The air was cool that morning, the kind of gentle chill that curled through the open windows and brushed over skin like a whispered reminder that summer had finally given way to early autumn.

Acheron stood in front of the full-length mirror, silently appraising himself. He wasn’t sure how long he had been staring, but it was long enough for the condensation from his earlier shower to have faded from the glass, and long enough for the steam in his chest to cool into something heavier. For at least today and for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel like a ghost drifting through his own skin.

He moved slowly but with a kind of quiet intention, pulling on the pieces of his outfit like armour. First, a black mesh long-sleeve shirt that clung softly to his frame, layered beneath an oversized dark hoodie with delicate embroidered patterns depicting thorns, moons and a skeletal raven. Then came the fitted jeans, ripped at the knees and subtly faded at the thighs, adorned with silver chains and a few patches sewn by his own hand. His combat boots were worn but well-kept, the heavy soles familiar and grounding.

Acheron’s fingers lingered at the edge of his collarbone before he reached for the Omega collar resting beside his jewellery tray. Arrived early this morning, unlike the government-issued standard models, this one was custom: matte black metal with leather trimmings and obsidian beading, small charms dangling from its buckle; a protective sigil, a tiny bell, and a miniature hand-painted charm in the shape of a black cat.

He held it in his hand for a long moment. The collar hummed softly in his grasp, the embedded tech responding to the trace of his own pheromones, although faint, as the weeks have passed, it has started returning. With a slow breath, he clasped it around his throat. The magnetic lock clicked gently into place, and a faint green light pulsed once before fading.

He once hated it.

He hated that it was necessary. Hated how restrictive it had felt. Now, it was the only reason he still had unmarked glands instead of a bond forced on him through violence. 

He had ordered a better collar the moment he left the hospital, because he now hated the feeling of vulnerability. This new one was far more advanced. Designed to protect, not just to comply with governmental regulations. It had a new feature that allowed the collar to only be removed with the registered pheromone signature of its wearer, or opened during an Omega's heat, when both parties' scents were voluntarily released in sync. 

It was the only thing he felt safe wearing now.

He tightened the strap slightly, letting the familiar pressure settle against his skin. In the mirror, the dark collar stood stark against his pale throat, just above the scars that hadn’t faded. His focus wasn’t on the scars, but rather on his eyes. They look tired and wary.

Tearing himself from the mirror, he reached for his bag, slipping in his sketchbook, a few pencils and brushes, and a small tin of watercolour paint. He had started bringing it with him again, finding himself drawing in the waiting room out of boredom. Even if he never used it, the weight of it on his back was comforting.

On his way out, he tugged the hoodie’s hood up, just enough to shield part of his face. He knew Dr. Pace would never pressure him to speak, not more than he could handle. Still, vulnerability sat uneasily with him, even now. Especially now.

The hallway outside his bedroom stretched like a quiet tunnel, but it didn’t feel so threatening this time. He made his way down it, steps quiet but sure. At the front door, he paused only once to tie the laces of his boots a little tighter.

A car was waiting outside. The family's driver was waiting patiently. Ivy had offered to take him herself, but he declined. He wasn’t ready to sit in silence with her again, not after their last conversation. Although it occurred days ago, the memory of tears and nausea made him feel guilty, wondering if his words were too harsh.

Today, he also felt like facing things on his own. Or at least try.

He closed the door behind him gently, one hand brushing the collar at his throat as if to remind himself that it was still there, and then he took his first step towards the car.

The ride was quiet, just the low hum of tyres on asphalt and the occasional chirp of turn signals. Acheron kept his head leaned against the window, watching the world blur past. Early autumn painted the city in muted golds and coppers, and for a brief moment, it almost looked soft. Almost bearable.

He fiddled with the zipper of his hoodie, the metallic clinking in a small, steady rhythm beneath his breath. When the driver finally pulled up to the familiar townhouse-style office building, Acheron hesitated. It looked the same as always: ivy creeping up the brick walls, a small fountain burbling quietly near the front step. The scent of lavender and cedar drifted from the hedges nearby. The whole area feels comforting. 

Still, his stomach twisted.

The driver didn’t say anything, just gave him a polite nod when their eyes met in the rearview mirror. Acheron opened the door and stepped out, boots crunching softly on the gravel driveway. He took a deep breath, bracing himself.

At the door, he paused again. The heavy oak always looked too dignified for what happened behind it. A series of breakdowns, admissions, unravelling, and eventually healing.

He lifted his hand, fingers hovering before knocking twice.

A familiar sound: the subtle click of the lock disengaging, followed by the soft whoosh of air conditioning. Dr Cloe Pace opened the door himself, a habit he decided to maintain for every patient. It was subtle but deliberate. He wanted it to feel like an invitation and not a summons.