Distant and urgent voices overlapping in a way that made no sense. They were yelling, few crying and Jonah’s fractured mind couldn't parse the words, couldn't find the shape of them in the chaos. They were just noise, bright and sharp, cutting through the darkness he had been floating in.

Light hit his closed eyelids like a blade, red and pulsing, and Jonah’s whole body jerked, his hands flying up, his arms crossing over his face, his mouth opening around a scream that didn't come. His throat was raw, shredded, and all that escaped was a thin, reedy keen that sounded like an animal caught in a trap.

Pale pink ceiling greeted him as his eyes opened.

‘Finally home.’

The thought was a lifeline, and Jonah grabbed onto it with both hands, his chest heaving, his heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape. His room. His walls. His bed beneath him, soft and warm, the blankets tangled around his legs, the pillow still holding the shape of his head.

For one breathless moment, he let himself believe that the alley had been a nightmare, a fever dream, something his mind had conjured from the dark places where fear lived. His hand came up to his throat, fingers pressing against his pulse, feeling the frantic beat of his own heart, and he almost laughed.

But the moment he shifted on the bed, white-hot pain tore through the fragile peace he had been building, ripping it away like a curtain pulled back from a window he had tried so hard to close. His cunt was a raw, pulsing wound between his legs, every inch of him a map of what had been done.

“Ugh..ah”

Fingers fumbled at the edge of the blanket, yanking it back with a desperation that made his whole arm shake. The fabric slid away from his legs, and for one terrible moment, he braced himself to see the evidence of everything that had been done to him still raw and exposed.

But there was no proof of the nightmare staring back at him like an accusation. Soft cotton covered his legs, dark blue fabric loose and familiar, pooling around his thighs, hiding the bruises that he knew were there. 

They were unmistakably from his wardrobe. Someone had dressed him in them while he was unconscious. The realization settled slowly, heavy and disorienting. Because only his mother knew which clothes he reached for when he needed comfort.

These were the same pajamas he had worn the last time he’d cried himself empty, over a failed attempt at baking brownies he had promised to make. 

And now…in a moment like this, when he was far beyond words, far beyond strength, what else would she choose for him, if not comfort?

The shouting from outside his room cut through his thoughts and Jonah’s head snapped toward the door. He could make out words now, fragments of sentences that didn't quite connect.

“See what all that freedom led to?!”

“He’s not a prisoner... you can’t lock him inside forever!”

Above the overlapping voices, his father’s stood out, sharp and frantic, cutting clean through the chaos.  

He blinked slowly, trying to make sense of it. ‘Why are they arguing so loudly this early…?’ But when his gaze shifted to the window beside his bed, the light told a different story.

It wasn’t early. It was already afternoon.

Jonah’s legs were moving before he could think, swinging off the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud that sent a jolt of pain up through his whole body. He hissed through his teeth, his hand shooting out to brace against the nightstand, the wood cool beneath his palm, grounding him.

The hallway wasn’t far. It only felt like it.

Each movement dragged something raw through his body, every breath uneven, every shift of his weight threatening to send him back to the floor. His shoulder brushed the wall as he moved, using it as support, his hand trailing along the surface just to stay upright.

Those voices grew louder and clearer.

“Do you even understand what this means?” his father’s voice thundered, shaking through the house. “If this gets out, everything I’ve built will be dragged through the dirt.”

“Our son has barely survived and you’re still thinking about your image?” his mother shot back, her voice was thinner, breaking at the edges.

Something was very wrong. For a second, he hesitated, just long enough for something deep inside him to whisper ‘Don’t’.

But the voices didn’t quiet. They only grew louder.

And so, he pushed the door open, its faint creak instantly swallowed by the noise outside.

Bare feet carried him down the hallway, his hand dragging along the wall, the cool plaster grounding him, keeping him upright.  

The living room opened up before him and for a split second, his mind refused to understand what he was seeing, like it was something too wrong to exist.

His happy family was breaking apart right in front of him.

