical burn of exhaustion.

Instinct tugged at him.

Despite being a beta, Tok Aba’s scent of baked bread and roasted coffee beans had always carried warmth and grounded steadiness, a comforting mix that filled any space he was in. It was a scent meant to calm, to reassure.

And right now, he let that natural undertone seep out, hoping it might ease both of them.

Still, his brow furrowed. It had been six months since his grandson had last come to Earth. And now he’d just—appeared here? With Fang. With no prior calls or texts. 

He hesitated a long moment before reaching out. Carefully, Tok Aba set a hand on BoBoiBoy’s shoulder. “BoBoiBoy, wake up—”

The reaction was immediate.

Blaze’s eyes snapped open, twin glows of amber piercing through the dim light. His entire body went tense, and in the next heartbeat, Tok Aba saw it—flame, small but dangerous, blooming in the boy’s hand.

Tok Aba froze, not in fear but in instinctive caution.

“BoBoiBoy!” he hissed quietly but firmly, his beta scent spiking slightly, grounding, authoritative.

The moment recognition hit, the fire snuffed out. Blaze blinked rapidly, the glow fading from his eyes. His expression shifted from one of aggression to one of wide-eyed guilt. “Tok Aba—! I—sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Tok Aba waved him off before the apology could fully form. “It’s all right, Boi. You startled me, that’s all.” His tone was soft, but his eyes were sharp.

Even the warmth of his scent carried a sterner undertone now, giving way to something solid and questioning. “But that reaction of yours tells me something’s wrong.”

He looked back down at Fang, who whimpered faintly in his sleep and burrowed even closer against BoBoiBoy’s chest. The young Alpha instinctively tightened his hold, his scent deepening protectively, cinnamon and heat wrapping around the trembling Omega like a shield.

Tok Aba exhaled slowly, his heart heavy.

The way BoBoiBoy moved—how his body instinctively adjusted to keep Fang steady, how their scents entwined—it wasn’t just friendship anymore. There was a bonding instinct in the way they breathed together. Unspoken, perhaps even unintended, but unmistakable.

“BoBoiBoy,” Tok Aba began softly, rising to his feet, “I think you’d better tell me what happened. And why Fang looks ready to faint in his sleep.”

BoBoiBoy hesitated, his jaw tightening, eyes flicking from Tok Aba to Fang. He looked… conflicted. Afraid, even.

“I… It’s a long story, Tok Aba,” he murmured, voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “But I’ll tell you. Just... Could you give me a moment?”

Tok Aba studied him quietly, then nodded. “Of course, Boi.” He turned to head toward the kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. “You make sure Fang doesn’t burn up while I fix something warm.”

As he walked away, the faint smell of baked bread and roasted coffee beans followed him—warm, grounding, quietly protective—the scent of a Beta who’d seen too many storms and knew when another was coming.

And in that moment, Tok Aba knew—whatever storm his grandson had brought home this time, it wasn’t one that would pass easily.

The familiar whistle of boiling water broke the quiet, followed by the soft clink of porcelain as Tok Aba poured steaming tea into two cups. The air filled with the gentle, comforting scent of roasted leaves and honey—a grounding warmth against the tension that still hung in the room.

When he returned to the living room, the sight that met him softened his expression.

BoBoiBoy had shifted from his earlier position. He’d changed back to his original form, the fiery edges of Blaze gone, replaced by his normal, calmer self. Fang now lay stretched across BoBoiBoy’s lap, still wrapped tightly in both blankets. The young Alpha had adjusted the cushions so the Omega’s head rested comfortably, one of BoBoiBoy’s hands brushing through Fang’s dark hair in absent, protective motions.

The boy’s fever still lingered—Tok Aba could see the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, but his breathing was steadier now, softer.

Tok Aba quietly set one cup down on the small table beside BoBoiBoy and sat beside him, the couch creaking faintly beneath their combined weight. The Beta’s scent—baked bread and roasted coffee beans—filled the air, steadying the Alpha’s sharper, spiced aura of sunlight and cinnamon that clung to the space around Fang like a protective barrier.

BoBoiBoy looked up as Tok Aba sat, his voice quiet. “You closed the shop early today, Tok Aba? It’s still an hour before sunset…” He glanced toward the window, where the fading afternoon light painted the walls in gold. “You never close this early unless something’s wrong.”

Tok Aba chuckled softly, leaning back. “Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry. I just forgot to check the cocoa stash last night.” His tone carried both sheepishness and humor. “Sold out earlier than I expected. So, I figured—why not rest for once?”

BoBoiBoy smiled faintly at that, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. His hand never left Fang’s hair, his thumb tracing slow circles against the Omega’s temple.

Tok Aba studied him quietly, the steam from his tea curling between them. Then, in his usual calm, careful voice, he asked, “BoBoiBoy… tell me. What’s really going on?”

There was no accusation in the Beta’s tone, only concern—deep, paternal, and unyielding.

BoBoiBoy hesitated. His eyes flickered to Fang again, as if making sure the Omega was truly asleep. Then he sighed, lowering his gaze to the cup between his hands.

“Well, two days ago,” he began softly, “Fang collapsed on me.”

Tok Aba’s brow furrowed.

“He’d been working nonstop—missions, reports, barely resting or eating. He was burning up, barely able to stand. His fever was bad. He needed at least two weeks of rest from training or missions.” BoBoiBoy’s jaw tightened slightly. “The next day, Commander KokoCi sent us out on a mission. I went with Ying, Yaya, and Gopal. Fang stayed behind with Ochobot.”

He paused, taking a breath before continuing, his voice roughening with the memory. “We were teamed up with Fang’s first pack—Kaizo, Lahap, Sai, and Shielda. Our target was a power sphere named DreamweaveBot. It had been captured by a bounty hunter named Drosk. We thought it was a simple retrieval mission.”

Tok Aba didn’t interrupt. He simply listened, his quiet presence inviting BoBoiBoy to keep going.

BoBoiBoy’s eyes darkened. “But when we were about to fight Drosk, he started talking. Said he’d been paid to capture Fang. That a deranged scientist was after him. We didn’t even have time to question the Hunter—a spider robot killed him with poison after we defeated him. Pierced through his armor like paper.”

"We didn't tell Fang about it at first since he's sick," He exhaled shakily, his hand unconsciously tightening around Fang’s. “Only for Fang to later unknowingly reveal to us that the scientist had been sending robots after him for months. Every solo mission he took, he was being hunted. He was making a report about it for Commander Kokoci, but then he collapsed.”

Tok Aba’s fingers tightened around his teacup. “That scientist,” he murmured slowly. “Do you know who?”

BoBoiBoy shook his head grimly. “We only knew what Fang told us. Male Alpha. A scar over his eyebrow. Deranged, but smart and feared. He’s been hiding inside TAPOPS’ Space HQ for almost five months. Could have been using a false identity, feeding data through hidden servers, or even manipulating station systems to cover his movements.”

The Beta’s steady scent rippled faintly with unease.

BoBoiBoy continued, “He’s been releasing some kind of gas on Fang at night. It doesn’t affect Alphas or Betas, but… for Omegas, it’s poison. It weakens them—physically, mentally. Makes them unable to rest, fills their nights with nightmares, and destroys them mentally.” He looked down at Fang’s sleeping face, his expression pained. “It’s probably what made him collapse, along with him overworking himself. He's been breathing it in for months without realizing it.”

Tok Aba’s eyes darkened, the warmth of his scent cooling to something firmer, protective. “And the higher-ups?”

“When Commander KokoCi and Admiral Tarung found out about the gas.” BoBoiBoy nodded slowly. “They ordered me to take Fang to Earth immediately—to keep him safe. The rest stayed behind to find out who the scientist really is. Kaizo, Sai, Shielda, Lahap, Ying, Yaya, Gopal—they’re still there, trying to secretly track him down before he finds out something is wrong.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Outside, the late afternoon breeze rustled the curtains. Fang murmured softly in his sleep, shifting slightly, his hand curling weakly into BoBoiBoy’s sleeve. The Alpha instinctively adjusted his hold, his scent spiking with warmth—a silent promise that he’d protect him.

Tok Aba finally set his cup down, sighing deeply. “So that’s what brought you here.”

BoBoiBoy nodded, guilt flickering across his face. “I didn’t mean to drop in like this. I just—there was nowhere else safe enough. I don’t want him near the station until the scientist is caught.”

Tok Aba studied his grandson for a long moment—then reached out, resting a firm, steady hand on the Alpha’s shoulder. “You did the right thing, BoBoiBoy.”

BoBoiBoy blinked, startled. “Even if I left the others?”

“Even if you left,” Tok Aba said gently. “Because you brought someone who needed safety home. And that's what matters.”

For the first time since arriving, BoBoiBoy’s shoulders eased, just a little. The weight of command, fear, and worry didn’t vanish—but Tok Aba’s words steadied him the way only a true elder Beta’s grounding could.

As the sun dipped lower, spilling amber light across the room, the air filled again with the mingling of scents—cinnamon and sunlight, carrots and fevered lavender, coffee and bakery calm.

The quiet before the storm.

Tok Aba leaned forward, pressing the back of his hand gently to Fang’s forehead. The warmth radiating from the boy’s skin made his frown deepen. “Still warm,” he murmured, glancing at BoBoiBoy. “But it’s not climbing. If he keeps resting, the fever should break in two days.”

BoBoiBoy exhaled, shoulders sagging in relief. “Two more days…” He looked down at Fang, brushing damp strands of hair away from the boy’s temple. “He’ll finally be okay then.”

“He’s strong,” Tok Aba said softly, a small, reassuring smile on his face. “Stronger than most give him credit for. Just keep him warm, let him sleep, and don’t let him worry about anything.”

BoBoiBoy nodded, the tension in his chest easing for the first time in days. The calm of the house, the familiar scent of home, the quiet rhythm of Tok Aba’s steady presence—it all felt like the eye of a storm he hadn’t realized he’d been walking through.

Neither of them noticed Fang’s eyelids fluttering until a small, sleepy voice broke the stillness.

“...Tok Aba?”

Both turned at once. Fang’s eyes were half-open, hazy with fever, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You smell like… coffee,” he mumbled, voice rough from dryness.

Tok Aba chuckled warmly. “And you smell like trouble,” he teased gently, reaching over to pat Fang’s arm. “How are you feeling, young man?”

