The sign above the building read Iron Pulse Combat & Conditioning, backlit in clean white LEDs. The warehouse exterior was industrial by design, but the moment they stepped inside, the money became unmistakable.

Polished concrete floors.

Floor-to-ceiling mirrors without a crack in sight.

Rows of state-of-the-art equipment—impact sensors lining the bags, premium treadmills, even a cryo-recovery chamber gleaming behind glass.

The entire place smelled faintly of eucalyptus and disinfectant—air filters humming overhead, subtle and expensive.

This wasn’t a regular neighborhood gym.

This was where professionals trained.

Where sponsorships were built.

Where Kaiseng’s father invested far too much money to keep his athletes in top shape.

Kaiseng held the door as Rian stepped in, watching his eyes dart across the space—wide, assessing, impressed despite himself.

“You sure they don’t mind newcomers?” Rian murmured.

Kai huffed a soft laugh. “They mind everyone. But they mind paying customers less.”

Rian snorted, but his posture shifted—shoulders squaring as he took in the sparring rings. Not intimidated. Just alert.

Coach Daehyun Kwon, mid-forties and built like discipline made flesh, lifted his head from where he was wrapping an athlete’s hands. His gaze flicked to Rian. And narrowed.

“Your friend?” he asked.

“Potential trainee,” Kai replied.

Daehyun jerked his chin toward a mat lined with new pads. “He can start with Nicky. Footwork first.”

Rian didn’t hesitate. He shrugged off his hoodie, handing it to Kai without a word, revealing a fitted shirt beneath.

Kai blinked down at the hoodie in his hands.

Of course Rian would do that.

Daehyun moved to stand beside him, arms folding. “He’s got presence.”

On the mat, Rian’s stance was wrong at first—too open, too aggressive—but he adjusted fast. Nicky demonstrated once; Rian mirrored him perfectly the second time. His punches sharpened with each repetition. Footwork smoothed out too quickly for a beginner.

And he stayed hyper-focused, as if he’d been waiting his whole life to be taught the right way to channel that fire.

“He’s got Alpha written all over him,” Daehyun murmured, still watching. “Has he screened yet?”

Secondary genders weren’t something people discussed unless they had to. Suppressants and blockers kept scents muted, behaviors in check, and most pretended the whole Alpha/Omega/Beta system didn’t exist outside medical charts.

In school, it was bad manners to ask what someone was.

But that didn’t mean kids didn’t speculate.

Didn’t hope.

Didn’t dread.

Second gender changed everything—opportunities, relationships, legacy. Alphas had advantages. Omegas were the only ones who could conceive and were coddled… or fetishized. Betas endured the quiet invisibility of being neither.

“No,” Kai said evenly. “Late bloomer.”

Daehyun hummed. “Shame there’s no designation track yet. If he were alpha, he’d thrive in sanctioned matches. Can’t pit unmarked kids against matured alphas—pheromones will ruin the whole spar.”

A beat.

“And if he’s omega…” A shrug. “Protocol changes.”

On the mat, Rian landed a clean jab-cross-hook that made Nicky’s eyebrows jump.

Daehyun exhaled softly. “Going to spar with him? I heard you were starting training again… unless this is just another excuse to hide from your father and study.” His eyes twitched with a knowing smile—gentle, amused, a little too perceptive.

“I’ll warm up and condition with him, but I don’t want to spar,” Kai said, voice dipping low. “I’m just here for him.” His gaze drifted back to Rian across the mats. “He has potential.”

That wasn’t the real reason. Potential was easy to say—something coaches liked to hear, something his father believed in. Anyone could have potential if they wanted it badly enough. But Rian was here because Kaiseng had seen something else. A boy who needed distance from a life he never chose… just like him.

“Just like your father,” Daehyun muttered with a shake of his head. A fond, exasperated smile. “Dumping all the ‘potential’ kids on me to refine.”

“Well, you’re the best, Coach Kwon,” he offered with a sheepish laugh.

“Mhm.” Daehyun snorted. Then raised his voice. “Rian! If you want to join this gym, you’ll need to work on your high kicks.”

