"Doctor, you smell like… an Omega."
The bulletproof glass groaned like a dying animal.
My feet left the ground. The wall slammed against my spine as fingers wrapped around my throat—pale knuckles, exoskeleton plating, positioned exactly one inch below my Adam's apple.
Crack.
The delicate bones in my neck protested under the pressure.
Silver hair cascaded over blood-red pupils, dilated and feral. This was Zane—Prisoner 01, the most vicious inmate in this deep-sea hellhole. Right now, he was pressing his nose into the hollow of my throat like a starving wolf catching the scent of fresh meat.
Hot breath ghosted across my skin, wet and sticky.
"So sweet…" he murmured, canines scraping against the vulnerable column of my neck. "Want to bite through it…"
Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.
Three hundred thousand in gambling debt. That's what drove me to forge Beta documentation and take a job in this monster prison. Three minutes on the job, and I was already facing death by strangulation.
The oxygen deprivation was stealing my ability to think. Gray death crept inward from the corners of my sight.
Just as consciousness began to slip away, something dormant in my chest roared to life—
BOOM!
A pale golden lotus bloomed from my sternum without warning.
The light wasn't blinding, but it carried a divine pressure that made the air itself tremble. The violent crimson Alpha pheromones saturating the corridor met their natural enemy. Where gold touched red, everything dissolved like snow in sunlight.
Absolute purification.
The iron grip around my throat vanished.
"Ugh…" I slid down the wall, coughing violently as tears blurred my vision.
Before I could steady myself, the S-class killer went rigid. The murderous red drained from his eyes like a receding tide, replaced by confusion and… terror.
Thud.
The sound of knees hitting concrete echoed through the silent hallway.
Zane had dropped. Right between my legs.
The Federation's most dangerous beast now bowed his head like a pilgrim, trembling as he buried his face in my cold palm. A wet tongue traced the lines of my palm with desperate reverence.
A broken whimper escaped his throat: "…Master."
I adjusted my crooked glasses, spine pressed against the freezing wall.
What the hell?
Red code flickered across my lenses, then exploded into streams of scrolling text.
[Abyss Live Stream V1.0 Activated] [Current Viewers: 100K+] → @StardustDreamer: Holy shit, am I hallucinating? Zane's KNEELING? → @ChaosGremlin donated 1,000 credits: "What kind of plot twist is this?!" → @Anonymous_8273: That golden flash... why do my knees feel weak? → @BloodRose99: Screenshot this! Cold doctor taming a rabid dog? This is premium content!
I frowned. Were my glasses malfunctioning?
My heart hammered at 140 BPM, ribs aching from the impact, but I ignored the bizarre text streams. Instead, I looked down at my left hand—the one Zane was clutching—and the lingering sensation of saliva on my neck.
Sticky. Disgusting.
Even rotting flesh on the battlefield hadn't made me this nauseous.
As someone with severe mysophobia, my first instinct wasn't fear—it was the overwhelming urge to vomit.
I yanked my hand back with clinical detachment.
From my lab coat pocket, I retrieved a pack of alcohol wipes.
Rip.
The sound of tearing plastic cut through the tension like a blade.
Dozens of fully armed guards had arrived, weapons trained on… nobody knew what. The kneeling prisoner? The standing doctor?
In this surreal standoff, I methodically extracted a wipe.
Once. Twice.
I scrubbed every inch of skin Zane had touched until my neck was raw and red, as if his contact had infected me with some lethal pathogen.
Zane stared up at me with the lost expression of an abandoned dog.
"Disgusting."
I wadded the used wipe into a ball and shot it into the medical waste bin three meters away. Perfect aim.
Adjusting my glasses, I looked down at the S-class prisoner with cold indifference: "Temperature: 102.6°F. You need fever reducers, not a rut."
The chat exploded.
→ @DevilMayLaugh: LMAOOO he called Zane DIRTY → @SinfulAngel: Doctor's so cold! I love the frigid type! → @PuppyLover: Zane: Wife hits me, wife loves me → @ChaosTheory: Is this what peak power looks like? Nearly strangled to death, first reaction is disinfection?
"Magnificent."
Slow applause shattered the stalemate.
The guard formation parted like the Red Sea as black military boots clicked against metal flooring. The newcomer wore gold-rimmed monocle and an immaculate black uniform, silver medals gleaming on his chest.
Deep Sea Prison Warden Adam-01.
He didn't spare Zane a glance, laser-focused on me as his finger tapped the air. A holographic projection materialized—wave analysis charts with one golden spike that pierced the ceiling.
"Ordinary Betas don't possess the ability to instantly suppress S-class rampage episodes."
Adam approached, leather glove gripping my chin to force eye contact. Behind his monocle, data streams flashed at inhuman speed.
"Dr. Gu, your disguise technique is impressive. But tell me—if I forwarded this Omega test result to the military labs, what do you think would happen to you?"
His voice carried elegant cruelty: "Vivisection? Or perhaps you'd prefer being locked in a cultivation tank as a public comfort device?"
My pupils contracted. Busted.
That was the secret I'd kill to protect—I was one of only three purification-type Omegas left on Earth. Once exposed, I'd become military property.
"I still owe three million."
I slapped his hand away and straightened my collar, expression returning to neutral: "Money brought me to this hellhole."
Adam smiled—a programmed expression devoid of warmth.
A black electronic contract materialized and slapped against my chest.
"Then sign this."
"Since it's about money, see it through. Stay. Pacify these six monsters. Or… I'll deliver you to the military's operating table right now."
Not really a choice.
I scanned the contract cover—Exclusive Agreement for Special Prisoner Psychological Counseling.
Fancy words for human tranquilizer.
"Deal." I pressed my fingerprint without hesitation: "But I treat conditions, not provide services."
"That's not up to you."
Adam turned away, gesturing for guards to drag the still-struggling Zane back to his cell.
Before leaving, he paused, profile hidden in shadow: "Tomorrow, 9 AM. Zane's heat cycle reaches full intensity. Either sleep with him or purify him physically. Your choice."
"Fail to cure him, and you'll die with him."
The reinforced blast door slammed shut.
Silence consumed the corridor.
I slumped against the wall, removing my glasses to massage my throbbing temples.
Fantastic. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
But even without my glasses, those crimson chat messages didn't disappear—they burned directly into my retinas like fresh brands!
This wasn't a glasses malfunction?
Before I could process this revelation, bold red text exploded across my vision:
[STREAMER BEWARE! DON'T TURN AROUND! SYRINGE IN THE DOOR GAP!]
Arctic cold shot up my spine.
Every muscle in my body went taut as I whipped around.
At the corridor's end, in the shadows behind a supply closet's cracked door, a bloodshot eye stared at the back of my neck.
A female nurse. She held a massive syringe still dripping clear fluid, mouth stretched into a grin that split from ear to ear.
"Doctor…" Her voice scraped like nails on a chalkboard: "Your turn."