Kit stirred, his consciousness returning in painful, disjointed pulses. Surprisingly, the white-hot agony that had been radiating from his spine the night before had subsided into a heavy, manageable thrum.

He glanced at the bedside table. 

Jihoon had left a few of his "after-care" pills—the heavy-duty muscle relaxants and high-grade painkillers he usually popped after a particularly brutal night in the escort wing. 

Kit had swallowed them dry before collapsing, and they had done their job, numbing the nerve endings that Maksim had spent hours lighting on fire.

Kit sat up, the thin sheets sliding down to reveal the wreckage of his torso. 

The marks were terrifying—blooms of deep indigo, crimson, and violet that looked like a violent, abstract painting across his chest and shoulders.

"Thirty rounds," Kit croaked, his voice a sandpaper rasp. "I should be dead. I should literally be in a body bag."

He dragged himself out of bed, his legs still feeling like they were made of lead. 

He hobbled into the tiny bathroom, stripping off his pajamas as he turned the shower on. 

As the lukewarm water hit his shoulders, he hissed, the sting bringing back flashes of the penthouse—the way those large, pale, scarred hands had moved over him with a clinical, terrifying gentleness.

He looked into the cracked mirror, the steam beginning to fog his reflection.

"You know, for a first time... being absolutely wrecked by The Refrigerator wasn't exactly the romantic fantasy I had in mind," Kit muttered to the tiled wall.

The nickname was perfect. Maksim Sokolov was a walking block of ice. 

His hair was a startling, stark white, as were his eyebrows, framing a face that was as pale and cold as a Siberian winter. 

And those eyes—crystal white, like frozen glass—made Kit feel like he was being dissected by a laser every time they landed on him. 

"I always thought my first time would be with a real boyfriend," Kit scoffed, his fingers tracing a deep, jagged bite mark on his collarbone. "Some sweet, Of course very billionaire rich Alpha who actually gave a damn about me. Someone who wasn't a walking red flag with a gold-plated gun and a soul made of permafrost."

He scrubbed his skin hard, trying to erase the ghost of Maksim’s scent—that overwhelming, dark cedar and Ozone—but it felt like it was woven into his very DNA.

"The bastard treated me like a fucking porcelain doll," Kit cursed, his frustration boiling over as he rinsed the soap away. "Bathing me. Buying me clothes that cost more than this whole building. Who the hell does he think he is? Just because he’s an Elite, he thinks he can play house with a scentless, infertile Omega for three days and then expect me to just... stay put? Like a good little pet waiting for its master to come home?"

The memory of the way Maksim had looked at him—the possessive, silent intensity in those crystal eyes—sent a shiver down Kit’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold water. 

It had been hardcore, visceral, and more intimate than any "service" should ever be. 

"Well, joke's on you, Mr. Refrigerator," Kit grumbled, reaching for the towel. "You can mark me all you want, but you can't buy me. I’m nobody’s property.

.

.

.

.

Kit spent the next twenty minutes digging through his bag until he found the 5,000 rubles Jihoon had left him. 

His stomach was a bottomless pit, a direct consequence of the "marathon" his body had just endured. 

He needed sugar. 

Specifically, he needed those pink-frosted sweet cakes from the corner market.

He pulled on a pair of thick, oversized sweatpants and a heavy hoodie to hide the violent artwork Maksim had left on his skin. 

He hesitated at his shoes. His own sneakers were falling apart, the soles thin enough to feel every drop of snow. 

Then his eyes landed on the boots Maksim had bought him. 

They were heavy, black, and screamed "Elite."

"Fuck it," Kit muttered, shoving his feet into the boots. "My pride can take a hike; my arches need the support."

The supermarket was a depressing fluorescent nightmare. 

Kit limped through the aisles, his hips clicking with every step, only to reach the bakery section and find it empty.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Kit hissed, glaring at the empty shelf where his cakes usually sat. "Out of stock? On a Monday?"

He stood there for a full minute, contemplating burning the building down, before he remembered the bag slung over his shoulder. 

Inside was the cashmere, the silk, and the tailored trousers—the Sokolov Clothing's.

He didn't just need cakes; he needed a life. He needed a phone that wasn't a spiderweb of glass and a landlord who wasn't ready to break his legs.

He turned on his heel, the heavy soles of the boots thudding against the linoleum. 

He knew a place. A high-end resale shop a few blocks over that dealt in "discreet" transactions for people who had more luxury than sense.

The shop smelled of expensive leather and judgment. 

The owner, a tall Alpha with a polished watch and a gaze that felt like a cold shower, watched Kit approach the counter. 

Kit didn't flinch. He just leaned against the glass, removing his lollipop from his mouth before popping it with a sharp crack.

He reached into his bag and piled the clothes onto the counter. 

The cashmere was so soft it practically glowed under the shop’s spotlights.

The owner's eyes widened. 

He picked up the coat, examining the stitching with a jeweler’s loupe. 

Then, he looked at Kit—really looked at him—taking in the cheap hoodie and the defiant, exhausted expression.

"Before I give you a price," the Alpha said, his voice dropping into that condescending register, "where exactly did a brat like you get these? Because looking at you, I don't think you could afford the sleeve of this coat if you worked three lifetimes."

Kit leaned in, a sharp, venomous smirk tugging at his lips. 

He took the lollipop out of his mouth and pointed it at the man’s chest.

"I had really good sex with your dad," Kit said, his voice a cool, foul-mouthed drawl. "He’s a generous lover. You should see the bedroom manners on that old man."

The Alpha’s face turned a brilliant shade of purple, his teeth gritting so hard Kit heard the enamel creak. 

"You little shit—"

"You want the fucking clothes or not, asshole?" Kit interrupted, already reaching to shove the silk back into his bag. "I’ve got three other shops on this block that won't ask for a background check for a goddamn coat."