His father stood over his mother, breathing hard, a shattered vase clutched in his hand. She was on the floor, one hand weakly braced against the ground, the other pressed to her temple where blood slowly seeped through her fingers.

“Stop—!” June’s voice broke through, strained with effort as he held their father from behind, both arms locked around him, trying to pull him back. “Dad, stop! You’re hurting her!”

But it was too late. The vase came down again, a sickening sound followed by.

Jonah’s breath hitched violently. “—No—”

Blood trickled down from his mother’s hand, smeared across her palm and falling in thick drops to the floor.  

She wasn’t even fighting back anymore. Just trying to breathe.

For a second, no one spoke. Even the air seemed to pause, sensing Jonah’s phenomenon, bitter and raw after what had unfolded. June’s head was the first to snap toward him.

“J-Jonah?” his brother’s voice broke mid-breath, fingers tightening around their father’s arms from behind, like if he let go for even a second, everything would shatter further. “What are you doing out of your room?!”

The moment Jonah’s name left his lips their father snapped, tearing free with a violent twist. June lost his grip, stumbling back with a startled yelp. His body hit the edge of the sofa hard before he collapsed onto it, breath knocked out of him.

Jonah’s breath stuttered, his fingers tightening against the wall behind him as if he could sink into it, disappear into it.

‘That’s not my dad.’ The thought came instinctively. Because the man looking at him looked like a stranger.

“...So little filth finally decides to grace us with his presence.” His father's voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Jonah flinched violently, his whole body jerking at the sound, a broken inhale tearing from his throat before he could stop it.

His father took a step forward. Then another. Shame flooded through him, sudden and suffocating, curling tight in his chest until it hurt to breathe.

For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he wished. ‘I wish I was born dead.’

“You see?” His father snapped suddenly, not even looking away from Jonah as he threw the words over his shoulder toward his mother. “This—this is exactly why I told you to abort him back then!”

It hit Jonah harder than anything else that day. To hear that his life had been a burden before it even began, sent a bitter, hollow laughter rising from deep inside him.

“We already had a fine beta son!” his father continued, voice shaking with something uglier than anger. “Why risk it again? Why bring this into the world?!”

His hand came up slowly, finger aimed at Jonah with the weight of a thousand accusations.

“All for the hope of an alpha son and what did we get?” he barked. “This useless child!”

Something inside Jonah shattered so quietly that no one could hear it. Last night had hollowed him out, but this… this was worse. 

Beautiful amber eyes filled instantly, tears spilling over without permission, sliding down his cheeks in silent trails. He didn’t have the strength to wipe them.

A wet gasp tore from Jonah’s mother as she struggled on the floor, her bloodied hand pressing against it for support. Her body trembled from the blows she had taken, blood still slipping through her fingers in slow, uneven streaks.

Her eyes never left her husband. “Please,” she whispered, her voice barely there. “Not in front of him.”

Jonah's father’s head turned sharply at her voice. And a hollow laugh slipped out of him, low and wrong.

“Oh, please—” he scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping again. “Stop with that pathetic act.”

Jonah’s mother froze, her hand slipping on the blood-slicked floor.

“We both know the truth.” he continued, voice dropping into something colder, more cutting. “You wanted this just as much as I did.”

This time she didn't deny it. She just knelt there, surrounded by her own blood and begged for silence.

Watching his mother hesitate, a quiet thought crept in. ‘So even she…?’

“If you’re that incapable of protecting yourself,” his father started, and his voice was almost conversational now, “then you shouldn’t have been out at all.”

Jonah’s lips parted but no sound came out.

“Hmm?” his father pressed, stepping closer. “Dressed up in those little clothes, batting your eyelashes at every Alpha who looked your way, acting like some—”

“I wasn't—” The words tore out of Jonah’s throat before he could stop them, raw and broken, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. “I wasn't doing anything. I was just—”

“Just waiting for the right moment to fall into some Alpha’s hands,” His father interrupted, twisting the narrative as though it had been Jonah’s intention all along.

