The noise of the convention hall still hammered against Yoon Haobin’s ears, a dull throb beneath the sharper sting of Lin Ruishie’s gaze. He could feel it, a physical pressure on his back, even through the jostling bodies of excited fans and fellow streamers. Ruishie. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. The way the alpha had trapped him against the wall, the casual cruelty in his eyes when Haobin had rejected him. It was an insult Haobin hadn't truly forgotten, even before the later, more direct, shaming. Haobin tightened his grip on the strap of his worn messenger bag, his knuckles white. He didn't look back. Looking back meant acknowledging the alpha, meant giving him another inch of the space Haobin fought so hard to reclaim. His steps quickened, a desperate rhythm against the polished concrete floor. He ducked around a cosplay group posing for photos, their bright costumes a blur of color. He wove through a cluster of merchandise stalls, the scent of new plastic and cheap perfume momentarily overwhelming. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to disappear. Ruishie’s words from the stream, the biting remarks about his early heat, echoed in his mind. "Pathetic," the alpha had called him, his voice laced with a cold disdain that still made Haobin's stomach clench. "Exposing yourself like that." The shame, hot and visceral, had been followed by a spark of pure, unadulterated rage. He had lashed back, sharp and cutting, before the satisfying click of the block button. He reached the main exit, a cavernous archway spewing out a river of attendees. The cool evening air hit his face, a welcome shock after the stagnant heat inside. He pushed through the revolving door, not waiting for it to fully spin. His heart hammered a frantic drum against his ribs. He felt exposed, vulnerable, despite the crowd. The lingering sensation of Ruishie’s eyes on him was a phantom touch, a brand. Haobin fumbled for his phone, the smooth glass cool beneath his damp fingers. He needed to get home. He needed to be anywhere but here, anywhere but where Ruishie might find him again. The thought of the alpha, so wealthy, so powerful, so used to getting what he wanted, sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the evening chill. He pulled his hoodie tighter, hunching his shoulders as if to physically shrink from the world. He hailed a taxi from the buzzing street corner, practically throwing himself into the backseat the moment it pulled up. "Anywhere away from here," he almost mumbled, then cleared his throat and gave his apartment complex address. The engine rumbled to life, and the car pulled into the stream of traffic, carrying him away from the convention center and, hopefully, away from Ruishie’s reach. But the feeling of being watched, of being hunted, did not dissipate with the distance. It settled deep in his bones, a cold, heavy weight. --- The taxi ride offered no true solace. Haobin kept glancing out the window, his eyes darting through the blurred reflections of neon signs and office blocks. Every dark car, every fleeting glimpse of a black sedan, made his breath catch. He knew Ruishie’s type, the expensive, sleek models, the kind of vehicle that screamed privilege. He hated how that knowledge made him feel, a helpless pawn in a game he hadn't asked to play. He paid the driver with shaky fingers, the crumpled bills feeling slick against his palm. Stepping out onto the pavement, the city swallowed him whole. The clamor of rush hour traffic, the impatient honking, the murmur of countless conversations – it should have been a comfort, a shield. Instead, it felt like a labyrinth, each turn potentially leading him deeper into danger. He pulled his hoodie down further, trying to obscure his face, to make himself unremarkable. His apartment building was still a fifteen-minute walk. Haobin decided against waiting for another taxi. He needed to move, to burn off the restless energy thrumming through his veins. He plunged into the pedestrian flow, moving with a desperate urgency. His gaze constantly scanned the faces of passersby, searching, terrified of what he might see. A familiar tilt of the head, a specific shade of dark hair, a knowing smirk. The irritation simmered beneath his fear. Who was this alpha to treat him like this? To insult him, to hound him, to make him feel like prey? Haobin had always valued his independence, the quiet control he exerted over his own life. This, this feeling of being pursued, was anathema to everything he stood for. His jaw tightened, a hard knot of defiance forming. He wouldn't let Ruishie break him. He wouldn't. A sharp buzz vibrated in his pocket. Haobin startled, nearly dropping his phone. His heart leaped into his throat. He pulled it out, his fingers fumbling. An unknown number. His breath hitched. It couldn't be. He had blocked Ruishie. Every number. He stared at the screen, the digits blurring. He swiped to reject the call, his thumb pressing hard enough to ache. Seconds later, it buzzed again. A different unknown number. His hands trembled. Ruishie. It had to be him. A cold dread seeped into his veins, colder than the evening air. He rejected it again. Then another. And another. His phone became a buzzing menace, a relentless reminder of the alpha's reach. He wanted to throw it into the street, to shatter it, to sever the connection, but he couldn't. Finally, he steeled himself and answered the fifth call, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury. "What do you want?" he snapped, the words raw. A low, smooth