Filth.
I'm rotting in it.
Filth in my hair.
Filth in my skin.
I need to shed it. All of it.
I have a ringing in my ears. It makes the room spin and I can barely stand on my legs.
If I fall, I'll drown face down in the shower water. It's brown. It smells like compost.
Better said it's fermenting.
Like a mushy pile of fruits. But it won't turn to alcohol, no matter how much it intoxicates me.
It's full of maggots.
I can feel it under my skin. Swarming, crawling, eating my flesh. The more I scrub, the deeper they get.
I hear voices in echoes.
"He's been standing in the shower like that for an hour now, chief. If we take him out, he starts scratching himself. Hard. Look at the marks he left on himself."
"If we call the boss, he'll kill us."
"If we let him die, death would be too merciful for us. Call Mister Sanchez. And pray. Though, even God would be too powerless to protect us."
My jaw pops. My mouth is filled with a metallic taste. Am I bleeding?
I spit.
It's tar.
I hear them—guards choking, gasping for air.
Pleading. Crying. Begging.
I can't help them.
I'm dying, too.
The water is cold. I can see my breath. My bones won't stop shaking.
Oh, God. I'm dying.
And it hurts.
I gag. The tar is rising, thick and slow, sealing my airways like glue.
I can't breathe.
At least…
Daddy will be proud.
I almost see him—wiping a fake tear, spinning a heartfelt lie about our non-existent bond. So sincere. So electable.
His son died.
He became president.
No 'attaboy.'
Just votes.
Something hot touches my stomach—burning, almost. I try to shove it away, but I have no strength.
Then—
The maggots stop.
The itching fades.
The fermented stench transforms—into something raw, invasive, comforting.
A hand.
Fingers in my hair.
Soft. Gentle.
My legs give out.
They've found their nest.
I fall.
In the back of my mind, a voice screams:
"It's a trap! It's a fucking trap!"
But it's drowned by something warmer. A voice—real, low, right beside my cheek.
Not speaking to me.
Just wondering.
"The fuck happened to you, Luther?"
I woke up in a white room.
Another white room.
But I'm not alone.
Killian.
He notices me. Smiles. But his eyes are telling on him—dark circles, sunken shadows. He hasn't slept. Who knows for how long?
"When I imagined the first time I'd see you naked, I didn't think it would be in a prison."
"Beggars can't be choosers, Akna. What the fuck are you doing here anyway? No—scratch that. How the fuck are you still alive? I clearly remember not controlling my pheromones."
"Don't worry about that now."
"Something's wrong."
"It is. Your husband sure is… a lot."
"Fuck you."
He's trying to cheer me up.
But the cracks are showing—too many questions swimming behind his eyes.
Why is he here?
How did he survive my pheromones?
Does Emiliano know?
How did he escape Emiliano at all?
And what was that smell…?
He won't answer.
Of course he won't.
Fine. Let's get to the point.
"Are you a prisoner too?"
He shrugs.
"To a degree."
Great.
More mysteries.
Someone call fucking Scooby Doo.
"Can you get me out?"
"I can give you company."
"Ugh. Exactly what I need."
He smiles. The corners of his mouth are slightly trembling.
He is just as frustrated as me.
"Do you know what happened?"
"I-"
A voice on the speaker interrupts.
That voice will haunt my days for the rest of my existence - Emiliano.
"I always thought marriage comes with sacrifices."
Oh, great. A speech.
"But to burn an entire wing of my facility?"
Nope. A lecture.
Underneath the fake cheer, he's seething.
Ah, that almost feels like home.
Bless Freud and his inescapable daddy issues.
Yo
"You started a riot, dear wife. It coated me all my lab rats. But you know what? It's fine. It's seriously fine. It's not like the streets lack human waste ready to sell themselves. Like Lior."
Lior.
I don't know how I got up.
Not even Red Bull could've given me those wings.
I slam my head into the wall. Hard.
Apparently, if you do it with enough speed and hate, you can make your head bleed—even on cushion.
Or maybe the cushion's cheap.
Wouldn't peg Emiliano for a cheapskate, but hey—surprises.
Killian doesn't stop me.
But I can see it—how hard he's holding back.
Good boy.
I hear Emiliano swear. It's… hot.
Too hot for this moment.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I must've hit my head too hard.
"He's alive."
I stop.
"I want to see him."
"When you come home"
"Your home you mean"
"Honey, I know we're going through a rough patch, but let's not do our dirty laundry in front of strangers."
"Screw you."
"You would have- if he hadn't interrupted us."
"When are you coming after me?"
"Depends"
"All the fucking mysterious men, you would think I'm goddamn Sherlock the way I attract you bastards."
He chuckled.
Killian smirked.
Both seemed caught off guard by their own reactions.
"I'll burn this wing to the ground too if you don't let me go."
"I doubt you can. I am a God in this wing."
"I'm an atheist"
"Yet you're praying I come to save you."
He took a breath.
He is enjoying this too much.
" I need to gather my research materials. Behave. If you don't act up, I'll get you in a week. We'll finish our research and then we can divorce."
"Are you for real?"
"Well, my sponsor is pressing me. But if you don't want to-"
"I do."
"We'll see about that. As for the little puppy you have beside you- I have a surprise for you."
"Ugh."
"You and him will shower each other with pheromones all week. No touches, no contact. Your rooms are one beside the other. The pheromones will be conducted through an air vent."
"Why would that be necessary?"
"My clueless wife, do you actually don't know why you are in my grasp?"
I hold my breath.
There is a reason after all.
Not just Claus's revenge.
"I wouldn't want to spoil you, but here's a plot twist for you. Your little guard dog, Killian Akna? He's about to make history. First alpha-turned-omega."
A pause.
"If he survives."
