The blue light from the monitor etched lines on Yoon Haobin’s face. He sat hunched, staring at the empty stream schedule, the cursor blinking like a taunt. His neck throbbed, a dull ache that flared whenever his thoughts strayed to Lin Ruishie. It was a constant, unwanted reminder of the alpha's presence, a brand he couldn't scrub away. The doctor had been clear: permanent. He traced the faint scar on his nape, feeling the ghost of pressure where Ruishie's teeth had bitten into him. He had to change things. Everything. The old schedule was too predictable. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evening, like clockwork. Ruishie knew it. Ruishie had *used* it. Haobin dragged the mouse, clicking open his channel settings. He would move the days, shift the times, make it sporadic. An early morning stream, then a late-night one a few days later. No pattern. Just chaos. He wanted to disappear, to become a whisper in the digital wind. The thought was a small, fragile seed of hope. He wasn’t strong enough to fight Ruishie directly, not yet. But he could become harder to catch, harder to pin down. His fingers hovered over the ‘Save Changes’ button. The screen flickered, reflecting his tired eyes, shadowed by sleepless nights and the constant anxiety. He pushed the button. The schedule updated. He leaned back in his worn desk chair, the faux leather creaking in protest. It was a small victory, a microscopic chip in the towering wall of Ruishie's obsession. But it was a start. He looked at the cracked ceramic vase on his bookshelf, the one he’d used to fight back. It sat there, a silent sentinel, a reminder of the night his life had irrevocably changed. He had fought then. He could fight now, in his own way. He closed the streaming software. The silence of his small apartment pressed in, heavy and suffocating. His mother was out, working a late shift. He was alone with his thoughts, and the ceaseless throb at the base of his skull. The mark pulsed again, a sharp, angry sting. He flinched, hand going to his neck. Was Ruishie doing something? Was this another one of his cruel games, even from across an ocean? The possibility sent a cold dread through him, making the air in the room feel thin. --- Deleting his past felt like erasing a part of himself. Haobin scrolled through the archives of his streaming channel, watching old videos of his paper-folding. There he was, explaining the delicate creases of a lotus, his voice calm, his expression open. He remembered the joy he used to feel, the quiet satisfaction of creating something beautiful. Now, each video felt tainted, a breadcrumb trail leading Ruishie directly to him. He clicked on the first video, a simple crane, filmed over two years ago. The comments were sweet, encouraging. He had been so innocent then, so unaware of the predators lurking in the shadows of the internet. A pang of regret, sharp and bitter, twisted in his gut. He should have been more careful. He should have hidden his scent, masked his omega nature better. His finger trembled over the ‘delete’ button. Hundreds of hours of work, gone. His digital legacy, wiped clean. But what was a legacy if it became a cage? He couldn't keep leaving pieces of himself scattered across the internet for Ruishie to collect. He clicked, and a confirmation box popped up: “Are you sure you want to delete this video?” He typed ‘YES’ without hesitation, watching the thumbnail vanish. He repeated the process, video after video. The stream of comments, the likes, the milestones—all dissolved into nothingness. The channel became a blank slate. Then, his profile picture. It was a soft, blurry shot of him holding a completed origami dragon, his face half-hidden. He replaced it with a generic, abstract pattern, a swirling blue and grey that offered no hint of a human face, let alone his. He changed his banner art too, a simple, non-descript landscape. He stared at the stripped-down channel. It felt colder, emptier. But also safer, a fortress against unseen eyes. He hoped. He truly hoped this would be enough. The pain in his mark had subsided slightly since he began deleting the posts, a tiny concession from Ruishie, perhaps? Or just his imagination, desperate for any sign of relief. He closed his laptop, the click echoing in the quiet room. For a brief moment, he felt a flicker of peace. --- Haobin took a deep breath, the smell of dust and old paper filling his lungs. He hit the ‘Go Live’ button. The screen flashed, then settled, showing his familiar desktop and webcam feed. He held up a fresh sheet of washi paper, his hands steady despite the tremor in his stomach. Today's project was a complex geometric pattern, something that required intense focus, a distraction from the constant fear. The chat started to fill with greetings, familiar names popping up. He managed a strained smile. He was three hours earlier than his old schedule, on a different day entirely. This was it. This was his new, unpredictable pattern. He began to fold, his fingers moving with practiced ease, explaining each step in a low, measured tone. For a few minutes, he almost forgot. Then, the first gift notification. A small star. Then another. And another. His heart rate quickened. He knew these. These were the smaller, innocuous gifts Ruishie sent before the big ones. He tried to ignore them, focusing on the paper. A complex fold, a delicate crease. He could do this. He had to. A wave of Crimson Alpha’s signature ‘Phoenix Flame’ gifts flooded the screen, hundreds of them, stacking up faster than the chat could scroll. The vibrant red and gold almost burned his eyes. Then, a message from the anonymous account appeared, bolded and pinned at the top of the chat: “Clever little omega. Thought you could hide from me, did you?” Haobin’s hands froze, crushing the delicate washi paper. The intricate geometric fold crumpled, ruined. His breath hitched. It was worse than he imagined. Ruishie wasn't just guessing; he *knew*. He knew the schedule changes, the deletions, the profile picture. The unseen walls he had tried to build dissolved into thin air. The pain in his nape intensified, a searing, throbbing ache that pulled at his very bones, a direct consequence of Ruishie’s cruel amusement. He wanted to scream, to smash the monitor, to run until his lungs gave out. But he just sat there, rigid, staring at the words that confirmed his new prison. --- The stream ended abruptly, Haobin clicking off the feed without a goodbye. He couldn't form the words. He sat in the afterglow of the monitor, the room dark, his body trembling. The throbbing in his mark became a sharp, continuous knife twist. He closed his eyes, fighting the nausea. Just as he thought he might finally crumble, a notification pinged on his phone, lying face down on his desk. He picked it up with a slow, unwilling hand. A new follower. The name was a string of random characters, but the profile picture was the same abstract blue and grey pattern he had chosen for his own channel, a perfect, mocking copy. The chilling digital signature. Ruishie was everywhere. He knew everything. Haobin felt a scream clawing at his throat. Then, another phone call, this one from Jie.

Unseen Walls Closing