Kaiseng blinked. “Coach—”

Daehyun ignored him. Instead, he planted a firm hand between Kaiseng’s shoulder blades and shoved—gentle, but enough to make him step forward onto the mats.

“Kaiseng can show you how to work up to it. He’s good at them.”

Kai felt his heart jolt in his chest as Rian’s eyes slid to him—dark, curious, unreadable and he forced a laugh. “I’m… okay at it. It’s all about mobility.”

Rian’s mouth twitched, like he was holding back a smirk. “Show me what you got, Park.”

Kai’s pulse faltered—just once, a soft stutter he hoped no one caught. He schooled his face into neutrality and tugged his sweatshirt off in one smooth motion. It landed on the bench beside Rian’s hoodie.

He stepped forward.

Rian drifted to the side as Nicky lifted the focus pads, but Kai shook his head lightly. “I’m a bit rusty,” he murmured, stretching his arms across his chest, then bending into a loose crouch to wake his legs. “Haven’t done anything in a couple months.”

Nicky laughed. “You’ll be fine. Just warm up on the bag then.”

Kai exhaled, steadying himself as he approached the sandbag. He lifted his hands, planting his stance, inhaled once, twice—

and snapped his leg upward in a clean, fluid arc.

Thwack.

The impact echoed.

He held the position a heartbeat longer before lowering his foot, arms still braced.

Rian clapped slow, grin spreading. “Mobility, you said?”

Kaiseng huffed softly, hands coming to steady the bag as Rian stepped closer. “Yes.”

“So you’ll teach me?”

There it was again—that smile. The one he shaped so effortlessly, like he knew exactly how to bend an already handsome face into something that made you feel singled out. Seen. Pulled in. And God help him, it made you want to stay in that attention.

“Then maybe,” Rian added, eyes dipping, “we can have a rematch.”

Kai blinked. “A rematch?”

“This time I’ll win.” Rian rested a hand atop the bag, leaning in just enough that their height difference disappeared. His gaze slid down to Kai’s mouth, then his shoulder, then—intentionally—to Kai’s forearm.

The arm he’d bitten.

“So you do remember,” Kai said quietly.

“Of course I do.” 

“Then I suppose we do need a rematch.” He released the bag and stepped back, giving them both room to breathe. “No teeth next time.”

“No promises.”

*** PRESENT ***

“Here.”

The word came flat as Rian tossed a pile of clothes onto Kaiseng’s chest.

Kai sighed, his free hand scrambling to catch what slid toward the edge of the bed. “Are you still mad because I refused the food?”

“Yep.”

Kaiseng huffed. “Wait. Did you get these from my apartment?”

“Yep,” Rian repeated, unbothered. He dragged the metal chair from the corner closer and sat, arms crossing over his chest as he studied him. “You really think I’d poison you?”

“No,” Kaiseng muttered. “But you’re clearly not above drugging me.” His gaze dropped to the cuff at his wrist. Under his breath, he added, “Still not sure how I’m supposed to change with one hand chained to the bed.”

Rian’s mouth twitched. “If you’d eaten,” he said calmly, “I would’ve given you these first.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an orange pill bottle, the white cap clicking softly as he rolled it between his fingers.

Kaiseng swallowed.

“I’m sure you can feel it,” Rian added quietly.

Kaiseng didn’t answer. He could feel it—taste it. And in response, warmth curled low in his gut. There was a restless edge under his skin.

“When was the last time you went through rut?” Rian asked, almost conversational as he inspected the label. His thumb traced the plastic slowly. “Everyone’s on suppressants now, I know, but—”

He hesitated.

Something real slipped through the mask then. Not anger. Not control.

Jealousy.

“Has there been any omegas,” Rian continued, voice lower now, “whose pheromones seemed to… affect you?”

The question hung between them.

Rian’s jaw tightened. Whatever answer he expected—or feared—he didn’t wait to hear it. He shoved the bottle back into his pocket and leaned back in the chair, gaze sharpening again.

Kaiseng exhaled slowly, the familiar, unwanted instinct to placate creeping back in—an urge to soothe, to reassure, even when it wasn’t owed. His lips parted, a response forming—

A knock sounded against the metal door.

