The scent of his own lingering heat already cloyed in the small apartment, a heavy, sweet wave that made Haobin’s skin prickle. He tries to ignore it, focusing on the cheap LED ring light, adjusting its brightness until the harsh glow erases the shadows under his eyes. His reflection stares back, a pale omega with hair already damp at the temples, despite the cool air conditioning. He needs to stream, needs the routine, the normalcy. Yesterday’s terror, the package, the threats—he pushes them down, deep, like he's stuffing crumpled paper into an overfull drawer. His mother’s footsteps, soft and reassuring, move in the kitchen. She is making him a herbal tea, something to help with the flush that blooms across his cheeks every hour. He glances at the framed photos on his desk: a younger Haobin with a gap-toothed smile, his mother’s arm tight around him. Protection. She is here. Ruishie can't touch him while she is here. He smooths the silk of his best stream shirt, a sky-blue one that accentuates his pale skin. He needs to appear calm, composed, unaffected. His viewers expect the serene, focused Haobin, folding intricate designs from delicate paper. Not the trembling, frightened omega who keeps checking the lock on his door. His fingers ache with a phantom tremor. He forces them to relax, flexing them at the joints. Today, he plans to attempt a complex lotus blossom, its petals requiring precise, almost surgical folds. It will demand his full concentration, leave no room for intrusive thoughts of possessive alphas or engraved plaques. He will lose himself in the paper, in the meticulous geometry of creation. The aroma of chrysanthemum and ginger drifts in. "Haobin, drink this before you start," his mother calls, her voice warm, steady. He takes a deep breath, the scent a temporary balm. Yes. He is safe. This is his sanctuary. The events of yesterday were an isolated incident, a cruel aberration. He tells himself this, again and again, until the words feel almost true, a thin shield against the growing dread. He settles into his chair, adjusts the webcam. The chat window flickers to life, a rapid-fire stream of greetings and emojis. He offers a weak smile, his face automatically adopting the placid expression his viewers know. The light glints off the fresh stack of paper, an untouched canvas waiting for his hands. He picks up the first sheet, its crisp edge cool against his thumb. His heart thrums a frantic, uneven beat. It is just a stream. Nothing else. --- Haobin starts his commentary, his voice a little strained, but steady enough. He begins the first few simple folds of the lotus, his movements practiced, precise. The chat scrolls, a familiar comfort of digital well-wishes. Then, a notification flashes across his screen, bright and obnoxious: 'Crimson Alpha gifted 10,000 star-dust to Haobin.' A collective gasp ripples through the chat, followed by a flurry of '!!!' and 'Crimson Alpha is back!' emojis. Haobin's hand freezes mid-fold, creasing the delicate paper imperfectly. He tries to ignore it, tries to push through, but another notification pops up immediately. 'Crimson Alpha gifted 20,000 star-dust.' And then another. And another. The stream explodes with the flashing icons of virtual gifts, all from the same anonymous, terrifying source. His gaze drifts to the comment section, a knot tightening in his stomach. Amidst the usual praise and excitement, a new message from 'Crimson Alpha' stands out, bolded and pinned by a moderator, likely automatically due to the sheer volume of his gifts. "My little omega looks so lovely today. That blue shirt brings out the flush in his cheeks." The words hit him like a physical blow. He swallows, a dry, painful lump in his throat. That blue shirt. He had chosen it just this morning, a subconscious attempt to appear unaffected. He stares at the comment, the precise detail, the possessive tone. It's not just a fan, not just a stalker. This is someone watching him, someone *in his home*. The thought sends a cold shiver down his spine, despite the heat rising through his body. Another message appears, this one even more chilling: "Does your mother know how much you're hurting? I can help with that." Haobin's breath catches. His mother. She'd been in the kitchen just moments ago. Had Ruishie seen her? Was he watching through the window? Or had he placed cameras inside the apartment? The questions claw at his mind, sharp and immediate. He forces his gaze back to the paper, his hands trembling visibly now. The lotus blossom, once a comforting distraction, feels impossible to create. Each fold feels like a betrayal, each movement observed, judged. He can feel an invisible gaze on his neck, a phantom touch on his skin. He needs to breathe. He needs to finish this stream. He needs to escape. --- The comments from Crimson Alpha keep coming, each one a perfectly placed barb, laced with intimate details. "Your favorite tea, chrysanthemum and ginger, a soothing choice." "Such focus, even when your body screams for release." Haobin's facade crumbles, piece by fragile piece. His hands shake so badly he can no longer make the precise folds required for the lotus blossom. He fumbles the paper, crinkling a petal. A choked sound escapes his throat. His viewers, usually so understanding, start to notice. 