Fang blinked slowly, as if considering the question. “...Thirsty.”

BoBoiBoy immediately moved, helping him sit up with careful hands. He adjusted the blankets around Fang’s shoulders and held out his own cup. “Here—drink this. It’s still warm.”

Fang accepted the cup with both hands, his fingers brushing BoBoiBoy’s as he took a few careful sips.

The warmth spread through him, soothing the dryness in his throat, and he let out a soft sigh before leaning back against the couch. His lashes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, and when he spoke, his words came out as a slow, sleepy ramble.

“Boboiboy’s so unfair, Tok Aba…”

BoBoiBoy blinked, caught completely off guard. “H-huh? What did I do?”

Tok Aba, who had just sat down with his own cup of tea, raised a brow, his lips twitching. “Yeah, what did he do now?” he asked, his tone carrying that soft humor only an elder could manage.

Fang pouted faintly, his cheeks flushed from fever and embarrassment alike. “He keeps doing things that make my heart go all funny,” he mumbled, staring blearily into the cup in his hands. “Like calling me his bunny in front of everyone… and carrying me everywhere… and acting like I’m made of glass.”

BoBoiBoy’s face went red almost instantly. “I-I was just trying to help! You couldn't walk, Fang—”

Tok Aba’s chuckle cut through the room, warm and teasing. “Sounds to me like you’ve been treated very gently. That’s not so bad, is it?”

Fang gave a sleepy little shake of his head, his voice quiet but fond. “It’s not bad… just unfair.” He sighed, his tone slipping into that space between dream and wakefulness, soft and unguarded. “He’s always so nice. Too nice. Smiles when I’m mad, tucks me in like I’m some kind of kid… makes it impossible to stay mad.”

Tok Aba smiled behind his cup. “That’s a good trait in a person, you know. Someone who can make you feel safe even when you don’t want to.”

Fang hummed, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah… safe…” His fingers twitched slightly, remembering the warmth of BoBoiBoy’s hands. “He doesn’t even know how much it means to me,” he murmured. “How much he means to me…”

BoBoiBoy swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he glanced helplessly at Tok Aba, who merely sipped his tea with a knowing look.

Then Fang’s voice dropped to a murmur, his tone almost petulant. “And he keeps kissing me,” he added, slurring slightly from exhaustion. “Every time I try to argue, he just—kisses me. Like that makes it all better.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected.

Tok Aba blinked, his cup pausing midair. “He did what?”

BoBoiBoy froze, his face burning crimson. “I—I didn’t—! Tok Aba, it’s not—he was panicking, I was trying to calm him down! It wasn’t like—!”

But Fang was already drifting deeper into that hazy, unfiltered space, his words spilling like half-formed thoughts. “He keeps on cuddling me close,” he mumbled, his eyes glazed and distant. “Whispers things that make me feel safe… and then he smiles at me like I’m the only one that matters…”

Tok Aba leaned back, covering his mouth to hide a quiet laugh. “He sounds like quite the Alpha, doesn’t he?” he teased softly, though his tone gentled when he saw the turmoil in BoBoiBoy’s expression. “Relax, BoBoiBoy. I don’t need an explanation.”

BoBoiBoy’s mouth opened to respond, but before he could, Fang’s tone changed. It was small at first—a tremor under his breath—but then it broke, fragile and raw.

“I just… love him so much,” he whispered.

The air went still.

BoBoiBoy’s eyes widened, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

Fang’s fingers tightened weakly around the cup, trembling. “I really, really do, I want to stay with him forever,” he murmured, voice cracking, “but the voices… they keep saying I’ll ruin everything.”

Tok Aba’s soft amusement vanished. His brows drew together, and he leaned closer. “Voices?” he asked gently.

Fang’s eyes were unfocused, as if he were seeing or hearing something that wasn’t really there. “They say he’ll see how broken I am,” he whispered, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “That he’ll hate me once he sees it… that he’ll leave. Just like everyone else did.”

BoBoiBoy’s breath hitched. “Fang…”

“They say I’m not good enough,” Fang continued, his voice shaking now. “That I’ll drag him down until he regrets ever caring about me. That I’ll make him wish he never met me.” His chest began to rise and fall too quickly, panic creeping in as his body trembled. “They don’t stop, Tok Aba… they don’t stop talking.”

Tok Aba set his cup down, his tone calm but firm. “BoBoiBoy,” he said sharply, “I think his mind’s still being affected by the gas.”

BoBoiBoy’s head snapped toward him. “No—no way, that can’t—”

“It’s not fully gone,” Tok Aba interrupted, his gaze grave. “It’s lingering in him. It’s feeding off his emotions, off his fears.”

Fang’s breathing hitched again, the tears spilling freely now. “I don’t want to ruin it,” he whispered brokenly. “I don’t want to lose him. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I keep messing things up. I just want him to be happy.”

The sound shattered something inside BoBoiBoy.

Without thinking, he set everything aside and pulled Fang into his arms, cradling him close. His scent flooded the space, wrapping around the trembling Omega like a protective shield. “You’re not ruining anything,” he whispered fiercely, his voice trembling. “You’re not broken, Fang. You’re mine. You hear me? I love you, bunny, and I'm never letting you go.”

Fang’s sobs shook against his chest. “You’ll leave,” he whimpered. “Once you see what I really am… you’ll leave…”

BoBoiBoy pressed his forehead to Fang’s, eyes burning with tears. “Never,” he breathed. “I’ll never leave you, Fang. I don’t care what those voices say. I’ll drown them out if I have to.”

Tok Aba leaned in, resting one steady hand on Fang’s back and the other on BoBoiBoy’s shoulder, grounding both of them with his calm, firm scent. “Let him feel you,” he murmured. “Let your scent wrap around him. It’ll quiet the panic.”

BoBoiBoy obeyed, letting the warmth of his Alpha presence surround Fang—home, protective, and endless. Slowly, the trembling lessened. Fang’s sobs quieted into shaky breaths, his fingers unclenching as the terror receded under the gentle weight of touch and scent.

Tok Aba watched them silently, his heart heavy. He’d seen trauma before—but never something that reached this deep. The gas had done more than harm to just Fang’s body and mind. It had touched his instincts, his soul, his self-worth.

Whatever that scientist had done… it wasn’t just cruelty. It was precision. And it had left scars no medicine could fully heal.

Fang’s voice, small and cracked, slipped through the silence. “Don’t… leave…”

BoBoiBoy’s response came instantly, steady despite the emotion shaking him to his core. “Never,” he whispered again, with all the strength of a vow.

Tok Aba exhaled softly, his eyes filled with a rare, quiet grief. “We’ll find the man who did this,” he said finally, his voice low but fierce. “And he’ll never get near Fang again.”

BoBoiBoy tightened his hold around Fang, his voice burning with quiet fire. “We will,” he said. “I promise.”

They stayed in their places for a while until the sky deepened into indigo, the sun long gone.

Inside, Tok Aba rose quietly, turning on the lights that spilled over the three of them like a fragile barrier against the dark. Fang’s breathing had steadied, the lines of fear on his face softening as he drifted into sleep, safe in the Alpha’s arms.

Tok Aba moved toward the window to close it against the cold night air. When he turned back, his gaze softened at the sight before him—BoBoiBoy holding Fang close, his chin resting atop the Omega’s hair, eyes still damp but filled with fierce determination.

In the hush of evening, a promise lingered in the air like the last note of a lullaby.

“I’m not leaving you,” BoBoiBoy whispered again, voice barely audible, but certain as the stars. “Not now. Not ever.”

Back At TAPOPS

The lights of TAPOPS Space HQ gleamed like cold stars reflected on polished metal. Deep within the subterranean levels—far below the busy agent floors, the training rooms, and the conference rooms—there existed a sealed laboratory where no one even knew existed.

Inside, a rhythmic mechanical hiss filled the air. Servo arms moved in perfect synchronization, welding, soldering, and programming under the sharp, obsessive eye of the man who commanded them—Dr. Vexen.

A name whispered rarely, spoken even less.

Among those who knew it, it carried the same chill as a death sentence.

The Alpha Scientist stood hunched over a wide holographic display, his fingers gliding across glowing keys with a kind of surgical grace. The light from the console washed over his face, revealing a man who at first glance looked far too ordinary—almost harmless.

He was tall but slender, his frame wrapped in a plain white lab coat that had long since lost its crispness. Wisps of dark black hair fell unevenly across his forehead, slightly overgrown, giving him a disheveled, absentminded look—as if he were simply another overworked researcher lost in his projects. His features were fine and deceptively calm: soft mouth, sharp jaw, and skin so pale it almost reflected the glow of his machines.

But his eyes ruined the illusion of gentleness.

They were a muted violet under the lab’s artificial light—eyes that never blinked long enough, eyes that studied everything with quiet, calculated hunger. Behind the thin lenses of his goggles, that violet gleam carried a depthless intensity that made anyone who met his gaze feel as though they were being dissected on sight.

A faint scar cut through his left eyebrow—a clean, deliberate mark that never quite healed properly. It drew attention to his gaze, making it sharper, more predatory. No one knew how he got it. Some said it came from a failed experiment; others whispered it was the first time he’d tested one of his creations on himself.

His hands, long-fingered and precise, moved with a grace that bordered on unnatural. The faint metallic sheen at his fingertips suggested implants—augmentations hidden beneath flesh. When he paused to type, every motion was quiet, exact, almost too smooth, as if guided by machinery rather than muscle.

Even the way he breathed carried an eerie rhythm, steady and controlled, as though his very body obeyed a code only he could read.

To the untrained eye, he might have seemed calm, meticulous, brilliant, and unthreatening. But to anyone who looked longer than a few seconds, there was something profoundly wrong about him. His stillness was not peace; it was tension wound so tight it hummed beneath his skin.

He was a storm hidden behind glass.

A man who smiled softly as he dismantled everything around him.

A man who, in that moment, leaned closer to the holographic display, his reflection flickering in the red glow of code, the faintest curve of a smile tracing his lips—one that never reached his eyes.

Lines of scarlet code cascaded like a digital waterfall before his eyes, filling the chamber with a faint hum of power. The reflection of the red text glimmered against the lenses of his goggles, illuminating the faint twitch of a smile on his gaunt face.

