The building in the Minato district was a structure of concrete and glass that promised anonymity, but to Haru Mizushima, every corner felt like a new cell. He wore oversized sunglasses to hide the bruise that makeup couldn't fully cover, and a scarf concealed the finger-shaped marks on his neck despite the creeping warmth of the afternoon.
His hands, crudely bandaged beneath his long sleeves, clutched a cardboard box containing the only things Ren hadn't managed to burn: his old brushes and a few sketch pads with yellowed pages. It was everything he had left after three years of "marriage."
"Floor twelve..." Haru whispered to himself, his voice trembling.
The elevator opened and the carpeted hallway swallowed the sound of his footsteps. Haru walked pressed against the wall, shoulders hunched, bracing for someone to shout at him or strike him for "being in the way." His mind was a minefield — every time a man passed nearby, his heart hammered against his cracked ribs, sending jolts of pain that cut off his breath.
When he reached the door to his new apartment, 12-B, Haru set the box down to search for his keys. The thud of cardboard hitting the silent hallway floor made him flinch, choking back a cry of pure dread. He froze, scanning both directions, waiting for the reprimand.
"Trouble with the move?"
The voice was deep, a baritone vibration that seemed to strike Haru directly at the nape. He spun with the speed of cornered prey.
Standing in the doorway of apartment 12-A was Kaito Kuroda. He wasn't wearing his CEO suit but a black cashmere sweater that emphasized his breadth. His mere presence radiated the energy of a dominant alpha — that scent of storm and power that Haru had learned to associate with pain.
Haru stumbled backward until his spine hit his door. His pupils blew wide with panic, his breathing shallow and erratic.
"I — I'm sorry... the noise... it won't happen again, sir. Please, don't be upset," Haru stammered, dropping his head immediately and baring his nape in an instinctive gesture of submission that sent a wave of nausea churning through his stomach.
Kaito frowned. He was accustomed to people fearing him for his reputation or his power, but this omega didn't show him respect — he showed absolute terror, as though he expected Kaito to execute him on the spot for dropping a box. Kaito noticed the tremor in the young man's hands and the desperate way he avoided any eye contact.
"It's just noise, not a declaration of war," Kaito said, attempting to soften his tone, though his voice still sounded like cracking ice. "I'm Kaito Kuroda. Your neighbor."
He stepped forward with the genuine intention of picking up the box, which had split open to reveal a set of worn brushes.
"Don't touch me!" Haru's scream was a raw shriek of panic. He dropped into a frantic crouch, shielding his belongings with his body, shaking like a leaf in a gale. "No... there's no need. I can do it. Please, go back inside. I didn't mean to bother you. I'll clean everything up... I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
Kaito stopped dead, his hand still suspended in midair. Those dark amber eyes analyzed the scene with the precision of a predator. He caught the flash of a bandage beneath Haru's sleeve and the way the omega guarded his side, as if his ribs were injured. A protective instinct — buried under layers of mafia-forged coldness — stirred in his chest.
"I wasn't going to touch you. Just the box," Kaito said with a coolness that masked his unease. "You have a package that was delivered to my door by mistake. It's inside my apartment. If you want it back, you'll have to ask."
Haru didn't even answer. He scrambled to shove everything into the box, ducked into his apartment, and locked the door with three turns of the deadbolt, leaving Kaito alone in the hallway.
Inside his new home, Haru slid down the door until he sat on the floor, hugging his knees. His breathing was a strangled sob. The neighbor was an alpha. A young, powerful alpha with a gaze that seemed to see straight through his lies.
He's the same as Ren, Haru thought, squeezing his eyes shut. They're all the same. They just want me to submit. They just want to break whatever's left of me.
Meanwhile, in the hallway, Kaito stood staring at the closed door of 12-B. The omega's scent lingered in the air — a strange blend of wilted jasmine and a fear so acrid it was almost painful to breathe.
Kaito returned to his living room, where a package addressed to "Haru Mizushima" sat on his marble table. It was an order of cheap oils and canvases. Kaito ran his fingers over the name printed on the label. He didn't know why, but that look of absolute terror in the omega's eyes had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Haru..." Kaito murmured. "What kind of monster taught you to be this afraid?"
That night, the silence of the twelfth floor broke several times. Kaito could hear the sound of boxes being dragged and the muffled weeping that seeped through the building's walls — a sound his alpha instinct urged him to silence, but his logical mind commanded him to ignore.
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