'Haobin, are you okay?' 'You look pale.' 'Is your heat getting worse?' He forces a smile, a grotesque distortion of his usual calm expression. "Just... a little lightheaded," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. He blames the heat, the universal excuse for omegas. But it’s the alpha’s words, a poison spreading through his veins, that truly incapacize him. The stream chat becomes a blur of concern and more star-dust from Crimson Alpha. Ruishie's name, or his alias, is everywhere. Haobin feels exposed, naked, his private struggle laid bare for thousands to witness. He can't continue. He feels a sudden, urgent need to rip off the blue shirt, to scrub his skin raw, to erase the alpha's imagined touch. A wave of nausea washes over him. The heat, intensified by stress and terror, is becoming unbearable. His omega instincts are screaming, a chaotic symphony of fear and a horrifying, burgeoning need. The shame of it burns, a deep, internal fire. He can't let this alpha see him like this, broken and vulnerable. He grabs a glass of water, his hand rattling it against the table. The image of the bespoke display case, engraved with 'PROPERTY OF LIN,' flashes behind his eyes. He is not property. He is Yoon Haobin. But the words echo, relentless, in his mind. He closes his eyes for a moment, wishing for oblivion, for the stream to simply end. He wishes he could just disappear. When he opens them, Crimson Alpha has sent another message. "Don't worry, little omega. I'm coming to take care of you." The words are calm, almost gentle, yet they promise an unspeakable violation. Haobin’s heart drops into his stomach. He cuts the stream abruptly, ignoring the shocked cries in the chat. The screen goes black, leaving him alone in the harsh glare of the ring light, the scent of his heat now overpowering, suffocating. --- Haobin rips off the webcam, yanking the USB cable from his laptop with a violent tug. The ring light clatters to the floor. He scrambles to his phone, his fingers slick with sweat. He needs to block him. Every account. Every possible channel. He types with frantic urgency, navigating the settings, blocking 'Crimson Alpha,' blocking his known numbers, blocking unknown ones again. The futility of it gnaws at him. Ruishie always finds a way. His mother's usual grocery trip takes longer than usual today. The silence of the apartment, once a comfort, now feels vast and oppressive. Each tick of the cheap wall clock sounds like a hammer blow against his skull. The heat builds, a demanding ache deep in his core, making his skin hypersensitive, his senses acute. He clutches himself, rocking slightly, a desperate attempt to comfort a body that feels increasingly alien, traitorous. The need for an alpha, any alpha, to soothe the ache, to ground him, is a horrifying whisper at the back of his mind, a primal instinct he despises. A soft click echoes from the front door. Not his mother’s usual fumbling with keys, but a smooth, practiced turn of the lock. Haobin freezes. His breath hitches. His mother uses her own set of keys, and she always announces herself. He stares at the door, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The door swings inward, revealing Lin Ruishie. He stands there, framed by the dim hallway light, his black hair falling artfully across his forehead, a predatory smile playing on his lips. He holds a single, perfect red rose. "My little Haobin," he murmurs, his voice a low thrum that vibrates through the floorboards. "You shouldn't be alone like this, not in your heat." He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The sound echoes like a gunshot. Haobin stumbles back, his legs weak, bumping into his origami desk. "Get out!" he croaks, his voice raw with fear. "I'll call the police!" Ruishie merely chuckles, a dark, unsettling sound. He advances, closing the distance, the rose held out like an offering. "They won't believe you, Haobin. Not against me. And besides, I'm here