“Tomorrow,” he rasped, each syllable weighted with restrained euphoria. “Tomorrow, my masterpiece awakens.”

Around him, hundreds of small, arachnid-shaped drones stirred inside transparent incubation pods.

Their sleek, obsidian bodies pulsed with rhythmic blue light, each a vessel of carefully engineered chaos. Inside each one rested a single microchip—a creation so sophisticated that even TAPOPS’ top scientists would weep to understand its design.

“These,” Vexen whispered, tracing a finger along the glass of one pod, “are not weapons… they are revelations.”

He watched as the spider’s legs flexed, joints clicking softly in readiness. “You will deliver my gift,” he murmured. “And when the chips take hold…” He paused, his grin widening into something thin and feral. “TAPOPS will turn on itself. A chain reaction of brilliance… fueled by their own trust.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound sharp and humorless. The idea thrilled him—the notion that the mighty defenders of the galaxy, paragons of unity and discipline, would tear each other apart under his command. He found the irony intoxicating.

He picked up a small control module from the table, spinning it lazily between his gloved fingers.

With one flick, he could release chaos.

With another, he could erase an empire.

The microchips’ programming would override all higher neural commands, forcing the infected agents into a savage combat trance.

To anyone watching, it would look like madness.

To Vexen—it was art.

He moved deeper into the lab, the metallic floor echoing beneath his boots as he passed into the next chamber. Here, suspended by magnetic locks, floated fifty larger spider-like constructs. Their chassis gleamed dark crimson beneath the lights, weapon ports lining their carapaces like the ridges of some mechanical predator. They were heavily armed—equipped with plasma cutters, graviton claws, and corrosive gas emitters.

“When they rise,” Vexen mused, his tone a near whisper of awe, “the ground itself will tremble.”

He paused, inhaling deeply, savoring the sterile tang of metal and ozone. Every scent, every sound was proof of his genius. People had laughed at him once—called him unstable, dangerous, too ambitious.

Fools.

They would see tomorrow how far their arrogance had carried them.

But among his army, one creation stood alone.

It was humanoid, its form too sleek, too symmetrical to be mistaken for one of the others—but wrong in subtle, deeply unsettling ways. Its spine bent at unnatural angles, and its movements, though slow and deliberate, carried a predatory grace. Six eyes burned dimly on its faceplate—each one alive with eerie, individual intelligence.

Vexen stopped before it, his hand trembling faintly as he reached out to touch its plating. “And you…” He murmured, his voice dripping with something like reverence. “You are the culmination of everything they feared I could make.”

This one was not a soldier—it was a hunter. A fully adaptive unit, built from algorithms that evolved in real time. It had no fixed form; its armor could liquefy, harden, or shift into blades or shields. It could learn from its opponents, rewriting its battle logic on the spot.

For months, this unit had been watching from the shadows—recording, analyzing, adapting. Studying one person.

Fang.

The Omega. The scientist’s greatest obsession.

It had observed every flicker of his shadows, every shift in stance, every microsecond of hesitation between attacks. It knows everything and more as it keeps on learning.

Vexen’s lips curled into a crooked grin. “To capture chaos, one must understand it,” he whispered. “And I do. I understand it better than anyone ever will.”

He ran a hand lovingly over the humanoid spider’s arm, as though calming a beast. “You will bring me what I desire. My Omega.” His eyes gleamed with hunger. “Not even that naïve child Boboiboy will see it coming.”

Moving toward another console, he keyed in the final synchronization commands. The holo-display flickered, showing schematics of TAPOPS HQ security layouts and interplanetary travel routes. Every second of his plan had been rehearsed in simulation thousands of times.

Failure was statistically impossible.

Tonight, he would quietly disable the main security relay. His absence would be hidden by a fabricated biometric trace. And when dawn came, the moment his ship broke atmosphere, the spider drones would activate automatically, releasing their microchips across the HQ.

For fifty glorious minutes, TAPOPS would be blind. Fifty minutes of unfiltered chaos.

Long enough for him to vanish. Long enough to make history.

He turned toward another workstation, where a smaller silver spider floated in containment—a sleeker, faster model. Its body pulsed with bright white light. The Interceptor Unit.

Its task was delicate: to find and disable the teleportation Power Sphere, Ochobot. The lynchpin of TAPOPS’ global mobility. Without it, the agents would be stranded, unable to pursue him until the operation was complete.

“By the time they realize what’s happened,” Vexen muttered, a low, trembling laugh escaping him, “by the time they turn their precious Sphere back on… it will all be over.”

He began to pace the lab, every step more deliberate than the last, his excitement teetering between brilliance and mania. His voice rose as he spoke—not shouting, but trembling with intensity.

“Do you see it?” he whispered to no one. “The elegance of it all? The symmetry of destruction? Their own rules—twisted against them! Their unity—shattered by my design! A network of order, brought to its knees by perfect chaos!”

He laughed again—quietly at first, then louder, until it echoed against the cold walls. Yet even in his madness, there was control. Every motion, every word was precise. He was a man possessed, but not lost. A monster who knew exactly what he was doing—and relished every second of it.

Finally, he turned back to the humanoid spider, its six eyes gleaming like miniature suns in the dark.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice suddenly calm, composed, almost tender. “You hunt.”

The lab lights dimmed to crimson standby. Rows of drones blinked softly, their mechanical limbs twitching in anticipation.

And in the silence that followed, the faint, synchronized sound of metal legs moving filled the air—an echoing whisper of an army waiting for its dawn of chaos.

At The Same Time With Others

Far above the silent storm raging beneath Dr. Vexen’s hidden laboratory, TAPOPS Space HQ drifted through the stars like a fortress of glass and steel—a beacon of order against the black canvas of space.

From the outside, it looked calm, disciplined, and unshakably secure. Patrol ships glided in precise formations, lights blinking in time with the station’s mechanical heartbeat.

Inside, the faint hum of power conduits and the recycled whisper of air filled the endless metal corridors.

But under that tranquil rhythm, tension simmered like static in the air—unspoken, unseen, yet heavy enough to press on every breath.

Deep within the upper decks, behind layers of encrypted access and sound-dampening alloys, seven figures sat in a darkened briefing room that was never officially booked. The room itself was small—bare metal walls, faint blue light spilling from the holographic displays, and a long oval table littered with files that technically didn’t exist.

No one spoke.

No one dared to.

To passing officers, it might’ve looked like a few exhausted operatives resting after a long mission.

But those seated inside knew better. Their silence wasn’t fatigue—it was necessity. Every word carried risk. Every sound could be heard by something other than living ears.

At the head of the table stood Kaizo.

Tall, unyielding, his sharp red eyes burned in the dim blue glow of the holographic projections. The faint scar that curved near his eye—a mark of battle fought long before this one.

But now, his war wasn’t on a battlefield. It was in data streams, encrypted transmissions, and shadowed corners of his own home base.

His jaw was tight enough to crack. Line after line of code scrolled past the floating screens—security sweeps, personnel logs, archived transmissions—all showing the same maddening void.

No traces.

No signatures.

No pattern.

The scientist—the ghost hunting Fang, his little brother—was still nowhere to be found.

Kaizo’s fingers flexed at his side. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to act, to fight something tangible.

But this enemy didn’t bleed, didn’t breathe, and didn’t make noise unless it wanted to. That powerlessness—it burned like acid in his veins.

Across from him, Lahap leaned back, trying to disguise the fatigue creeping into his Alpha composure. His eyes were sharp. “We’ve scoured the station twice,” he muttered, just above a whisper.

His tone was careful—measured to avoid triggering the room’s passive recorders. “Nothing. No anomalies. Maintenance bots report normal activity. Whoever this scientist is… he’s not slipping through cracks. He’s erasing them.”

“Or worse,” came a quiet voice beside him. Shielda.

Her fingers drummed softly against her wrist display, her eyes flicking toward the ventilation slats above them. Her twin, Sai, sat rigid beside her, his expression a perfect mirror—same frown, same stillness, same contained fury.

Sai’s voice was a whisper so faint it barely carried. “Keep your voices low. The Commander was right—there are spies in the walls. I caught one earlier. A spider drone. Barely big enough to fit in a palm. It self-destructed before I could extract its core.”

Kaizo’s gaze snapped to him like a blade drawn from its sheath. “You should’ve reported that the second it happened.”

“I couldn’t,” Sai hissed. His hand curled into a fist. “That thing could’ve had auditory triggers. If I’d spoken, others could’ve activated. For all we know, the walls are listening even now.”

A beat of silence. Then Shielda touched his arm lightly, grounding him. “He’s right. This isn’t just about surveillance anymore—it’s control. The scientist hasn’t made a single mistake. That kind of precision means either military-level clearance or someone feeding him intel from the inside.”

Kaizo’s eyes flickered—cold, analytical, dangerous. “Which means someone inside TAPOPS could be helping him.”

The words hung heavy in the air like poison.

From the corner, three sets of human eyes flicked up. Yaya, Ying, and Gopal—the human Betas—weren’t supposed to be part of this operation, yet here they were. Not because of duty, but because of family.

Because Fang wasn’t just Kaizo’s little brother or the Omega of the Rebel pack. He was theirs, too. A found sibling bound by something deeper than blood—loyalty, love, and shared scars.

Yaya tapped the table softly—two knocks, a code they’d developed after their first mission. Keep calm. Stay quiet.

Ying leaned forward, lowering her voice until it was nearly a breath. “Captain Kaizo’s reaching his limit. It’s only been a few hours since Fang left for Earth, and he hasn’t stopped searching.”

Gopal, sitting beside her, rubbed a hand through his hair, his tone grim. “Can you blame him? The scientist sent hunting robots after Fang, amplified a Power Sphere, killed the Hunter he hired, and now we know he’s here. Somewhere in this station. Watching us. Probably listening to this exact conversation. And Fang is on Earth defenseless.”

Yaya frowned, her dark eyes flashing. “Fang’s not defenseless. He’s with BoBoiBoy.”

“Yeah,” Gopal said softly, “but BoBoiBoy’s heart’s too big. He protects everyone else before himself. If something happens, he’ll get hurt trying to shield Fang. And that’s exactly what the scientist would want.”

Kaizo suddenly spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. “We’re missing something.”

Every head turned toward him.

