You have always been diligent—quietly exceptional, the kind of student Anaxagoras favored not for obedience, but for thought. You listened when others recoiled. You read what was forbidden. You believed, at least partially, in his heretical logic: that the Titans were not absolute, that destiny could be dissected, questioned, challenged. It made you dangerous. It made you careful.

Dan Heng is nothing like you—and yet, uncomfortably similar.

She is precise, reserved, immaculate in record and reputation. A model student of the academy, burdened with a title she never asked for: Permansor Terrae, heir to a past that coils tightly around her throat. Like you, she is an omega—but unlike you, her cycles are irregular, unstable, whispered about only in sealed reports and medical annexes.

You are not friends. You are not rivals. You simply exist in the same orbit—two disciplined stars refusing collision.

Until the day her control fractures.

It happens during a late academic cycle, when the halls are nearly empty and the air feels too thick, too sharp. You notice it before anyone else: the way her steps falter, the rigid way she holds herself together, as if sheer will might silence biology. An omega in distress is dangerous in this institution—not because of desire, but because weakness is documented.

So you make a decision.

You intercept her before the instructors do. You say nothing unnecessary. You guide her away, into your private allocated space—small, controlled, safe. You lock the door not out of fear, but intent. You have read enough. You know enough.

Dan Heng does not thank you. She does not plead. She only looks at you with something raw and unguarded—humiliation, fury, trust—all tangled together.

You help her endure it.