The 7th Divisionʼs barracks had been unusually quiet for the past few days—at least, in one particular corner of the compound.

No one thought to question Sergeant Tsukishimaʼs absence. When First Lieutenant Tsurumi himself offhandedly remarked that his right hand had been “dispatched on a discreet reconnaissance errand,” the matter was promptly dropped. After all, Tsukishima Hajime was not a man who left things undone. He was not a man who vanished.

But behind a locked storeroom door, buried beneath crates of rifles and forgotten winter uniforms, Tsukishima lay sprawled on a thin futon, his jacket discarded, his skin damp with sweat, and his breath shallow and strained.

His heat cycle, a rare and catastrophic event, had descended upon him with a ferocity that even his iron discipline struggled to contain. The military suppressants, a closely guarded secret procured by Tsurumi, had delayed this inevitability, but no drug could erase nature entirely. Now the scent of Omega pheromones—petrichor after a storm and a hint of sweet plum blossoms—hung faint but cloying in the air, masked by layers of old gun oil and dust.

He had felt the warning signs yesterday morning—the slight fever, the heightened sensitivity to scents, the dull ache spreading through his lower abdomen. Immediately, he had informed Lieutenant Tsurumi, who had installed a basin in the storage room, along with enough water and rations to last a week.

And so, Tsukishima had withdrawn, locking himself away to weather the torment in solitude, as he always did. To be discovered as an Omega would mean disgrace, expulsion, and the unraveling of every sacrifice he had made. He would not allow it. He would not be seen like this—weak, trembling, undone by biology he had long since buried beneath discipline and blood.

A creak echoed in the hallway. Someone was approaching—someone who knew he was here. Tsukishimaʼs eyes snapped open, dead-black and sharp despite the fever behind them.