Whoever said that ignorance is bliss, hasn’t experienced it firsthand.
I’ve been stuck in the hospital for about a week. The doctors had yet to figure out how to fix my system.
Since the secondary gender had appeared just a couple of generations ago, there wasn’t much research on it. Let alone on a beta turned alpha and then turned dumb.
So I just had to sit there and accept all the tests and poking like I’m a lab rat. If they could, I’m sure they would have dissected me.
Luck on my part, Tom was there arguing, watching over me like a hawk.
"What’s this for?"
"It should stabilize the pheromones out."
"Are you sure? I want to see the paperwork."
"Sir, the more you waste our time, the worse his state will get."
"Last time I checked, you don’t need to suck him dry collecting blood samples just to stabilize the pheromones. I want the paperwork. "
The nurse puffed in frustration, giving the papers. Tom smiled sarcastically.
"This states that you only need a vial of blood."
"We were just trying to—"
"I’m not gonna condemn you for trying to get a study from this. It’s a unique way to win a Nobel. So this time you get away, but—"
Tom averted his gaze from the documents to look at the nurse. I never thought a beta could look this threatening while acting so polite.
But then again, Tom was a contradiction on two legs.
Well, one leg now.
The other one was quite too crushed to be functional yet.
"If you get near my client without the paperwork that I could verify for even the smallest IV, we’re gonna have a problem. I don’t enjoy picking on cute innocent girls, no matter how greedy they are."
The nurse gulped.
"But I’ll go after this hospital for not ensuring the safety of its patients and for overlooking such an obvious case of malpractice. And the greedy girl causing this would probably not even be hired as a nurse in a retirement house. You seem smart, honey. I’m sure you wouldn’t let the situation escalate like that."
With a shaking hand, the nurse hurried up to extract the blood needed. The trembling made the process rather painful, with the needle almost breaking the vein.
The blood flows into the tube slowly at first, then steadily.
She stares at it like it’s proof she can do this. Her shoulders loosen just a little, but her face doesn’t soften.
She keeps her lips pressed tight, corners turned down, that same sour look like she hates the whole thing.
When the last tube fills, she pulls the needle out quickly.
No warning.
The gauze slaps down roughly, and her fingers press harder than they need to. She tapes it in place with one strip, then another, like overkill.
The tray clatters when she drops the needle in.
She peels the gloves off fast, one snap, then the other. Her hands are still shaking.
She exits the room in a rush with the tray.
Tom mumbles under his breath, rather amused at the whole scene:
"Thank you, darling."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Oh? You can talk? How are you feeling?"
"Sleepy. My head throbbs."
"I’d say. Your brain is shrinking as we talk. Well, it gets smoother and smoother rather than getting smaller."
"What does that mean?"
"That in a few days you’ll be as functional as a newborn. And I don’t only mean that you’ll wet the bed. It might be irreversible."
But I am thinking straight. My thought process hasn’t been affected. I’m just having trouble expressing myself.
"I’m fine. I can think."
"Sure you can, bud. It’s actually pretty smart that you believe that. Positive thinking showed good results in the treatment of disease. Not to the point of curing them, but a smiling dying man is far less annoying than a whiny one, right?"
B-stard.
"I can think."
"Wow, buddy, let’s not jump at each other’s throats. You can think now. But in a few days, you won’t."
"I can think!"
Tom arched his brow. Guess my yelling made him rather entertained enough.
"You can think."
I nodded.
"You mean you can process like before?"
"Yes."
"But you have trouble expressing yourself?"
"Mhm."
"Let’s test it before these hyenas come over to suggest a dissection yet again. Nod if you confirm."
I nodded.
"You got adopted by the Prime Minister in the hope that, once he passes away, you will inherit his wealth."
I shook my head.
No.
"Then you did it in the hopes you would get Luther safe and on the run with you."
I nodded.
"I need something more to be convinced. You were behind Luther’s kidnapping."
I raised my brows. How could he know?
"Is that a yes or a no?"
I reluctantly nodded.
"Does Luther know?"
Another nod.
"My God. Poor Luther. Having such a fun life must have exhausted him."
What was he going on about?
Tom starts laughing.
It’s sharp and sudden, breaking the quiet of the room.
At first, it sounds like he’s amused, but then it turns rough, deeper, and keeps going. It’s not right. There’s no pause for breath. It’s like something unhinged, steady and climbing.
My chest tightens.
What in the world can be this amusing?
He leans back slightly, head tilting just enough for the light to catch his hair. It’s redder. Not bright, but deep, heavy red, cut uneven and sharp around his face.
A wolf cut, messy but deliberate.
The color makes him look different, sharper.
His eyes lock on me.
They don’t look like they used to. There’s a glow, faint but there, something in the way the pupils hold. They look teal.
My stomach knots.