to take care of what's mine." He reaches for Haobin, his hand seizing his wrist with surprising strength. The scent of alpha, sharp and potent, floods Haobin's senses, an overwhelming force that threatens to drown him. Ruishie pulls him closer, his other hand cupping Haobin's jaw, forcing his head up. Ruishie's eyes are dark, possessive, glittering with a terrifying intent. Before Haobin can react, Ruishie's lips crash down on his, a brutal, invasive kiss that steals his breath. Haobin struggles, his fists weakly pounding against Ruishie's chest, but the alpha is too strong. Ruishie's teeth graze his neck, a sharp, searing pain, and then a deeper, prolonged bite. The world explodes in white-hot agony. A sickening jolt runs through Haobin, a profound, irreversible shift. The mark. He is marked. His omega body screams, a symphony of terror and a terrifying, instinctual pull toward the alpha who just claimed him. Disgust and a horrifying, biological *need* war within him, tearing him apart. Tears stream down his face, hot and stinging. He lets out a primal, guttural cry, a sound of utter despair and violation. His hand blindly sweeps the desk, desperate for anything. His fingers close around the heavy ceramic vase his mother had bought him, a gift from her last trip to Jingdezhen. With a surge of adrenaline, he brings it down, hard, against Ruishie's head. The vase shatters with a sickening crack. Ruishie reels back, a grunt of surprise and pain escaping him, his hold on Haobin slackening. Blood blooms instantly in his black hair, staining his pristine white shirt. Haobin collapses to the floor, gasping, sobbing, the pain of the mark still throbbing, mingling with the fresh horror. He curls into a ball, clutching his neck, his entire being screaming for relief, for an end to the overwhelming, contradictory sensations. Just then, the front door bursts open again. His mother stands there, groceries spilling from her arms, a carton of milk rolling across the floor. Her eyes widen, taking in the scene: Ruishie, bleeding and swaying, Haobin crumpled on the floor, weeping, the shattered ceramic shards glinting. "Haobin!" she screams, dropping the remaining bags. Ruishie, dazed but still dangerous, takes a shaky step towards Haobin, a dark rage in his eyes. "You little..." he snarls, raising a hand. Haobin's mother, a small woman, throws herself between them. "Don't you dare!" she shrieks, her voice surprisingly fierce. "Get away from my son!" Ruishie hesitates, then laughs, a broken, maniacal sound. "He's mine now! He's my property!" he shouts, gesturing wildly at Haobin. Another figure appears in the doorway, a tall, imposing alpha, his face etched with grim disapproval. Lin Ruishie's father. He surveys the chaotic scene, his gaze cold and piercing. "Ruishie! What in the hell have you done?" he barks, his voice booming with authority. Ruishie flinches, but his eyes remain fixed on Haobin, a wild desperation in their depths. "Father, I just... I claimed him! He's mine!" His father steps forward, grabbing Ruishie's arm with a grip that brooks no argument. "Enough! This is beyond unacceptable!" Ruishie struggles, his eyes still burning with obsession. "No! You can't!" he yells, trying to break free. His father's jaw sets, his face hard as stone. "You leave me no choice," he states, his voice devoid of emotion. "You're going to the States. Tonight." Haobin rips off the webcam, yanking the USB cable from his laptop with a violent tug. The ring light clatters to the floor. He scrambles to his phone, his fingers slick with sweat. He needs to block him. Every account. Every possible channel. He types with frantic urgency, navigating the settings, blocking 'Crimson Alpha,' blocking his known numbers, blocking unknown ones again. The futility of it gnaws at him. Ruishie always finds a way.His mother's usual grocery trip takes longer than usual today. The silence of the apartment, once a comfort, now feels vast and oppressive. Each tick of the cheap wall clock sounds like a hammer blow against his skull. The heat builds, a demanding ache deep in his core, making his skin hypersensitive, his senses acute. He clutches himself, rocking slightly, a desperate attempt to comfort a body that feels increasingly alien, traitorous. The need for an alpha, any alpha, to soothe the ache, to ground him, is a horrifying whisper at the back of his mind, a primal instinct he despises.A soft click echoes from the front door. Not his mother’s usual fumbling with keys, but a smooth, practiced turn of the lock. Haobin freezes. His breath hitch. His mother uses her own set of keys, and she always announces