He was staring at the holographic map—his posture rigid, his tone controlled but lethal in its intensity. “I’ve reviewed six months of reports. Cargo logs. Security footage. Every transfer, every lab requisition, every personnel record. Nothing stands out. No unregistered movements. No anomalies in power usage. No missing data except the ones we shouldn’t see.”

Lahap frowned, arms crossed. “So what are you saying, Captain?”

Kaizo’s gaze hardened, a slow fire igniting in his eyes. “I’m saying he might not be hiding as someone new. He’s hiding as someone we already know.”

A suffocating silence swallowed the room. Even the hum of the ventilation seemed to fade into the background.

Sai stiffened. “You think he’s forged an identity inside TAPOPS? Genetic clearance, security codes, everything?”

“Yes,” Kaizo said coldly. “Which is why our scans can’t find him. He’s using someone’s credentials—maybe even their body—to mask himself.”

Shielda’s eyes widened. “A parasitic overlay. That’s why every system scan comes back clean. The signal’s there, but it’s embedded in a legitimate profile.”

Kaizo’s voice dropped to a growl. “He’s not a ghost. He’s a parasite.”

The word hit like a punch.

Yaya swallowed hard. “Then what do we do?”

Kaizo turned to face them all—the two packs joined by one Omega. The people he trusted most in the galaxy with this matter. His expression softened just enough to show the brother beneath the mask.

“We adapt,” he said quietly. “From this point on, no one works alone. Two-person teams only. Every scan, every report, every corridor check—you move as pairs. Silent codes only. If anyone sees something strange, even a flicker, you come to me directly. No channels. No comms. Just like what we've been doing.”

He looked toward the ceiling, where the faint mechanical hiss of the vents whispered like a hidden heartbeat. When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper.

“He’s listening. He always is.”

Sai’s hand brushed the hilt of his energy blade. “And when we find him?”

Kaizo’s eyes glowed faintly red in the low light, and his voice turned to steel. “Then we make sure he never hides again.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the slow, synchronized breathing of seven hearts. The Gopal, Ying, and Yaya exchanged glances. Lahap straightened his posture. Shielda and Sai mirrored each other’s steady resolve.

They weren’t just operatives anymore. They were predators hunting a phantom.

Because if Kaizo was right—and every instinct in the room told them he was—then the scientist wasn’t merely hiding inside TAPOPS.

He was TAPOPS.

The walls, the air, the systems, the silence—all of it could be his eyes. His ears. His hands.

Dinner Time On Earth

The air inside Tok Aba’s cozy home was warm, thick with the faint scent of spices and simmering broth. Outside, the wind whispered softly against the windows, carrying the muffled sounds of the night. Inside, however, the world was calm. The faint clatter of utensils, the bubbling of soup on the stove, and the occasional hum of Tok Aba’s voice blended into a familiar melody—a sound that spoke of peace, of safety, of home.

It was a sound BoBoiBoy hadn’t truly felt in a long time.

In the living room, the light from the kitchen cast a soft, golden glow that reached across the floor, brushing against the couch where BoBoiBoy sat. The Alpha hadn’t moved for hours. His back rested stiffly against the cushions, one arm draped protectively around Fang, who lay curled up against him.

The Omega’s head was tucked under his chin, dark hair falling across his face like a veil, and BoBoiBoy could feel every rise and fall of his breathing—steady now, rhythmic, though the fever still lingered faintly beneath his skin.

BoBoiBoy barely dared to move.

Every so often, Fang would twitch or murmur something in his sleep, his brow furrowing as if caught between nightmares and rest. When that happened, BoBoiBoy would hold him a little closer, his hand brushing gentle circles over his back until he calmed again.

It was strange, he thought—how quiet the house felt despite the warmth, despite Tok Aba’s soft humming from the kitchen. The stillness wasn’t peaceful to him. It was heavy. Oppressive.

Because in that silence, BoBoiBoy’s mind replayed everything.

The panic. The choked sobs. Fang’s trembling hands. The way his eyes—usually sharp and defiant—had filled with terror and shame as he whispered those words that would not stop echoing in BoBoiBoy’s head.

“They say he’ll see how broken I am.”

“That he’ll hate me once he sees it.”

BoBoiBoy’s hands trembled where they rested around Fang’s shoulders. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Those words weren’t just fear—they were damage. Deep, deliberate, inflicted.

He could still hear Fang’s voice breaking with each syllable, that raw, hollow tone that didn’t belong to the confident, smirking Omega who faced danger without flinching. Someone had done that to him. Someone had poisoned that strength, made him doubt the love he was surrounded by.

And BoBoiBoy’s chest burned with something far hotter than guilt.

Rage.

He brushed a few strands of Fang’s hair from his forehead, his fingers trembling not from gentleness this time, but restraint barely keeping the rage in his scent contained. “You shouldn’t have had to say that,” he whispered, voice rough and low. “You shouldn’t even think it.”

His vision blurred for a second—not with tears, but with red-hot fury.

That scientist—the one who had tortured Fang day and night, hunted him like an experiment, filled his mind with lies—he wasn’t just a threat.

He was a monster.

BoBoiBoy could almost see his face in his mind (Even if he didn't know what he looked like), the faint, cruel smirk of a man who believed he could hide behind technology and power. His fists curled, knuckles white, a storm building behind his calm brown eyes.

If that man stood before him now—if he dared to come near Fang again—BoBoiBoy knew exactly what he’d do. There would be no hesitation, no mercy, no careful restraint.

He would destroy him.

Not just stop him.

End him.

Piece by piece, if that’s what it took.

BoBoiBoy’s breathing deepened, slow and deliberate, forcing himself not to shake. His powers flickered faintly under his skin—the air around him growing warmer, the faintest static hum curling in the space between them. He shut his eyes quickly, afraid to wake Fang with the energy that was building in his body.

For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the boy sleeping against him. Fang’s face, though peaceful now, still carried traces of exhaustion—the dark circles beneath his eyes, the tension that refused to leave even in rest. BoBoiBoy’s heart twisted painfully.

'How many times had we laughed while he was breaking inside?'

'How many times did we believe his lies when he said he was fine?'

His throat tightened. 'We should have seen it sooner.'

He looked down at Fang again, and this time, the gentle affection in his gaze was overshadowed by something primal. Protective. Dangerous.

BoBoiBoy leaned closer, his voice barely a breath, a whisper meant only for the boy in his arms.

“I’ll find him,” he murmured. “I don’t care where he’s hiding. I’ll find him, and I’ll make sure he never hurts you again.”

His tone darkened, his words laced with quiet venom. “He made you afraid to exist, Fang. He took that smile from you. For that alone… he doesn’t deserve to keep breathing.”

His hand tightened briefly in Fang’s hair before he forced himself to relax. The Omega stirred faintly, sighing as he shifted, unaware of the storm that had taken root inside his protector.

BoBoiBoy leaned back against the couch, staring out the window where the stars glimmered faintly in the night sky. His reflection stared back at him—eyes sharp, glowing faintly with restrained power.

“I swear,” he whispered, voice as calm as the quiet before a thunderstorm, “if he ever touches you again…”

The air seemed to vibrate faintly, the temperature rising a degree as BoBoiBoy’s elemental energy pulsed just beneath his skin.

“…I’ll burn his world to ash.”

And with Fang still sleeping safely in his arms, BoBoiBoy sat in the glow of the warm light, every breath a vow—silent, steady, and deadly.

From the kitchen came Tok Aba’s gentle voice. “Dinner’s almost ready, boys,” he called, the sound grounding but faint, like a whisper through a dream. “You both need to eat something before you faint from worry.”

BoBoiBoy didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on Fang, memorizing every tiny detail—the curve of his lashes, the faint twitch of his fingers, the way his lips parted slightly with every soft breath. Fang’s face was still pale, his scent faint, nearly swallowed by exhaustion.

BoBoiBoy reached out carefully, brushing a few strands of hair from Fang’s forehead. “Fang,” he murmured, voice low and steady, forcing the tremor out of it. “Hey… time to wake up.”

Fang didn’t stir at first, only mumbled something incoherent, shifting closer into the Alpha’s warmth. BoBoiBoy swallowed, exhaling slowly through his nose. The air carried the faintest crackle of spiced cinnamon—the rage that simmered beneath his skin, the fury he was trying to bury deep so it wouldn’t reach Fang through scent. He took another breath, slow, deliberate, until it was gone. Calm. Safe.

He tried again, gentler this time. “Bunny… come on, dinner is almost ready.”

A quiet hum escaped Fang’s throat, followed by a weak twitch of his fingers against BoBoiBoy’s arm. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first before settling on the Alpha’s face.

“…mmh…” Fang mumbled, voice rough, hoarse from exhaustion. “BoBoiBoy?”

BoBoiBoy’s heart clenched with relief so fierce it almost hurt. The moment Fang’s red-crimson eyes met his, the storm inside him dulled—just like it always did. Those eyes, sharp and vivid, had a way of cutting through the haze in his chest, grounding him.

He smiled softly. “Hey,” he said, voice quiet, almost reverent. “Tok Aba made dinner.”

Fang blinked, confusion flickering across his features. He looked down at himself, at the blanket draped over his lap, and BoBoiBoy’s arm still loosely around him. “Did I… fall asleep here?”

BoBoiBoy let out a quiet chuckle, though the sound carried the ghost of a tremor. “Yeah. You were exhausted. You’ve been out for hours.”

“Oh.” Fang rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, cheeks faintly flushed. “Sorry,” he murmured, tone sheepish, before he rubbed his head, trying to remember something. “Hey, did I... wake up saying weird things? I don’t really remember.”

BoBoiBoy’s heart skipped. So Fang didn’t remember. The tears, the panic—it was all a blur to him now. Maybe it was a blessing.

“Don’t apologize,” BoBoiBoy said softly, hiding the pain behind a gentle smile. “You needed rest. And no, you didn't say anything weird.”

Fang smiled faintly, leaning back against the couch again. His movements were slower than usual, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. The light from the kitchen glinted off his crimson eyes—still tired, but softer, clearer. “You stayed here the whole time?” he asked after a moment.

BoBoiBoy nodded. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving.”

The Omega’s lips curved upward, the hint of amusement returning. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

“Nope, you're the one who's too good for me, and you're worth the effort,” BoBoiBoy murmured, his voice dipping lower as he smiled softly, staring at Fang's eyes. 

