Hojicha tea and sesame. Euan.
I couldn't smell them, usually. I was scent-blind. It was my armor. My medical guarantee that I could exist in this industry without losing my mind.
But right now, my brain didn't seem to care that I was scent-blind. Instead all of their scents were suddenly there and strong.
A cramp seized me, hard enough to make me double over, forehead pressing against the fader bank. It wasn't just a cramp. It was a biological imperative screaming to be answered. A spike. A suppressant failure. A "suppressant wobble," the doctors called it politely.
In the real world, it felt like being doused in gasoline and waiting for a match.
Not here. Not now.
"Z?" Kit’s voice this time. Sharper. "She’s down. She’s on the desk."
"Movement," Euan said. I heard the click of a mic stand being set down. "Stage left."
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the heat haze.
They would come. They were Alphas. It was instinct. They would smell the distress, a spike in Omega pheromones akin to a flare gun in a dark room, and they would rush the booth. They would crowd me. They would surround me with their overwhelming, high-voltage presence, touching, soothing, "caretaking" with that suffocating arrogance that saidI know what your body needs better than you do.
I tried to push myself up. My legs felt like water.
"Don't," I whispered to the empty air. "Don't come here."
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact. For the heavy hands on my shoulders. For the voices dropping into that patronizing, possessive rumble.We’ve got you, pet. Just breathe. Let us handle it.
I braced for the invasion.
I waited.
And waited.
The sound of boots on the venue floor stopped.
Silence hung heavy in the massive room, broken only by the hum of the PA system.
I forced my eyes open.
The stage was empty.
Alfie, Kit, Euan. Gone.
I turned my head, neck stiff and aching with heat, to look at the tech wing. Cal was usually there, hovering with tea.
Gone.
I was alone in the venue bowl.
The doors to the backstage corridor stood wide open. I could see the light spilling from them. But the threshold was empty. No shadows crossing it. No silhouettes looming.
The silence wasn't rejection. It was... space. A vast, sudden vacuum of space created instantly, violently, for me.
Click.
The talkback system engaged. Not the booming main PA, but the near-field monitors right at my ears. The intimacy of it made me flinch.
"Status check," Alfie’s voice said.
But it wasn't his stage voice. It wasn't the "Alfie Riot" projection that commanded crowds of thousands. It was soft. Husky. The Yorkshire vowels flattened out, stripped of performance. It sounded like he was speaking with his forehead pressed against a wall, fighting for control.