The man stopped him, his hand hovering over the fabric. 

He knew what he was looking at. 

This wasn't just luxury; it was a 100% Sokolov tailoring. It was worth millions of rubles. If it were dollars it's still be over milloions in dollars.

"Fine," the man spat, looking away as he tapped at his calculator. "I can give you 500,000 rubles for the lot. Cash. No paper trail."

Kit's heart did a somersault. 5,000 Rubles in his pocket. 

It was a lowball—a massive, insulting lowball for clothes that were likely worth twenty times that—but to Kit, it was a goddamn fortune. Well not exactly but for now it was a lot.

It was rent. It was a phone. It was groceries in their empty fridge.

"Make it 550,000 for the insult to my career," Kit countered, popping his lollipop back in.

The man glared, then reached under the counter and pulled out several thick bands of rubles. 

Kit snatched them up, stuffing them into his bag with a mocking wink.

"Nice doing business with you, princess," Kit chirped. "Tell your 'dad' I’ll see him next Sunday."

Kit stepped back out onto the street, the weight of the cash in his bag making him feel ten feet tall.

He felt a manic surge of adrenaline. 

He had beaten the system. He had sold the Refrigerator’s skin to pay for his own things.

He headed straight for the tech shop across the street, eyeing a sleek, new-model phone in the window. 

He was going to buy the most expensive one they had. 

The bell above the door chimed a rhythmic, expensive sound as Kit stepped into the tech sanctuary. 

It smelled like new silicon and wealth, not a lot of it though. 

He didn't even look at the mid-range models; his eyes were locked on the titanium-cased beast in the window—the kind of phone that had more cameras than he had friends and a price tag that usually made him want to vomit.

"I want that one," Kit said, pointing a steady finger at the display. "And make it the 1TB model. I have a lot of... high-resolution baggage to store."

The staff member, a scrawny guy who looked like he’d never seen a sunlight-deprived Omega carry that much confidence, began packing the devic. 

Kit felt a manic grin spreading across his face. 

He was finally winning. He should also buy Jihoon something since he already had a good phone. Kit thought to himself.

Then the glass front door didn't just open; it exploded inward.

BANG!

A deafening gunshot shattered the ceiling tiles, raining white dust over the pristine displays. 

Five men in black tactical masks stormed in, the scent of cheap gunpowder instantly overriding the "new phone" smell of the shop.

"EVERYONE ON THE FUCKING GROUND! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" the leader roared, waving a sawed-off shotgun.

Kit didn't even blink. 

He just dropped to his knees, his heart performing a frantic tap-dance against his ribs. 

Are you kidding me? he thought, pressing his forehead against the cold floor. I survive thirty rounds with a human fridge, sell his clothes to a prick, and I’m going to get taken out by some low-rent thugs in a mall? Not today, Satan.

He clutched his bag to his chest, the heavy bands of rubles feeling like a lead weight. 

He didn't care if they took the store's entire inventory. 

He didn't care if they executed and killed the manager. 

His internal monologue was a stream of foul-mouthed pragmatism: Just keep walking, boys. Take the expensive iPhones, take the register and their whole bank account, just don't look at the brat in the oversized hoodie.

The robbers moved with a practiced, messy violence, smashing glass cases and shoveling devices into duffel bags. 

The manager was sobbing, shoving thick stacks of store cash toward the leader’s weapon. 

Kit kept his eyes shut, breathing through his mouth to avoid the dust.

They were almost done. 

He heard the leader whistle—the signal to bail. Kit let out a tiny, premature breath of relief.

"Wait," a gravelly voice grunted, stopping right in front of Kit. "Look at this one. He’s clutching that bag like it’s the Holy Grail."

Kit froze. Fuck.

The leader stepped over, the barrel of the shotgun casting a long, terrifying shadow over Kit’s hands.

 "Change of plans. Empty the pockets. Take every bag, every phone, every piece of jewelry. If they think their shit is worth more than their lives, prove them wrong."

A heavy boot slammed into the leg of a woman nearby who tried to crawl away. 

A shot rang out, hitting a man in the thigh who was trying to be defiant. 

The store erupted into screams that were quickly choked back into terrified whimpers.

One of the robbers reached down, his gloved hand yanking at Kit’s bag.

"No," Kit gasped, his fingers locking into the strap with a death grip. 

"Please. Please, take the boots. Take my boots. Take anything, but please leave the bag."

The robber laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound behind the mask. 

He didn't argue; he simply planted a boot in Kit’s chest and shoved.

Kit flew backward, his spine slamming into a display table with a sickening thwack. 

The air left his lungs in a wheeze as the bag was ripped from his grasp.

"Boss! Look at this," the thief shouted, unzipping the bag to reveal the thick stacks of 550,000 rubles. 

"Kid’s a walking bank!"

"Jackpot," the leader grunted. "Let's move!"

The robber who had taken the bag lingered for a second, his eyes traveling down to the heavy, polished winter boots. 

He smirked, the fabric of his mask twitching.

"Since You offered so desperately"

Before Kit could even process the words, the man grabbed his ankles, dragging him across the floor like a ragdoll. 

With two violent tugs, the expensive leather boots were gone.

"I'll take them I bet there worth something" the thief mocked, shoving Kit’s bare, bruised feet into the cold floor.

They scrambled out the door, the tires of their getaway van screeching as they vanished into the Monday morning traffic.

Kit sat on the floor in his mismatched socks, his back screaming, his bag gone, and his feet bare. 

He stared at the shattered doorway, the silence returning like a heavy shroud.

"You have got to be..." Kit’s voice broke, a jagged laugh bubbling up in his throat, his expression cynical. 

"Are you fucking shitting me!!?