Fang looked away quickly, color rising to his cheeks. He didn’t remember the things he’d said, but some instinct deep inside him could still feel the warmth that had held him through the dark. The care. The quiet safety that only BoBoiBoy seemed to carry.

From the kitchen, the scent of food grew stronger—ginger, chili, and a faint sweetness from Tok Aba’s secret spice mix. It drifted through the air like a comforting embrace, wrapping around them both.

“Dinner’s done!” Tok Aba called cheerfully, breaking the spell. “Come on, before it gets cold.”

BoBoiBoy rose carefully, helping Fang to his feet. The Omega’s legs wobbled slightly, but he managed, steadying himself with a small, embarrassed laugh. BoBoiBoy stayed close, hand hovering near Fang’s back as they made their way to the kitchen.

Tok Aba turned when he saw them, his expression softening instantly. “Feeling better, Fang?” he asked, his voice gentle but laced with concern.

Fang nodded. “A lot better. Thank you, Tok Aba.”

The old man smiled, eyes twinkling. “Good. You scared us half to death earlier, you know. Now, sit down. Both of you.”

The table was already set—two steaming bowls of broth, rice, and a plate of vegetables. The gentle aroma of ginger and sesame filled the air, comforting and warm. Tok Aba hummed softly as he ladled soup into smaller bowls, with the spoon tapping the rim.

BoBoiBoy helped Fang into a seat before settling beside him, steadying the Omega when he wobbled slightly, and taking out Fang's medicine for him to take. The moment he sat, Tok Aba slid a bowl in front of him with a fond smile.

“Eat before it gets cold,” the elder beta said, settling down with his own cup of tea. “You’ll need strength if you want to recover properly.”

Fang nodded, still quiet, taking his medicine from BoBoiBoy before picking up his spoon.

The three bowls were almost empty, steam curling up in lazy spirals into the warm kitchen light.

Tok Aba hummed a little tune as he set down the last ladle and slid a small plate of sweet choco biscuits toward BoBoiBoy and Fang. The house smelled like ginger, cocoa, and sesame.

For a long, comfortable beat, all anyone heard was the clink of spoons and the soft scrape of the bowls. Then Tok Aba’s voice dropped into the space like a mischievous bell.

“So, Fang,” he said, stirring his tea with theatrical slowness, eyes glittering. “When you woke up half asleep earlier… You said some very interesting things.”

BoBoiBoy’s spoon froze midair. The alpha’s shoulders snapped up; his cinnamon warmed a degree hotter as panic pricked at him. Fang blinked, forehead creased. “...I did?” he asked, immediately suspicious.

“Oh yes,” Tok Aba said, eyes twinkling like he’d found a secret toy. “Something about how ‘BoBoiBoy’s so unfair.’”

Fang’s spoon clattered into his bowl as pink flooded his cheeks so fast it looked like a sunrise. “W–what?!” he squeaked.

BoBoiBoy’s hand flew to his mouth, his spoon tapping his teeth. “T-Tok Aba—!” he stammered, voice high enough to be mildly alarmed.

Tok Aba’s grin widened until his whole face crinkled. “You said he kept doing things that made your heart go ‘all funny’,” Tok Aba continued, with far too much relish. “That he called you his bunny in public, carried you around, treated you like you're made out of glass.”

The alpha went a bright, mortified red. “I-I was trying to help! He couldn’t even stand! I was not—” His protest dissolved under Fang’s burning glare.

Fang slammed a hand flat on the table and shot BoBoiBoy a look so blunt it could’ve been a weapon. “You told me I didn’t say anything weird!” he snapped. His crimson eyes bored into BoBoiBoy like two adorable, ruby lasers.

BoBoiBoy crumpled into his chair one degree farther, as if physically trying to avoid that stare.

Internally, he was a cartoon figure with steam pouring from his ears: Do not make eye contact. Do not make eye contact. Do not die. Do not get punched.

“Technically—” he started weakly, then trailed off as Fang’s expression sharpened.

“Technically?!” Fang echoed, like a judge giving a death sentence in the mildest voice possible.

Tok Aba laughed outright, tea forgotten, leaning back with all the indulgent glee of an elder watching a particularly entertaining sparring match. “So tell me,” he said, waving a finger between them, “are you two together now, or shall I expect more confessions at bedtime?”

Fang made a sound like he wanted to disappear into his bowl. He pushed his chin into his chest and mumbled, “We’re… uh…” His eyes darted to BoBoiBoy’s flushed face. “We’re trying. To see if it works first.”

Tok Aba’s face softened into that warm, elder look that meant he already adored the idea. “Trying, huh? Well, good thing you picked a willing tester,” he said with a wink at BoBoiBoy. “But don’t forget—you’ll need Kaizo’s approval. That’s not a formality.”

The color on Fang’s cheeks went up another notch. “Tok Aba!” he choked.

BoBoiBoy snorted—part pride, part resignation. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know,” he said. Tongue between teeth, he added, “I mean—I already tried to ask.”

Fang’s eyes flew open. “You what?!”

BoBoiBoy nodded, then winced, the memory visibly painful. “I may or may not have made a ridiculous bow while asking your brother for permission to court you after he dragged me out of the cafeteria today.”

Tok Aba nearly tipped his tea over laughing, eyes bright. “You did not!”

BoBoiBoy avoided the elder’s gaze. “He didn’t take it well,” he admitted in a small voice. “He kind of… tried to decapitate me.”

Fang shot out of his seat faster than his fevered limbs had any right to, spoon clattering to the table. “You fought my brother?!” His voice cracked between horror and indignation. “You could have been killed, you—stupid—arrogant—”

BoBoiBoy raised both palms like a surrendering monk. “I dodged! I promise I dodged.” His cinnamon scent flared, a little too much alpha heat under the eyes of Tok Aba’s amused, cutting stare.

Tok Aba wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, still chuckling. “To be fair,” he said when he could stop, “Kaizo seems to be the type to have what we call ‘territorial charm.’” He gave Fang a look. “Especially where his little brother’s concerned.”

Fang glowered. “Territorial? He tried to cut off BoBoiBoy’s head!”

BoBoiBoy’s eyes widened as he watched Fang’s hands ball into fists. Suddenly, the alpha’s bravado evaporated. He swallowed audibly. 'Oh gods. He looks like he’s actually thinking about punching me. Abort. Abort. Buy flowers later. Hide today.'

Fang’s lips twitched in a threatening, adorable way. “Maybe I should smack you,” he muttered, sounding almost delighted with the idea. “Just to make you listen to me for once.”

BoBoiBoy’s grin faltered into panic. “N-no, don’t—please don’t—” He shuffled in his seat as if distance could be purchased with dignity. “If you punch me, I’ll cry, okay? I will physically sob. I’ll be a pathetic mess in front of Tok Aba.”

Tok Aba raised a brow so high it was practically a wrinkle. “Would that be so bad? Old men enjoy tissues.”

Fang considered, eyes narrowing in mock calculation.

Then, with theatrical seriousness, he lifted one finger and wagged it at BoBoiBoy. “Only one smack,” he declared, “and it better be loud.”

BoBoiBoy paled. He glanced at Tok Aba, who had collapsed into outright laughter, shaking his head and nearly catastrophically spilling his tea. “You two are impossible,” the elder gasped between chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But sweet. Utterly sweet.”

Fang’s voice lost its threat and turned sheepish. “We aren’t—official. We’re seeing if it works. That’s all.” His eyes flicked to BoBoiBoy; the alpha’s face had gone from red to maroon to, possibly, a color not yet classified. “You promised to be careful.”

BoBoiBoy straightened like a soldier called to duty. “I promised,” he said solemnly. Then, unable to help the grin, he added, “Also, Tok Aba, I will have you know that I fought well against him. Admiral Tarung had to throw himself between me and the Captain. So technically, I survived Captain Kaizo's first wave of rage. Cleared the first gauntlet.”

Tok Aba clapped both hands together, delighted. “See? You passed the initiation. Kaizo’s not going to be able to cut you if Tarung’s in the mood for heroics.”

Fang huffed, but the tightness around his eyes eased; the edges of his mouth betrayed him with a smile. He jabbed BoBoiBoy lightly in the ribs—light enough to be a warning, heavy enough to be affectionate. “Don’t do anything suicidal again.”

BoBoiBoy yelped, then laughed, hand flattening where Fang had jabbed him. “No promises,” he teased, but his eyes softened into something steady and warm. He reached across the table and, with an exaggerated show of nonchalance, plucked a cocoa biscuit and offered it to Fang. “Truce?”

Fang rolled his eyes but took it, popping it into his mouth like the alpha had been offering actual treaties. “Truce,” he agreed.

Tok Aba settled his mug down with a satisfied sigh. “You two bicker like a married couple already. Just… remember to keep each other alive, and try not to get Kaizo to haul you both in for formal reprimands.” He winked. “Though, frankly, I’d pay to see that.”

BoBoiBoy snorted; Fang made a face that was all embarrassment and fondness. The old man’s laughter warmed the room like a second blanket.

After the plates were cleared, Tok Aba and BoBoiBoy lingered near the sink, drying a dish with theatrical slowness. Tok Aba glanced at BoBoiBoy over. “One more thing,” he said, voice suddenly conspiratorial. “If you do get Kaizo’s stamp of approval, you tell me first. I want to be the one to knit the wedding shawl. I have patterns.”

BoBoiBoy choked on his laugh, and Fang’s face immediately bloomed into scandalized, delighted protest. “Tok Aba—no! You can’t—”

Tok Aba wagged the towel. “Oh, but I can. I will. I make excellent shawls.”

BoBoiBoy and Fang traded a look—part incredulous, part smitten—and both burst into embarrassed, breathy laughter that filled the kitchen until Tok Aba had to raise a mock-stern finger to restore order.

As the laughter faded into contented little smiles, BoBoiBoy caught Fang’s eyes. They were soft, open, still slightly glazed with fatigue but honest.

“I meant what I said before,” BoBoiBoy murmured, softer than the steam, his voice suddenly tender. “I’m not backing down.”

Fang’s reply was a whisper, barely audible: “Good. Don’t.”