chuckle drifted through the line, sending shivers down his spine. "Xiaobao. Missed me?" Ruishie's voice, confident and devoid of remorse, was like a physical blow. "You shouldn't have insulted me. You shouldn't have blocked me." "You insulted me first!" Haobin shot back, his voice rising. "You shamed me! I told you to leave me alone!" "And I told you I don't take no for an answer," Ruishie purred, the sound sickeningly possessive. "Now you'll learn what happens when you cross me." A beat of silence. "I know where you live, little omega. I know you're in heat. So vulnerable." Haobin’s blood ran cold. He knew? How? He hadn't shared his address with anyone beyond his closest friends and family. A wave of nausea washed over him. He stumbled, bumping into a lamppost, the sudden impact jarring him. "I will come for you, Haobin," Ruishie continued, his voice dropping, becoming a chilling whisper. "And when I do, I will mark you. Forcefully, if I have to. You'll belong to me." "You sick bastard!" Haobin roared, a primal scream of terror and rage tearing from his throat. "You try that, and I'll call the police! I'll ruin you!" "Go ahead," Ruishie laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Do you think they'll believe a scared little omega against a prominent alpha like me? I’ll say you invited me. Say you wanted it." Another cruel chuckle. "Enjoy the wait, Xiaobao. It won't be long." The line went dead. Haobin stood frozen on the pavement, his chest heaving, the phone a dead weight in his hand. He was in heat. He was vulnerable. He couldn't fight an alpha, especially not one like Ruishie. Panic clawed at his throat. He needed help. He needed protection. His mother. She was the only one. He quickly scrolled through his contacts, his thumb shaking so violently it almost missed her name. "Mom," he gasped when she answered, his voice thin and reedy. "Can… can you come stay with me for a week? Please? I just... I don't feel well." He couldn't tell her about Ruishie. She would worry herself sick. She would insist on calling the police, and Ruishie’s words about not being believed resonated with terrifying truth. He swallowed hard. "Just... company would be nice. My heat is acting up." "Of course, my dear," his mother's warm voice immediately soothed him, a small balm on his raw nerves. "I'll pack a bag and be there by morning." A tiny sliver of relief, sharp and fragile, pierced through his terror. It wasn't enough, but it was something. --- Back inside his apartment, the locked door felt like tissue paper. Haobin leaned against it, pressing his forehead against the cool wood, trying to steady his ragged breathing. His heat surged, a dull ache in his lower back, a constant reminder of his vulnerability. Ruishie's threat to mark him, to claim him, echoed in the silent apartment. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his skin clammy. He needed to talk to someone, someone who understood the world of alphas and omegas, even if he couldn't reveal the full, terrifying extent of the threats. He pulled out his phone again, scrolling past his mother's name to find Jian's contact. Jian, his best friend, an alpha himself, but one who was kind, understanding, and never pushed boundaries. "Hey, Haobin! How was the meet-and-greet? Did you sell lots of origami?" Jian's cheerful voice, when he finally answered, was like a splash of cold water. It almost made Haobin forget, for a fleeting second, the terror that had chased him home. "It was... eventful," Haobin managed, his voice still a little shaky. He walked to his small kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter. "I ran into Crimson Alpha." A beat of silence on the other end. "Oh. *That* guy. The one who's always dropping insane donations on your stream?" Jian's tone shifted, a hint of concern entering his voice. "Was he creepy? He always gave me weird vibes." "Creepy is an understatement," Haobin admitted, taking a long sip of water. The coolness helped settle his stomach. "He's... Lin Ruishie." Another silence, longer this time. "Lin Ruishie?" Jian's voice was sharp with disbelief. "The Lin Ruishie? Son of Lin Industries? The notorious playboy alpha?" Haobin nodded, even though Jian couldn't see him. "The one and only. He corners me at the convention, acts like he owns me. I told him no, I told him to back off. Then he shows up in my stream chat, insulting me during my heat, saying I'm pathetic." He left out the part about the aggressive, direct threats of forced marking. Jian would go ballistic, and Haobin wasn't sure he could handle that right now. "He did *what*?" Jian exploded. "That bastard! Who does he think he is? That's harassment, Haobin! You should report him!" "I blocked him," Haobin said quickly, trying to calm Jian down. "I blocked his number. But... he just keeps finding new ways." He gestured vaguely, as if the invisible threats were tangible things hovering in the air. "He knows things, Jian. Things he shouldn't know. Like where I live." Jian swore under his breath. "That's next level. Stalker level. Are you okay? Are you safe right now?" "My mom's coming to stay for a bit," Haobin said, a small comfort. "She’ll be here by morning. I just... I needed someone here. With my heat, I don't feel... strong enough to be alone right now." "Good. Good idea," Jian said, his voice softening with genuine concern. "Look, Haobin, if this escalates, you need to call the police. Lin Industries or not, this is serious. You have proof of his online harassment, right?" Haobin thought about the calls, the chilling