Filth.
I'm rotting in it.
Filth in my hair.
Filth in my skin.
I need to shed it. All of it.
I have a ringing in my ears. It makes the room spin and I can barely stand on my legs.
If I fall, I'll drown face down in the shower water. It's brown. It smells like compost.
Better said it's fermenting.
Like a mushy pile of fruits. But it won't turn to alcohol, no matter how much it intoxicates me.
It's full of maggots.
I can feel it under my skin. Swarming, crawling, eating my flesh. The more I scrub, the deeper they get.
I hear voices in echoes.
"He's been standing in the shower like that for an hour now, chief. If we take him out, he starts scratching himself. Hard. Look at the marks he left on himself."
"If we call the boss, he'll kill us."
"If we let him die, death would be too merciful for us. Call Mister Sanchez. And pray. Though, even God would be too powerless to protect us."
My jaw pops. My mouth is filled with a metallic taste. Am I bleeding?
I spit.
It's tar.
I hear them—guards choking, gasping for air.
Pleading. Crying. Begging.
I can't help them.
I'm dying, too.
The water is cold. I can see my breath. My bones won't stop shaking.
Oh, God. I'm dying.
And it hurts.
I gag. The tar is rising, thick and slow, sealing my airways like glue.
I can't breathe.
At least…
Daddy will be proud.
I almost see him—wiping a fake tear, spinning a heartfelt lie about our non-existent bond. So sincere. So electable.
His son died.
He became president.
No 'attaboy.'
Just votes.
Something hot touches my stomach—burning, almost. I try to shove it away, but I have no strength.
Then—
The maggots stop.
The itching fades.
The fermented stench transforms—into something raw, invasive, comforting.
A hand.
Fingers in my hair.
Soft. Gentle.
My legs give out.
They've found their nest.
I fall.
In the back of my mind, a voice screams:
"It's a trap! It's a fucking trap!"
But it's drowned by something warmer. A voice—real, low, right beside my cheek.
Not speaking to me.
Just wondering.
"The fuck happened to you, Luther?"
I woke up in a white room.
Another white room.
But I'm not alone.
Killian.
He notices me. Smiles. But his eyes are telling on him—dark circles, sunken shadows. He hasn't slept. Who knows for how long?
"When I imagined the first time I'd see you naked, I didn't think it would be in a prison."
"Beggars can't be choosers, Akna. What the fuck are you doing here anyway? No—scratch that. How the fuck are you still alive? I clearly remember not controlling my pheromones."
"Don't worry about that now."
"Something's wrong."
"It is. Your husband sure is… a lot."
"Fuck you."
He's trying to cheer me up.
But the cracks are showing—too many questions swimming behind his eyes.
Why is he here?
How did he survive my pheromones?
Does Emiliano know?
How did he escape Emiliano at all?
And what was that smell…?
He won't answer.
Of course he won't.
Fine. Let's get to the point.
"Are you a prisoner too?"
He shrugs.
"To a degree."
Great.
More mysteries.
Someone call fucking Scooby Doo.
"Can you get me out?"
"I can give you company."
"Ugh. Exactly what I need."
He smiles. The corners of his mouth are slightly trembling.
He is just as frustrated as me.
"Do you know what happened?"
"I-"
A voice on the speaker interrupts.
That voice will haunt my days for the rest of my existence - Emiliano.
"I always thought marriage comes with sacrifices."
Oh, great. A speech.
"But to burn an entire wing of my facility?"
Nope. A lecture.
Underneath the fake cheer, he's seething.
Ah, that almost feels like home.
Bless Freud and his inescapable daddy issues.
Yo
"You started a riot, dear wife. It coated me all my lab rats. But you know what? It's fine. It's seriously fine. It's not like the streets lack human waste ready to sell themselves. Like Lior."
Lior.
I don't know how I got up.
Not even Red Bull could've given me those wings.
I slam my head into the wall. Hard.
Apparently, if you do it with enough speed and hate, you can make your head bleed—even on cushion.
Or maybe the cushion's cheap.
Wouldn't peg Emiliano for a cheapskate, but hey—surprises.
Killian doesn't stop me.
But I can see it—how hard he's holding back.
Good boy.
I hear Emiliano swear. It's… hot.
Too hot for this moment.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I must've hit my head too hard.
"He's alive."
I stop.
"I want to see him."
"When you come home"
"Your home you mean"
"Honey, I know we're going through a rough patch, but let's not do our dirty laundry in front of strangers."
"Screw you."
"You would have- if he hadn't interrupted us."
"When are you coming after me?"
"Depends"
"All the fucking mysterious men, you would think I'm goddamn Sherlock the way I attract you bastards."
He chuckled.
Killian smirked.
Both seemed caught off guard by their own reactions.
"I'll burn this wing to the ground too if you don't let me go."
"I doubt you can. I am a God in this wing."
"I'm an atheist"
"Yet you're praying I come to save you."
He took a breath.
He is enjoying this too much.
" I need to gather my research materials. Behave. If you don't act up, I'll get you in a week. We'll finish our research and then we can divorce."
"Are you for real?"
"Well, my sponsor is pressing me. But if you don't want to-"
"I do."
"We'll see about that. As for the little puppy you have beside you- I have a surprise for you."
"Ugh."
"You and him will shower each other with pheromones all week. No touches, no contact. Your rooms are one beside the other. The pheromones will be conducted through an air vent."
"Why would that be necessary?"
"My clueless wife, do you actually don't know why you are in my grasp?"
I hold my breath.
There is a reason after all.
Not just Claus's revenge.
"I wouldn't want to spoil you, but here's a plot twist for you. Your little guard dog, Killian Akna? He's about to make history. First alpha-turned-omega."
A pause.
"If he survives."