Outside the window, the stars slid slowly and patiently. Inside, Tok Aba’s house held three people who weren’t related by blood but somehow fit together like a home: an overprotective alpha, an omega half-recovered from fever and nightmares, and an elder beta who’d seen too much and laughed anyway.

Tok Aba plucked up the empty dish, smiling. “You two finish cleaning up. I’ll put the kettle on. And Boboiboy—try not to get yourself killed tomorrow, hmm? For my cocoa stock’s sake.”

BoBoiBoy put a hand over his heart with mock solemnity. “I cannot make that promise,” he said, then looked at Fang and grinned—half proud, half ridiculous. “But I’ll try.”

Fang rolled his eyes, reached over, and thumped BoBoiBoy’s shoulder with affectionate force — not quite a punch, but close enough to send the alpha into a fluster.

“Close enough,” BoBoiBoy said, laughing as Tok Aba’s chuckle filled the room, the three of them wrapped in a ridiculous, tender bubble of warmth and safety that—tonight, at least—felt unbreakable.

The scent of roasted tea leaves and honey drifted through the small living room, wrapping around the three of them like a memory.

Tok Aba carried in the tray himself — the porcelain set rattling faintly as he settled it onto the low table. The man moved with that same easy calm that came from decades of knowing precisely when to speak and when to let silence say enough.

BoBoiBoy accepted his cup with a soft “Thanks, Tok Aba,” while Fang leaned back against the couch cushions, the warm blanket BoBoiBoy had insisted he keep still wrapped loosely around his shoulders, though he managed to stop BoBoiBoy from giving him his after-meal medicine so Fang wouldn't fall asleep yet. His eyes looked clearer now, but there was a shadow to them — something distant, restless.

“Drink while it’s hot,” Tok Aba said, pouring for himself before settling into the armchair across from them. “Tea doesn’t wait, and neither should you two. You both look like you've been running on fumes for a while.”

BoBoiBoy gave a faint laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… we kind of forgot what true sleep was.”

Tok Aba chuckled, his eyes crinkling. “I could tell the moment I saw your faces. You looked like you’d wrestled a thunderstorm and lost.”

“Feels about right,” BoBoiBoy admitted, glancing toward Fang with a grin meant to coax one out of him, too. “Especially with this one.”

Fang raised an eyebrow at him, lips twitching slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” BoBoiBoy teased, leaning closer, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “You talk about me being unfair, but you’re the one who nearly jumped into a collapsing vent shaft last mission.”

Tok Aba’s brows lifted, amused. “Ah, I see some things never change. Fang still giving his Head Alpha gray hairs, hmm?”

BoBoiBoy laughed. “Constantly.”

“I don’t!” Fang protested, sitting up straighter, but his flush gave him away. “And you’re not even old enough to get gray hairs.”

“Emotionally, I am,” BoBoiBoy said with exaggerated solemnity, earning a quiet snort from Tok Aba.

But as their laughter faded, Fang’s smile did too. His gaze dropped to his cup, tracing the rim absently with one fingertip. The conversation drifted on — Tok Aba reminiscing about the good old days, about new gossip in town, with BoBoiBoy adding stories about their latest missions, aliens they met, and planets they visited.

And slowly, Fang went quiet again.

BoBoiBoy noticed it in the way Fang’s shoulders tensed, in how his scent shifted — faint unease threading through the soft sweetness. The alpha’s eyes flicked toward him, his voice staying light but deliberate.

“I'm sure the team’s holding up fine,” he said casually. “Ying is probably running diagnostics right now with Yaya helping her.”

Fang blinked, startled out of his thoughts.

Fang hesitated for a moment before adding. “And Gopal’s probably trying to keep everyone from... falling apart with his jokes.” He trailed off, his fingers curling around his cup.

Tok Aba didn’t speak. The older beta just watched with that quiet patience that let others unfold at their own pace.

BoBoiBoy leaned forward, tone softening. “You were thinking about them, weren’t you?”

Fang’s lips pressed together. His shoulders hunched slightly under the blanket. “…They’re still up there,” he murmured. “Both packs. Searching for him. And we’re just—here.”

“Kaizo, Lahap, Sai, Shielda… they won’t stop until they find him. And the others—Gopal, Yaya, Ying—they’re probably running themselves ragged trying to search for any clues.” Fang’s voice trembled faintly as he spoke. “They’re all out there risking themselves, and I don’t even know if they’re okay.”

The confession hung heavy in the air.

Tok Aba frowned slightly. “You can’t send messages?”

BoBoiBoy shook his head. “No. We can’t risk it. If the scientist’s spy bots are still listening in, even one word from us could give away where we are. Or worse, let him trace the signal back to them and figure out he has been found out.”

Fang’s grip tightened around the cup. “I just...want to know they’re okay, but if I try… I would just put them all in danger.” His tone cracked, low and raw. “It’s torture.”

BoBoiBoy swallowed hard, feeling the echo of that helplessness claw at his chest. “I know,” he said quietly. “I hate it too. Not knowing what’s happening up there, not being able to do anything. But we can’t take the risk—not until we know who that lunatic is.”

Tok Aba set his cup down gently, the soft clink grounding the silence. “You’re both right to be cautious,” he said after a long moment. “From what you told me, the man you’re dealing with… he’s not the sort who leaves mistakes unintentionally.”

BoBoiBoy nodded grimly as the room grew quiet again. The faint ticking of the wall clock filled the silence between them.

BoBoiBoy studied Fang closely. His scent had shifted again—no longer anxious, but sharp, heavy with restrained fury. The Alpha could feel it in his own chest too, the way the air thickened with the memory of what that scientist had done, and what he planned to do.

He wanted to tear the man apart. But for now, he kept his expression soft, his voice calm. “Hey,” he said quietly, nudging Fang’s shoulder. “You’re not alone in this, remember?”

Fang blinked, drawn back from the edge of his thoughts. “I know,” he murmured, but his voice was thin, wavering.

“Then trust me,” BoBoiBoy said, gaze steady. “We’ll hear from them soon. All of them. They’ve handled worse. They’ll find the scientist before he can make another move.”

Tok Aba leaned back, his eyes thoughtful but kind. “And until then,” he said, pouring them both another cup of tea, “you two rest. The galaxy won’t fall apart in one night — but you will if you keep worrying it will.”

That earned a faint, tired laugh from Fang. BoBoiBoy smiled too, bumping his shoulder lightly against Fang’s.

“Listen to Tok Aba,” he murmured. “For once, he isn't speaking in riddles.”

“Hey!” Tok Aba protested, pretending offense, and that drew another, more genuine laugh out of both of them.

The tension in Fang’s scent eased, just a little. BoBoiBoy noticed it and didn’t waste the chance—keeping the conversation going, asking Tok Aba about old stories, teasing Fang when he went quiet again, doing everything he could to keep that spark of warmth alive.

Because even with the galaxy spinning quietly above them — even with two packs fighting and searching and risking everything — for now, in this little house that smelled of tea and safety, they could pretend the world outside didn’t exist.

For now, they had each other.

The clock on the wall ticked softly, its steady rhythm blending with the faint hum of the night outside. The warmth from the teapot had long since faded, replaced by the drowsy hush that only came after hours of quiet conversation.

BoBoiBoy leaned back against the couch, half-turned toward Fang, who was still sitting with the blanket draped around his shoulders. The omega’s eyelids had grown heavier, though he tried valiantly to keep them open—half-listening to Tok Aba’s stories, half-lost in thought.

Tok Aba chuckled softly as he watched the two. “It’s getting late,” he said at last, his tone gentle but firm, the way only someone who had watched both of them grow up could manage. “You’ve both been talking for hours. And Fang—”

Fang blinked, startled out of his haze. “Mm?”

“You’ve pushed back your medicine, haven’t you?” Tok Aba said knowingly, raising one brow.

Fang grimaced slightly. “I just… didn’t want to get sleepy yet. That stuff knocks me out too fast. And I have been sleeping far too much.”

Tok Aba made a thoughtful hum as he set his empty cup down. “That’s the point, my boy. Healing doesn’t happen when you’re forcing yourself awake.”

BoBoiBoy’s expression softened, though the worry didn’t fade. “He’s right. You need rest if you want to get better, Fang.”

“I’m fine,” Fang started, but even as he said it, he winced faintly. His fingers flexed as a soft tremor ran through his arm—tiny, but BoBoiBoy caught it. The alpha’s eyes narrowed.

“Fang,” BoBoiBoy said quietly.

Fang exhaled, defeated. “…Okay, maybe not fine.” He rubbed at his shoulder, the motion weary. “Everything’s starting to ache again.”

Tok Aba stood with a small sigh, collecting the remaining cups onto the tray. “Then that’s settled. You’ll take your medicine, then go to bed. No arguments.”

Fang tried to muster one anyway, but BoBoiBoy was already up, moving to take the tray from Tok Aba’s hands. “I’ve got it,” he said, careful as he carried it toward the kitchen. “You’ve done enough tonight, Tok Aba.”

The older beta gave a fond smile. “Still the polite one, I see. Though I can’t say the same for your stubborn half there.”

Fang huffed faintly but didn’t have the energy to argue as he stood, blanket still around him like a cape. The movement drew another small wince, and BoBoiBoy, returning from the kitchen, was instantly there—one steadying hand on Fang’s back.

“Easy,” the alpha murmured. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just sore.” Fang’s voice softened. “I’ll be fine once I take the meds.”

“Good,” BoBoiBoy said, his tone gentle but decisive. “Then come on. Let’s get you settled.”

He guided Fang toward the hall, slow and careful, keeping a loose arm around him in case his legs decided to give out again. Fang didn’t complain this time—just leaned into the contact with quiet trust, his head drooping slightly from exhaustion.

Tok Aba followed them with his gaze, his smile turning mischievous when he noticed where BoBoiBoy was leading him. “Ah,” he said, voice full of teasing amusement, “so I see the guest room’s been forgotten?”

BoBoiBoy froze mid-step, heat rising to his ears. “W–We were just—he’s more comfortable in my room! It’s closer, and he—uh—”

Tok Aba laughed, rich and warm. “Of course, of course. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you can’t sleep unless you’re guarding him like a shadow.”

Fang’s face flushed red as he buried his nose deeper into the blanket. “Tok Abaaa…” he muttered, half-groan, half-whine.

