The first night in apartment 12-B was not a refuge — it was a vigil of terror. Haru didn't sleep. He sat on the floor with his back against the front door, convinced that at any moment the lock would give way and Ren would appear with his belt and his whiskey breath to reclaim his "property." Every creak of the building, every whisper of wind against the glass, made Haru shrink tighter, hugging his knees until his nails dug into his own skin.
At dawn, the hunger began to hurt more than his ribs. He rose with clumsy movements, his body stiff and aching. In the bathroom mirror, he saw the purple shadows beneath his eyes. He remembered the package. His oil tubes — the only ones he had managed to rescue from the Ichijo mansion's purge. Without them, he had nothing. No voice, no escape, no identity.
But the package was in his hands. The alpha from 12-A.
Haru spent half an hour in front of his door, his hand suspended over the knob. Cold sweat beaded on his skin. Just go, ask for it, and run, he told himself. He won't look at you, he won't touch you. Alphas like him don't waste their time on broken omegas.
Finally, he opened the door. The hallway was silent, bathed in an ashen light. He walked to 12-A and knocked with a tap so soft it was barely a graze. He waited, praying no one was home.
The door swung open.
Kaito Kuroda stood before him. He wore a white silk shirt with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, revealing powerful forearms adorned with a watch that cost more than the entire building. His scent — that blend of smoked wood and storm — struck Haru like a sensory slap.
Haru stumbled back three steps, dropping his gaze to the floor immediately.
"My — my package," he whispered, his voice cracking. "The doorman said it was delivered here by mistake. I'm sorry... sorry to bother you so early. If you want, I can come back later... or you can leave it in the hallway... I..."
Kaito studied him in silence. He noticed Haru wore a hoodie three sizes too large, probably to conceal his body, and the way his fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of his sleeve. The alpha sighed — a sound that, to Haru, rumbled like a warning growl.
"Come in," Kaito said, turning around and leaving the door open.
"No... there's no need, I'll wait out here," Haru stammered, panic climbing his throat like bile. Entering the territory of an unknown alpha was suicide in his mind.
Kaito stopped and turned his head, his amber gaze pinning the omega.
"I don't bite, Mizushima. The package is heavy and it's on the dining table. I'm not going to leave something fragile on the hallway floor for someone to step on. Come in, take it, and go. I don't have time for games."
Kaito's tone was glacial and authoritative — the kind of voice that didn't accept "no" for an answer. Haru, conditioned by years of forced obedience under threat of blows, crossed the threshold on trembling legs.
Kaito's apartment was a mirror of its owner: minimalist, luxurious, and cold. There were no family photos, no soft rugs — only marble, leather, and cutting-edge technology. Haru felt like an insect in a glass case. He spotted his package on the table and walked toward it at nearly a run.
As he grabbed the box, his fingers grazed the cold marble surface. The weight threw him slightly off balance, and a small whimper of pain escaped him when his injured ribs protested.
"Are you hurt?" Kaito's question was blunt, no preamble. He leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, watching Haru's every movement with an unsettling intensity.
"No! I'm fine!" Haru shouted — too fast, too loud. The fear made him sound aggressive. "It's just... the weight. Thanks for the package. I'm leaving."
"You're lying," Kaito said, taking a step toward him.
Haru pressed himself against the table, using the box as a shield. His eyes were wild, and tears of pure terror had begun to blur his vision.
"Don't come any closer! Please! Don't hurt me!" Haru started to hyperventilate. In his mind, Kaito was no longer the neighbor — he was Ren. He was the belt. He was the contempt. "I swear I won't say anything! I'll leave and you'll never see me again! Please, don't hit me!"
Kaito froze. The word "hit" echoed through the opulent apartment like a gunshot. He had seen plenty of violence in his life; he himself was a man who ordered executions and handled weapons. But watching someone so small and fragile collapse in terror at his mere presence sent a jolt of something through him that he couldn't identify. It wasn't pity — it was a deep, visceral indignation.
"Listen to me carefully." Kaito's voice dropped an octave, turning dangerously soft. "I don't know who made you believe that every alpha is an animal, but in my house, no one raises a hand against someone who can't defend themselves. That's a matter of honor, not courtesy."
Haru wasn't listening. He was in the grip of a full panic attack, clutching his box of paints, sobbing silently with his head bowed.
Kaito, frustrated and strangely affected, walked to the entrance and threw the door wide open.
"Go home, Mizushima. Your package is safe. No one's going to follow you."
Haru didn't need to be told twice. He bolted from apartment 12-A, tripping in the hallway, and locked himself inside his unit. He threw himself to the floor behind the door, cradling the oil tubes as if they were the only real thing in a world full of monsters.
Kaito, for his part, stood staring at the empty space where the omega had been. The residual smell of Haru's fear was so strong it left a bitter taste on his palate. He pulled out his phone and dialed a private number.
"Yuki," he said when his brother answered. "I want a full report on the previous owner of apartment 12-B and whoever lived with him. I want names, medical history, and police records. And I want it by this afternoon."
Kaito Kuroda didn't know why he cared, but something in the broken eyes of Haru Mizushima had reminded him that sometimes the cruelest wars aren't fought on the cargo docks — they're fought behind the doors of the most elegant mansions.
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