Kaiseng sat up instinctively, every muscle tightening as his attention snapped to it. The room seemed to shrink around the sound.

The door opened.

A man stepped inside dressed head to toe in black—combat gear, heavy boots, his face hidden behind a mask marked with a single red line down the center. In one hand, he carried a black leather medical bag. In the other, a rigid medical boot.

Rian rose immediately, moving closer to the bed as the man approached. There was no hesitation between them. No explanation offered.

“I’m going to need you to be the patient for once,” Rian said calmly, already positioning himself near the head of the bed. His hand settled on the bedframe next to Kaiseng’s cuffed wrist. “Give him your leg.”

The leg of his scrub pants was lifted, shoe and sock removed with practiced efficiency. The swelling was immediate and ugly—bruises blooming in sick shades of purple and yellow along the joint. Kaiseng hissed despite himself as the masked man handled it, careful but firm.

His gaze lifted instead of following the motion.

Rian stood at his side, watching the process with quiet focus. Kaiseng knew he should look back down, should track what was being done to his ankle, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from Rian.

He smelled so good.

Too good.

Warm, familiar, intoxicating in a way that curled low in Kaiseng’s stomach. His hand shifted without permission, the cuff scraping softly against the metal frame as his fingers brushed the warmth of Rian’s hand.

Just for a second.

Rian glanced down at him—brief interest flickering through brown eyes—before his attention returned to the masked man. Like Kaiseng’s reaction was noted, catalogued, but not indulged.

Irritation sparked hot and sharp in his chest.

He could feel it then.

His own pheromones bleeding into the room, thickening the air despite his best efforts to rein them in. A warning. A demand. His body pushing forward where his mind held back.

Look at me, he wanted to say.

To command it. To claim it. He bit down hard instead.

Rian spoke then—not to him, but to the masked man. “Don’t mind him,” he said evenly. “His body’s just throwing a tantrum.”

The masked man was still. Not fully—but enough. Enough for Kaiseng to see it: the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his movements went rigid for a beat before resuming. The instinctive response of someone who felt the pheromones but didn’t answer them.

Beta.

The brace was nearly secured when the masked man finished, hands steady again—but he worked faster now. More distant. Like he was eager to be done.

Kaiseng exhaled slowly.

Rian leaned in, his breath warm against Kaiseng’s neck.

“Kaiseng,” he murmured—soft, intimate, and entirely false. The word was a taunt, carried on the overwhelming warmth of him, the fullness of his presence flooding Kaiseng’s senses before he could brace himself.

The masked man straightened and stepped back.

Rian pulled away just as easily, turning with him. They crossed the room together, and Rian lingered at the doorway, his back to Kaiseng as he leaned casually against the frame. One shoulder hit, his movements unhurried. Deliberate as he spoke to the other out of his view.

Kaiseng’s chest felt tight.

Agitated.

Annoyed.

Rian shifted, spine settling fully against the doorframe, gaze angled toward the other side of the frame. His hands slid into his pockets as he spoke, voice low and maddeningly calm.

“Say you want me.”

Kaiseng frowned. “What?”

“Say you need me, Kaiseng.”

Rian tipped his head back against the metal—and just like that, the scent vanished. Cut off so cleanly it made Kaiseng’s breath hitch.

“I don’t need you,” Kaiseng snapped, teeth grinding as he pressed his shoulder harder into the bedframe. “Give me my suppressants.”

He had always been good at restraint. Even before medication. Even before designation. The natural authority of his second gender had never ruled him—he’d mastered it instead. Calm. Controlled. Structured. People trusted him because of it.

“You’ll need me to get through this rut.”

“I won’t.” The words came sharp, certain. He had gone five years alone. Suppressants didn’t erase it, but they made it manageable. Contained. Something he could lock away until it passed.

He refused to give Rian that leverage.

That intimacy.

Rian smiled. “It’s starting.” He turned fully then, stepping back into the room. The scent surged again—warm, thick, unavoidable—as he reached back and shut the door with a solid thud.

Kaiseng’s pulse spiked.

Rian’s eyes met his, steady and unreadable. “You always did feel it before I said anything,” he murmured. A pause. “Funny how our timing never stopped matching.”