BoBoiBoy looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “It’s not like that!” he sputtered.

“Mm-hmm,” Tok Aba said, entirely unconvinced. “Just make sure he takes his medicine before you two start your late-night whispering, alright?”

“Tok Aba!” both of them exclaimed in unison, which only made the elder laugh harder.

He waved them off fondly. “Go on, you two. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s problems can wait until morning.”

BoBoiBoy huffed, muttering something under his breath about “never living this down” as he guided Fang gently toward his room. Fang, too tired to fight it, just let the alpha lead him, warmth still tingling faintly in his cheeks.

And behind them, Tok Aba watched with a fond, knowing smile—the kind that came from love, from worry, and from the quiet joy of seeing his family, however unconventional, finally start to feel safe again.

The laughter faded as the lights dimmed, leaving only the soft creak of floorboards and the murmur of the night beyond the window. Upstairs, one door clicked shut, and peace settled over the little home once more.

BoBoiBoy’s room was quiet, steeped in the golden glow of a bedside lamp that softened the corners of the space. The scent of tea and honey still lingered faintly in the air, carrying warmth in the air. Fang sat on the edge of the bed, eyes heavy but alert enough to follow the Alpha’s every small movement.

“Here,” BoBoiBoy murmured, pressing a pill into his palm and offering a small glass of water. “Before you start arguing again.”

Fang tried for a glare, but it was half-hearted at best. “I wasn’t going to argue.”

BoBoiBoy raised a brow.

“…Fine,” Fang muttered, popping the pill into his mouth and swallowing. He handed the glass back with a quiet huff. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” BoBoiBoy said dryly, setting the cup aside before turning to rummage for something in his cabinet. “You’re not sleeping without a nest.”

Fang blinked, caught off guard. “You don’t have to—”

But before the omega could finish, BoBoiBoy paused mid-step, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath. A ripple of green and black energy washed over him, gentle as sunlight breaking through leaves. When it cleared, Duri stood where BoBoiBoy had been — his most innocent element, radiating warmth and a faint hum of life that seemed to make the air itself breathe.

“Okay!” Duri chirped, hands on his hips. “No sad faces. Nest time for the bunny!”

Fang blinked up at him, already drooping. “…You’re Duri now,” he muttered through a yawn.

“Mhm!” Duri said proudly, summoning a swirl of green light. From the floor, vines unfurled — rich, living cords that shimmered with dew as they rose and wove themselves together. In moments, the room changed: the bedframe disappeared beneath a living hammock, braided from thick velvet-soft vines threaded with faint golden light. Moss spread along the base, layering into cushions that seemed to breathe warmth.

The lamp’s amber hue mixed with the green glow, painting the scene like spring inside a dream.

“The perfect nest,” Duri said with a pleased hum. “Cozy, safe, and all natural.”

Fang smiled faintly. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible but comfy,” Duri chirped back, patting the hammock’s edge as he guided Fang closer.

The omega moved automatically, instincts taking over where thought no longer reached. His hands brushed along the moss, adjusting and fluffing the layers to his liking. He even dragged Kaizo’s captain jacket — left earlier on the bed — into the nest and set it close to him, where its familiar scent could mingle with his own.

Duri stiffened. Just slightly. His jaw ticked, the cheerful mask flickering for an instant. That jacket smelled too strongly of another alpha — one whose presence lingered in Fang’s scent already. Possessive instinct rose in his throat like static, but BoBoiBoy forced a quiet exhale, the childish smile staying fixed.

'Later,' he told himself. 'He needs rest now, not jealousy.'

As Fang sank deeper into the hammock, Duri’s vines shifted subtly. Some anchored the nest to the walls, others coiled along the floor — not random decoration, but a quiet line of defense. Each tendril pulsed faintly, alive, tuned to Duri’s senses.

They would wake him the moment anyone came near.

“Okay, all ready,” Duri whispered, tucking a blanket over Fang. “See? All soft, like a tree’s pocket.”

Fang’s breathing was already slow. “Mhm… thank you.”

“You’re welcome, bunny.”

He settled beside him, curling around Fang until the omega’s face rested against his chest. The nest swayed slightly, vines creaking with a sound like a sigh. BoBoiBoy’s scent — cinnamon and sunlight — filled the small space, blending with moss and flowers until the air itself felt gentle.

But Fang’s eyelashes still fluttered; he wasn’t fully asleep.

“You’re still awake,” Duri murmured.

“Trying not to be,” Fang mumbled, voice muffled against him.

BoBoiBoy smiled softly, his hand finding Fang’s shoulder and rubbing in small circles. He knew the reason — the nightmares that came every time Fang shut his eyes, from the scientist's gas. His fury at the scientist simmered beneath the calm, but he swallowed it back and instead lifted his hand.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice shifting into a soothing lilt. “Let’s fix that.”

The vines above them stirred again, whispering softly as if they understood what the moment needed. Buds swelled from the greenery, glowing faintly in the warm lamplight as petals of blue, lavender, ivory, and gold unfurled one by one. The room filled with a soft, drifting perfume — honey-sweet, cool, and clean, carrying something like morning dew and safety.

Fang blinked up through heavy lashes, dazed but curious. “Flowers…?” he murmured, voice quiet and slurred by exhaustion.

“Mm-hm,” Duri said, his tone dipping into something gentle and melodic. “These are night lilies.”

He plucked one from the vine — a bloom of pale blue light with edges like glass — and brushed it lightly against Fang’s temple. The petals shimmered as he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss just beneath the touch of the flower.

“They only open when everything’s safe,” he whispered near Fang’s skin. “Their scent tells your heartbeat it can slow down again. The meaning is—” he smiled softly, “—‘rest in shelter.’”

Fang blinked, color touching his cheeks. “They smell nice…”

“Yeah,” Duri murmured, eyes glinting with amusement. “They like to be near peaceful people.”

Fang made a small sound — half a sigh, half a laugh. “Then they shouldn’t like me much…”

“Shh.” Duri’s thumb brushed over Fang’s knuckles, then — casually, as if he had every right — leaned in and kissed the tip of Fang’s nose. “They like you just fine.”

Fang’s face turned red, his lips forming an almost pout. “You—”

BoBoiBoy just grinned, already reaching for another bloom — soft white petals spun from moonlight. “Sleeping jasmine,” he said, pretending not to notice Fang’s fluster. “This one means ‘peace in dreams.’ They grow near springs — water makes them strong. If you breathe deep, they chase away nightmares.”

Fang’s eyes flicked toward him, the faintest glare dissolving as quickly as it came. “Do they really?”

“Mhm.” Duri smiled again, brushing the flower’s glow against Fang’s cheek before following it with another kiss. “They don’t like bad dreams. They close up if they sense them.”

“That’s…” Fang’s voice grew soft, sleep tugging at its edges. “That’s nice.”

Duri reached up for another — a violet bell trembling faintly as if responding to their voices. “This one’s moon lavender,” he said gently. “Its meaning is, ‘I’ll guard your silence.’ It’s for those who’ve heard too much noise in their hearts.”

Fang lifted a hand and brushed the petal. “It’s really soft…”

“Yeah.” BoBoiBoy’s voice lowered, warm against Fang’s ear. “They hum if you listen.” He leaned close enough that his next kiss landed on Fang’s temple, soft and fleeting.

The omega made a sound — small, indignant, and flustered. “BoBoiBoy…”

“Hmm?” Duri’s smile widened. “Just helping it work faster.”

“You’re not helping,” Fang muttered, though his blush betrayed him.

“Sure I am.”

He plucked another flower — tiny and glowing, faint blue. “Forget-me-nots,” he said, tone turning quieter again. “They mean, ‘You’re not alone.’ They’re small, but they stay even when the others fade.”

Fang’s lashes fluttered. “They’re tiny,” he murmured. “Like they’re scared to be noticed.”

“Maybe.” Duri tucked one behind Fang’s ear, his fingers brushing through soft hair. His voice softened. “But they never leave. Even the smallest things can be loyal.”

Fang’s blush deepened, his pout returning faintly when BoBoiBoy stole a quick kiss on his cheek to “seal” the placement.

The vines above them responded to Duri’s quiet happiness, blooming wider, spilling more colors into the air.

He pointed toward a deep gold flower that opened proudly. “This one’s sunblossom. Means ‘hope, warm and steady.’ They grow toward light no matter how dark it gets.”

Fang’s sleepy smile returned. “That’s a good one.”

“Mm.” Duri’s grin softened. “And this…” He lifted a cluster of pale, mist-like petals. “Angel’s breath. Means ‘rest without fear.’ When you see one bloom, it means you’re watched over.”

Fang’s eyes were half-shut now, his voice low. “You’re weird…”

Duri laughed quietly, the sound low and fond. “You say that like it’s new.” He kissed Fang’s forehead again, ignoring the weak push of Fang’s hand against his chest.

“BoBoiBoy—”

“Shh.” He brushed another kiss against Fang’s hairline. “You’ll ruin the flowers if you frown.”

“I’m not frowning,” Fang mumbled, definitely frowning.

“Mhm.” BoBoiBoy smiled, tracing a petal down Fang’s jaw until he could tilt the omega’s chin gently upward. “Then smile for me.”

Fang huffed — which Duri took as permission enough. The next kiss landed soft on Fang’s lips, barely a breath, more warmth than pressure — a promise of calm rather than demand.

Fang froze for a heartbeat, then blinked, cheeks flushing hot under the pale glow. “You— you said this was about flowers…”

“It is,” Duri murmured, amused. “I’m teaching you their meanings.”

Fang gave a soft noise of disbelief and buried his face in his sleeve.

The vines overhead bloomed brighter, petals unfurling wider in the shared warmth of laughter and shyness.

“These here — see the red ones?” BoBoiBoy pointed, voice turning gentler again. “Ember daisies. They mean ‘bravery through pain.’ They burn out the bad things in dreams.”

Fang peeked out, eyes heavy. “They look like fire.”

“They are fire,” Duri said, catching one between his fingers and brushing it against Fang’s palm. “Fire that doesn’t burn — just keeps you warm.”

Another bud opened — soft silver petals streaked with green veins. “Serenity bells,” he whispered. “They ring when fear tries to creep in. Means ‘no harm shall enter.’”

Fang sighed softly, the edge of tension melting away. “You made me… a garden.”