I shift in the chair without meaning to.
The movement makes the air feel heavier.
There’s a smell. Rain first, like wet pavement, cold and clean, then something harsh under it. Gasoline. It clings faint in the back of my throat. I breathe out hard, trying to clear it, and it’s gone.
Maybe I imagined it.
My pulse spikes fast. A wave hits me before I can brace. Heat runs under my skin, deep and sudden, starting at the base of my spine and shooting up.
My chest lurches, like something grabbed it from the inside.
My heart rate explodes.
It’s too fast, pounding so hard I feel it in my throat.
The room spins.
My fingers twitch against the armrest, clenching tight. It’s another shock, worse than the last one. My breath cuts short and won’t come back right. Heat burns through me like fever. My ribs ache from the force of my heart slamming against them. My knees want to lock, but I’m already seated, muscles jerking without control.
A sound tears from my throat, not loud, but enough. It must be enough because the door crashes open.
Two nurses rush in, their shoes slapping the floor hard. A third follows fast behind. I catch flashes—white scrubs, gloves snapping on, trays rattling.
Tom’s laugh stops like someone killed the sound.
His face shifts instantly.
Worry spreads across his expression, perfect, sharp.
His brows pull down, his mouth tightens, eyes wide now like he just realized something’s wrong.
He steps back quick, hands up slightly like he doesn’t want to get in the way.
I can’t hold my head up.
It falls forward, then jerks sideways as one of the nurses grabs my shoulders. Hands grip me tight, pushing me flat.
Cold against my back when they lower the bed fast.
The ceiling blurs. Lights smear into white streaks.
Something presses hard against my sternum. Sharp pain radiates through my chest.
CPR.
My ribs shift with each push, bone grinding faint under the force.
Air shoves into my lungs in bursts, then leaves again.
My throat tastes like copper.
Another set of hands opens my jaw wide.
Plastic slides in, something hard forcing space in my airway.
My body bucks weak against the pressure.
A voice is near, low and clipped, calling for equipment. Feet pound the floor, rushing out, rushing back. Metal clinks near my ear.
My vision cuts in and out.
Tom stays at the edge of it, a red blur against white walls.
His posture is perfect concern—still, tense, like he’s holding himself from coming closer. His eyes stay locked on me. They’re bright. Too bright.
Even with everything fading, I see that color, teal burning through.
The nurses work faster.
Pads stick to my chest, cold gel smeared quick.
A machine beeps sharp and steady, marking each second I can’t feel.
The sound drills through the ringing in my ears.
Someone presses a button.
My body jerks hard when the current hits.
Heat flashes under my skin, muscles snapping tight, then nothing but weight.
I gasp once when air slams back into me.
It’s reflex, not choice.
Another push on my chest follows. I feel the edge of the table under my elbow.
Plastic tubes brush my cheek.
Liquid drips into a line taped hard against my arm.
The scent of rain is back.
Stronger now, heavy enough to burn into my head.
Gasoline too, sharp and raw like exhaust, mixing with antiseptic and latex.
It cuts through everything. My stomach flips. I try to swallow, but my throat won’t move.
A nurse lifts my eyelid.
A light flashes against my retina. It burns for a second, then fades into black at the edges.
My pulse crashes again.
I hear the machine scream long and flat.
Hands slam back into my chest, driving deep. My ribs protest.
Pain sparks like fire, bright, sharp, then distant.
Tom steps closer now.
Just one step.
Enough that I see his jaw tighten, teeth clench, hands curl against his sides.
His face doesn’t move otherwise. He looks perfect. Concern locked in place like a mask that can’t slip.
But his eyes don’t match. They’re alive, wild under the teal shine.
Watching every move.
Another shock hits.
My body convulses, heels lifting off the table.
The sound in the room shatters—machines, quick orders, trays snapping open. Cloth rips near my shoulder.
A nurse presses hard on a vein, sliding another line in, fluid rushing cold into me.
Breath claws back in short bursts.
Weak.
Barely there.
My head tilts sideways.
Vision splits, blurs, cuts out again. I catch one more image before it fades—Tom’s outline, still and sharp, hair red as blood under the sterile lights, eyes fixed on me without a blink.
The scent doesn’t leave.
Rain and gasoline fill the room like it belongs here.
Am I the only one feeling it?
My pulse stutters, then stops again.
Hands press harder.
Voices rise, urgent, clipped, and fast.
The shock comes back, ripping through me like the first one, bones rattling under the weight of it.
My chest heaves once, twice, then stills.
Sound collapses into a dull throb.
Light folds in from the edges.
Tom moves closer again.
Close enough that when my eyes fight to open, the first thing they find is teal staring down at me, unblinking, steady, too sharp for human calm.
His mouth moves, but I can’t hear a thing.
Everything goes black.
It was him all along.