herself. He stares at the door, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.The door swings inward, revealing Lin Ruishie. He stands there, framed by the dim hallway light, his black hair falling artfully across his forehead, a predatory smile playing on his lips. He holds a single, perfect red rose. "My little Haobin," he murmurs, his voice a low thrum that vibrates through the floorboards. "You shouldn't be alone like this, not in your heat." He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The sound echoes like a gunshot.Haobin stumbles back, his legs weak, bumping into his origami desk. "Get out!" he croaks, his voice raw with fear. "I'll call the police!" Ruishie merely chuckles, a dark, unsettling sound. He advances, closing the distance, the rose held out like an offering. "They won't believe you, Haobin. Not against me. And besides, I'm here to take care of what's mine." He reaches for Haobin, his hand seizing his wrist with surprising strength.The scent of alpha, sharp and potent, floods Haobin's senses, an overwhelming force that threatens to drown him. Ruishie pulls him closer, his other hand cupping Haobin's jaw, forcing his head up. Ruishie's eyes are dark, possessive, glittering with a terrifying intent. Before Haobin can react, Ruishie's lips crash down on his, a brutal, invasive kiss that steals his breath. Haobin struggles, his fists weakly pounding against Ruishie's chest, but the alpha is too strong. Ruishie's teeth graze his neck, a sharp, searing pain, and then a deeper, prolonged bite. The world explodes in white-hot agony.A sickening jolt runs through Haobin, a profound, irreversible shift. The mark. He is marked. His omega body screams, a symphony of terror and a terrifying, instinctual pull toward the alpha who just claimed him. Disgust and a horrifying, biological *need* war within him, tearing him apart. Tears stream down his face, hot and stinging. He lets out a primal, guttural cry, a sound of utter despair and violation. His hand blindly sweeps the desk, desperate for anything. His fingers close around the heavy ceramic vase his mother had bought him, a gift from her last trip to Jingdezhen. With a surge of adrenaline, he brings it down, hard, against Ruishie's head.The vase shatters with a sickening crack. Ruishie reels back, a grunt of surprise and pain escaping him, his hold on Haobin slackening. Blood blooms instantly in his black hair, staining his pristine white shirt. Haobin collapses to the floor, gasping, sobbing, the pain of the mark still throbbing, mingling with the fresh horror. He curls into a ball, clutching his neck, his entire being screaming for relief, for an end to the overwhelming, contradictory sensations.Just then, the front door bursts open again. His mother stands there, groceries spilling from her arms, a carton of milk rolling across the floor. Her eyes widen, taking in the scene: Ruishie, bleeding and swaying, Haobin crumpled on the floor, weeping, the shattered ceramic shards glinting. "Haobin!" she screams, dropping the remaining bags. Ruishie, dazed but still dangerous, takes a shaky step towards Haobin, a dark rage in his eyes. "You little..." he snarls, raising a hand.Haobin's mother, a small woman, throws herself between them. "Don't you dare!" she shrieks, her voice surprisingly fierce. "Get away from my son!" Ruishie hesitates, then laughs, a broken, maniacal sound. "He's mine now! He's my property!" he shouts, gesturing wildly at Haobin.Another figure appears in the doorway, a tall, imposing alpha, his face etched with grim disapproval. Lin Ruishie's father. He surveys the chaotic scene, his gaze cold and piercing. "Ruishie! What in the hell have you done?" he barks, his voice booming with authority. Ruishie flinches, but his eyes remain fixed on Haobin, a wild desperation in their depths. "Father, I just... I claimed him! He's mine!" His father steps forward, grabbing Ruishie's arm with a grip that brooks no argument. "Enough! This is beyond unacceptable!" Ruishie struggles, his eyes still burning with obsession. "No! You can't!" he yells, trying to break free. His father's jaw sets, his face hard as stone. "You leave me no choice," he states, his voice devoid of emotion. "You're going to the States. Tonight."Ruishie's father drags him from the apartment, a final, guttural curse ripping from Ruishie's throat, directed at Haobin. The door slams shut. Silence descends, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant wail of a siren. Haobin remains on the floor, curled around himself, shaking. The shattered ceramic vase lies scattered, glittering like malevolent teeth. His mother