“A little one,” Duri said, smiling faintly as he tucked a moss blanket closer around Fang’s shoulders. “One that only opens for you.”

The air was rich now — lavender and moss, jasmine and something sweet, like sunlight through water. Fang’s breathing deepened, steady and slow, and his fingers relaxed against Duri’s sleeve.

“You see?” Duri murmured, voice falling into a lullaby. “Night lily, sleeping jasmine, moon lavender, forget-me-not, sunblossom, angel’s breath, ember daisy, serenity bell.”

He brushed one last kiss against Fang’s hair, whispering between each name. “They’ll all stand guard while you dream.”

Fang’s voice was almost too soft to hear. “Promise?”

“Promise,” BoBoiBoy said, and this time, his kiss landed over Fang’s brow — gentle and sure.

“Okay…”

Fang’s words faded into sleep, a small smile lingering.

And when silence settled, Duri’s posture shifted — the playfulness falling away, replaced by quiet vigilance. The green glow of the vines deepened, their luminescence pulsing faintly in rhythm with Fang’s slow breaths.

The same flowers that had lulled the omega into peace now bloomed like sentinels — silent, living guardians, thrumming with the heartbeat of their maker.

Duri’s eyes glinted in the half-light; the softness was now gone, replaced by something cold and protective.

He raised his hand, and the vines around the room shifted again. Roots thickened, crawling along the baseboards, curling into the corners. From their buds emerged flowers that looked soft — until their petals parted to reveal rows of sharp, hidden teeth.

“Guard him,” Duri said softly, voice no longer innocent. “If anyone but Tok Aba comes near, wake me.”

The plants rustled, their leaves trembling in acknowledgment.

“And if it’s an enemy,” he added, his tone dropping to something dark and absolute, “you don’t warn. You don’t spare. You end them.”

The air fell still. Only the soft sound of Fang’s breathing broke the silence.

BoBoiBoy lowered his hand. The plants resumed their quiet vigil. He looked down at Fang — now peacefully asleep, his expression untroubled — and the steel in Duri’s eyes melted back into something soft.

“Sleep well, bunny,” he whispered, brushing a curl from Fang’s forehead. “You’re safe now.”

He tucked himself closer, letting the hammock sway gently as he hummed again — the same tune, softer now, like the hum of wind through leaves. The vines glowed faintly in rhythm with Fang’s heartbeat, breathing in sync with the two of them.

Outside, the night deepened, shadows stretching long across the floor. But within that cocoon of green light and warmth, Fang slept soundly, untouched by fear — surrounded by living sentinels, guarded by an alpha whose fury slept with one eye open.

And Duri, half child and half storm, whispered one last vow into the quiet.

“Let them try,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “And they’ll find the earth’s teeth waiting.”

With Vexen

The hum of TAPOPS Space HQ’s upper corridors was calm—too calm for the monster that walked among them.

Every few steps, the overhead lights flickered faintly, glinting off the mirror-smooth floors and polished metal walls. Reflections shimmered across the surfaces—ghostlike silhouettes chasing one another—while the sterile air carried the faint tang of ozone, coolant, and sterilizing gas.

But nothing in that hollow, humming labyrinth spoke louder than the quiet rhythm of Doctor Vexen’s boots.

Measured. Deliberate. Patient.

He moved like a predator dressed in civility, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture impeccable. The soft click of his steps echoed through the corridor—each sound placed precisely to blend in, to seem normal.

The sterile light slid across his uniform—an engineer’s set, crisp and perfectly regulation. It bore the insignia of a man long gone: Agent Varin Deyrel, a Hassik-born Delta-class engineer, thirty-four years old.

To everyone else, he was a quiet alien with translucent blue skin and glassy, ridged ears that shimmered faintly when the light hit them. Mild-mannered, hardworking, unassuming.

A man with a record of over two years at TAPOPS, noted for his punctuality and cooperative spirit.

A man who’d been dead for five months.

And the thing wearing his face—Doctor Vexen—smiled every time someone greeted him.

“Agent Varin!”

A passing Beta technician raised a hand in greeting, a broad smile on his tired face. “You’re at it again? Heading for the hangar this late? I swear, you live inside those engines!”

Vexen’s laughter was soft and perfectly measured—smooth and easy, with a faint Hassik trill in the vowels.

“Habit dies hard,” he said. “Maintenance never ends, you know how it is.”

He even gave the technician a slight dip of his head, the kind of friendly, deferential gesture that Varin had always been known for.

Every movement was precise. Every breath calibrated.

The weight distribution of each step matched the biometric scans stored in the base security system. His cloned skin gave off the same heat signature, the same scent molecules, the same blood-oxygen rhythm as the real Varin.

No one suspected.

No one ever did.

He rounded a corner—and nearly collided with Lahap, the second-in-command Alpha of the Rebel pack, and Sai, one of the overprotective Beta twins.

The two looked strained—tension flickering across their expressions, stress scenting the air around them. They were still looking.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Varin said pleasantly, voice carrying just the right warmth and respect. “Another long night, I see?”

Sai barely looked up. “Seems like everyone’s pulling overtime these days,” he muttered. “You on hangar diagnostics again?”

Vexen inclined his head. “Routine maintenance. The atmospheric drives have been stuttering—nothing alarming.”

Lahap grunted. “Good. Keep us updated if you see anything suspicious in the logs.”

“I’ll be vigilant,” Vexen promised, smiling faintly deferentially. “You have my word.”

They moved on, continuing their search. But Sai’s gaze lingered a moment too long—his instincts prickling.

Something about Varin’s scent. Too… clean. Too still.

But he shook it off with a grunt. There were bigger worries tonight.

Behind him, Doctor Vexen’s mask smiled wider.

“Blind,” he murmured, the word nearly soundless. “All of them.”

The closer he came to the hangar, the thinner the corridors grew. The hum of voices faded, replaced by the deep rhythmic pulse of engines and the hiss of pressurized doors. The air was cooler here, heavy with the metallic tang of machinery.

At the security checkpoint, he swiped his falsified badge.

ACCESS GRANTED.

The door slid open, revealing the wide expanse of Hangar Bay 03.

Light spilled down from ceiling panels in long, sterile stripes, catching the sheen of silver hulls and coiled fuel lines. Drones hung suspended in maintenance racks like dissected corpses, panels open to expose their internal systems.

Two TAPOPS guards straightened at the sight of Varin.

“Varin! Working late again?” one called. He was a tall Kertan, bronze-scaled, his amber eyes bright with easy camaraderie. His partner, a shorter Orrixian with curled gray horns, leaned on his plasma rifle and grinned.

“You know the hangars are under lockdown tonight,” the Orrixian said. “Commander Kokoci and Admiral Tarung’s orders. No entry or exit without clearance.”

Vexen tilted his head slightly, voice light with polite disappointment. “Oh? That’s… inconvenient. The drone diagnostics won’t finish themselves.”

“Sorry, friend,” said the Kertan, chuckling. “Orders are orders. Even for you engineers.”

Vexen’s expression softened in feigned understanding. His hands folded loosely behind his back. His eyes lowered.

“Ah,” he said gently. “I see.”

He looked up again.

And smiled—a slow, deliberate smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, it won’t be necessary.”

That was when a sound came from above.

For half a heartbeat, the guards froze—instinct barely catching up to sound. Then the first construct dropped.

A blur of polished limbs and serrated edges, it struck the Orrixian first—metal claws punching clean through armor and chestplate alike. The second fell upon the Kertan before he could raise his weapon, dragging him off his feet. There was a muffled, wet crunch as the lights flickered red for half a second, then steady white again.

Silence.

The only sound left was the faint, rhythmic drip of blood on tile.

Vexen adjusted his cuff calmly. His eyes, beneath the false Hassik irises, were glassy and cold.

“I told you,” he murmured. “It won’t be necessary.”

He stepped over the spreading stain, his boots leaving faint prints on the floor. The corpses were gone within moments—dragged into the shadows by his machines, their deaths already being recycled into silence.

The lockdown meant discovery was inevitable. Someone would check patrol routes, notice missing guards, and raise alarms.

But by then, he would be on Earth.

At the far end of the hangar, his chosen vessel waited—a small, dull-gray atmospheric shuttle, indistinguishable from a hundred others. Its hull gleamed faintly beneath the lights, its codes rewritten, its logs already ghosted from the TAPOPS database.

Only one construct followed him now—the one he called Seeker.

It unfolded from the shadows, humanoid yet unmistakably wrong.

Too smooth. Too symmetrical. Too graceful.

Its limbs moved with predatory quiet, spine bending at inhuman angles. Its six eyes—each a different hue, each moving independently—burned faintly across its faceplate.

Alive.

Aware.

Waiting.

“Come,” Vexen said.

It obeyed.

Inside the shuttle, darkness pressed close. The air was sterile, humming faintly with power. Vexen moved to the pilot’s console, fingers gliding across controls in swift, silent sequences.

He didn’t look at the blood on his gloves.

A small digital light blinked once—then vanished.

The ship’s departure log was erased.

The shuttle lifted soundlessly, slipping through the hangar’s magnetic shield. TAPOPS HQ shrank behind him, a glittering construct of light and metal against the dark.

Stars unfurled before him. Cold. Infinite. Waiting.

He leaned back as autopilot engaged, setting course toward his hidden warship, The Hypatia, cloaked far beyond the system’s tracking nets. From there, the next jump would be to Earth.

His gloved hand reached for the small black metal case beside him. He opened it with surgical precision—the hiss of released pressure whispering through the cabin.

Inside lay his tools of genius: restraints, injectors, neural probes—each crafted to perfection. But in the center, resting like a crown jewel, was the collar.

Elegant. Sinister. Alive with faint circuitry that pulsed like veins.

Vexen’s fingers brushed its edge with something close to affection.

“So close now,” he whispered, voice trembling with restrained glee. “Just a little longer, my beautiful experiment… just a little longer, Fang.”

In the glass reflection of the cockpit, Varin’s borrowed face melted away.

The illusion flickered, peeling back to reveal Vexen’s true visage—eyes sharp as blades, mouth curved into something both divine and monstrous.

Behind him, Seeker shifted, six eyes glimmering faintly as it watched the void open wide before them.

The stars stretched, the engines roared softly, and the monster smiled.

He was finally getting his prize.