promise of a forced mark. "Yeah," he lied, his voice barely a whisper. "I have some screenshots." He didn't. He'd been too furious, too terrified, to think of documenting anything beyond blocking. He just wanted the conversation to end, wanted the comfort of his mother's presence. "Alright. Call me anytime. Seriously, Haobin. I'll come over, even if your mom's there. Just let me know." Jian's offer was sincere, and Haobin felt a pang of guilt for not being entirely honest. But he couldn't. Not yet. "Thanks, Jian. I will." He ended the call, the silence of his apartment pressing in on him once more. His phone felt heavy, but at least for now, the buzzing had stopped. --- The next morning, his mother arrived, her familiar floral scent a brief, calming anchor in the storm of Haobin’s anxiety. She fussed over him, made him a bowl of steaming congee, and gently reminded him to take his heat suppressants. Her presence was a fragile shield, a temporary illusion of safety. Haobin tried to act normal, to laugh at her stories, to concentrate on his paper-folding, but Ruishie's threats played on a loop in his mind. Days passed in a blur of forced normalcy. His mother’s gentle chatter filled the quiet apartment, and Haobin busied himself with new origami patterns for his stream. The calls from unknown numbers had stopped, but the silence felt more menacing than the buzzing had. It was the quiet before a storm. He kept the door triple-locked, checked the windows, and flinched at every unexpected sound outside. Then, on the fourth afternoon, a heavy knock echoed through the apartment. Haobin froze, his hands still clutching a sheet of delicate washi paper. His mother, who had been watching a cooking show in the living room, paused the TV. "Who could that be?" she mused, heading towards the door. "Wait!" Haobin called out, scrambling to stop her. His heart hammered. It couldn't be. Not now. His heat was intensifying again, making his movements sluggish, his mind foggy. He felt lightheaded, his body a traitor. His mother, however, was already at the peephole. "It's a deliveryman, dear. A large box." She turned the deadbolt, the loud click resonating in the sudden quiet. She opened the door just enough for a young man in a delivery uniform to peek through. "Yes?" "Delivery for Yoon Haobin," the man said, a large, rectangular package held awkwardly in his arms. It was wrapped in thick, black paper, without any visible sender information. Haobin's blood ran cold. He knew, with a sickening certainty, who it was from. "I didn't order anything," Haobin stated, stepping forward, his voice a tight whisper. His mother looked at him, confused. He could feel the heat flush his face, an internal fire. His instincts screamed at him to slam the door, to reject it, but the deliveryman was already pushing it inside, a grunting sound escaping him. "Sign here, please," the man requested, holding out a tablet. Haobin's mother, trying to be helpful, reached for it. "No!" Haobin cried, pushing her hand away. His head swam. The scent of an alpha, faint but distinct, clung to the package. It wasn't the deliveryman's. It was… a signature scent. Ruishie's. He snatched the package, his fingers brushing against the rough paper. It was heavier than it looked. A small card, black with silver lettering, was taped to the top. Haobin tore it off, his eyes scanning the elegant script. *To my little omega, a gift to sweeten your heat. From your devoted Alpha.* No name. But he knew. He threw the card onto the floor, rage and fear warring within him. "What is it, dear?" his mother asked, her brow furrowed with concern. "Why are you so upset?" Haobin couldn't answer. He ripped at the black paper, his fingers tearing, revealing the smooth, dark wood beneath. It was a handcrafted display case. Inside, nestled on crimson velvet, was a collection of exquisite, rare origami paper. Silks from Suzhou, gold leaf paper from Kyoto, luminous washi paper from remote Japanese villages. Each piece was individually wrapped, a silent testament to meticulous research and immense cost. It was a fortune, laid bare. It was a declaration. More than that, at the very center, on a small, engraved silver plaque, were two words: *PROPERTY OF LIN*. Haobin felt the blood drain from his face. Ruishie was not just threatening him, he was *claiming* him. He sank to his knees, the paper rustling around him, the scent of expensive materials and that faint, terrifying alpha signature overwhelming. This wasn't just a gift. It was a mark. He was caught in the web, and Ruishie had just tightened the strands. One week later, the heat was still a heavy cloak over Haobin, dulling his senses. His mother, sensing his discomfort, had been a constant, gentle presence. That morning, she had gone out for groceries, her usual cheerful ritual. "Lock the door behind me, dear," she called from the hallway, her voice muffled by the closing door. Haobin mumbled a reply, already halfway lost in the haze of his body's demands. His head pounded, his skin felt too hot, too sensitive. He heard the click of the lock from outside, but the door to his apartment remained unlatched. He hadn't moved to secure it. The world swam, a soft, indistinct blur of need and discomfort. He was feeling too weird, too consumed by the physical ache, to register the danger. He forgot. He just forgot. The door creaked open, a slow, deliberate sound. A shadow fell across the polished floor. A hand, large and firm, clamped around his arm, pulling him upright with unexpected force.

Chapter 3: Unwanted Pursuit Begins