rushes to him, her hands trembling as she pulls him into a tight embrace. Her scent, familiar and comforting, is a lifeline in the storm, but it cannot erase the raw, burning pain on his neck.The mark throbs. It isn't just a physical wound; it’s a brand, a claim, burning into his very essence. His body, his omega biology, screams in confused agony and a terrifying, sickening acceptance. He pushes against his mother’s hug, needing space, needing to breathe, needing to escape his own skin. He scrambles away from her, crawling towards the broken pieces of his laptop webcam, the one he’d ripped out earlier.He stares at the damaged device, then at his phone, lying abandoned near the shattered vase. His fingers feel alien, clumsy. He picks up the phone, his vision blurry with tears. The screen is still on, showing his messaging app. He scrolls through, a desperate, frantic search. Block. Delete. Erase. But what? Ruishie is gone, physically, but his presence lingers, a stain on his skin, a terror in his mind.Haobin’s mother watches him, her face pale, her eyes wide with a horror that mirrors his own. She whispers his name, but he doesn't hear her. He can only hear the frantic beat of his own heart, the buzzing in his ears. He opens his social media apps, then deletes them one by one. Not just blocking Ruishie, but deleting his entire digital footprint. Instagram, his art account, the obscure forum where he discussed rare paper types. Each tap of the screen feels like tearing off a piece of himself, yet it also feels like the only way to sever the invisible threads that might still connect him to *him*.The futility of it all washes over him, cold and sharp. He can delete apps, change numbers, vanish from every online platform, but he cannot delete the mark. He cannot delete the insidious biological response that still shivers through his omega body, a traitorous echo of the alpha’s claim. He runs a trembling hand over the bite on his neck, the skin raw and swollen. It burns with a deep, internal fire.He drops the phone onto the floor, the plastic cracking against the tile. A strangled sob escapes him. He grabs at his hair, pulling, desperate for a different sensation, any sensation that isn't this overwhelming blend of violation and twisted biological recognition. His mother kneels beside him again, her hand reaching for his, but he recoils. He can't bear to be touched. Not now. Not ever."Haobin," she says, her voice thick with tears. "My son..."He shakes his head, burying his face in his knees. The scent of her distress, sharp with fear and sadness, mingles with the metallic tang of Ruishie's blood still clinging to the air, and the sickly sweet, cloying smell of his own heat, now tainted. The combination is suffocating.He wants to scream, to tear his own skin off, to undo what has been done. His heat, which had been a private, vulnerable thing, is now a public declaration, a beacon. The mark is irreversible. It means he is claimed. It means he is bound. His future, his choices, everything he thought he knew about himself, has been brutally rewritten in a single, agonizing moment. The thought of facing the world, of anyone seeing the mark, is unbearable. He feels utterly exposed, stripped bare, raw. He is no longer just Haobin. He is *his*. And even with Ruishie gone, the terror hasn't left. It has just changed shape, becoming an insidious, internal parasite. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms, tasting salt on his lips. The helplessness is a heavy shroud, wrapping around him, suffocating him whole. He feels a primal urge to disappear, to become invisible, to dissolve into nothingness.His eyes fix on the chipped ceramic mug his mother uses for her morning tea, sitting innocently on the desk. He can't remember a time before that mug. Now, even it feels alien, part of a world that is no longer his. The world has shifted, irrevocably. He looks at his trembling hands, then at the bloodstain on the floor, a dark blooming Rorschach test. A sickening, new realization dawns on him, cold and sharp, twisting his stomach into knots. He has been marked by a violent, obsessive alpha, an alpha who will now be far away, untouchable, yet still irrevocably connected to him. He will carry this brand, this claim, for the rest of his life. And what if... what if Ruishie's father, in his fury, decided to revoke the claim? What if the mark simply faded, leaving him unbonded but forever scarred, a broken omega, forever an open wound? The thought is even worse. He stares at the dark patch of blood, a silent promise, a terrifying question mark.

Chapter 4: Shadows in the Stream