Jonah’s vision blurred, trembling with tears he couldn’t hold back. A faint shake of his head followed, quiet and involuntary. “I didn’t—” his voice came out broken, barely there. “I swear—”

But his father cut him off instantly. “And you should be grateful,” he snapped.

That made Jonah’s mind go blank. ‘Grateful…?’

“It’s all thanks to Mr. Shen that you even made it back here,” his father continued, voice filled with something that almost sounded like justification. “He found you and brought you home. Who knows how long you would’ve been left there otherwise?”

Panic surged through Jonah’s chest, sharp and suffocating, as the memories came rushing back without mercy. Rough, calloused fingers digging into his wrists. The weight of a gaze he never wanted to see again.

His breath hitched, nausea rising as the truth settled in like poison. That man had rewritten everything.

Used him until he lost consciousness... then carried him home like a savior. A victim, forced into the shape of a lie he never chose.

A fragile, trembling part of Jonah refused to stay buried any longer. His fingers dragged roughly across his cheeks, the back of his hand smearing tears away in uneven streaks. It didn't stop them. But he did it anyway, like he could wipe away the humiliation.

“I—” His voice cracked. But he forced it again, teeth clenching, nails digging into his own palm this time like he needed the pain to stay upright.

“He didn't—” Jonah tried, shaking his head harder now, desperation bleeding into every movement. “He didn't help me—he—”

‘Say it.’ The word sat at the back of his throat like something alive. But before it could come out, the sharp sound of the doorbell cut through the room.

And just like that, his father looked away from the truth that had almost been spoken.

“June,” he said sharply, not even sparing him a proper glance. “What are you sitting there for? Go open the door.”

June was still half-slumped against the sofa where he had been thrown, eyes flickering between Jonah and their father—like he was trying to decide which fire to put out first.

“...Seriously?” June muttered, voice low, rough with restrained anger. “Now?”

His father's gaze snapped to him instantly. “Do you want me to repeat myself?” he asked, voice dropping into something dangerous.

Exhaling sharply through the nose, June pushed himself up to his feet. “Yeah,” he said under his breath, not quite loud enough, not quite soft enough. “God forbid someone else deals with their own mess for once.”

With heavy steps, June dragged himself forward. His mother came into view at the edge of his vision, and his stride faltered for half a second. Guilt twisted sharply in his chest.

But then his father's presence loomed behind everything, heavy and suffocating, and June forced himself to keep walking. Because if he stopped now, he didn't know what he would do.

One foot in front of the other. His fingers curled into fists at his sides before loosening again as he reached the doorknob. The wood stood there like an escape and a threat all at once.

The door swung inward with a quiet creak, revealing two figures standing on the other side. Unfamiliar to the house but painfully familiar to Jonah.

June’s brows drew together instantly, eyes scanning them in quick, sharp assessment. “Yeah?” he started, voice guarded, irritation still bleeding through. “Can I—”

He didn't get to finish. Because the one leaning casually against the doorframe straightened with a lazy grin.

“Ah,” he drawled, voice too light. His arm slung loosely around the shoulders of the guy beside him, pulling him in like they were here for something harmless.

“We just came to check on our friend,” he continued, that smile stretching just a little wider on the last word, twisting it into something that felt wrong the moment it left his mouth.

The moment that falsely cheerful voice reached him, Jonah knew it was Jolly.

Whole body shrank into itself, instinct taking over. It was as if the night hadn't ended, like those hands were still there, still holding him down, refusing to let him go.

The boy under the stranger's arm let out a soft hum, head tilting slightly as his eyes flicked past June. Straight into the house searching until it landed on Jonah.

“Wrong,” he murmured, lips curving faintly. “Shouldn't we call our Omega by the right title?”

There was a pause, just long enough to make it deliberate.

Jolly chuckled under his breath, squeezing the other's shoulder slightly as he leaned his head closer, like sharing a joke meant to be heard.

“Yun,” he said, almost fondly, but the mockery bled through every syllable. “Don't be rude.”

 

To be continued...