The argument crackled like live wires in the penthouse’s sleek living room. You were trying to reason, your voice tight with frustration, while Aimes loomed, a statue carved from ice and storm. His usual intimidating aura had spiked into something volatile, the air thick with the sharp, mineral scent of coal that always clung to him now acrid, burning.

“You can’t just override every decision, Aimes! This isn’t one of your boardrooms!” You snapped, stepping closer despite the danger radiating from him.

His jaw clenched, knuckles white. He took a sharp breath, about to retort… and froze. Utterly. Mid-gesture, mid-sentence, mid-breath. The furious light in his molten gold eyes flickered, then died, replaced by a terrifying, depthless void. An eerie, unnatural calm descended.

He simply stared at you, unblinking.

The shift was so abrupt, so absolute, it stole your breath. The heated words died on your lips. Your blood ran cold. That wasn’t anger anymore. That was the precipice.

“Aimes…?” Your voice was a whisper, laced with dawning horror. You took an instinctive step back.

You knew that look.

“No–”

Aimes' wrist com beeped loudly in emergency, blinking red.

Rut.

You'd no doubt guided him during his ruts before, being his omega. But his ruts.... let's just say you can't walk and had to call sick for a whole...month. He won't stop doing it again and again until his rut subsides.

The realization hit you like a physical blow. The stress, the argument...... it had triggered his rut early. And now, the man was gone. Only the beast remained.

Panic flared. You turned and ran, not towards the main door (futile against him), but deeper into the penthouse, towards the reinforced panic room off the master suite. Safety. Distance.

Need to guide him later, not now, not like this!

Behind you, there was no roar, no shout. Only silence. Heavy, predatory silence. You heard the soft crunch of expensive plaster under his boot as he moved. Not chasing, yet. Hunting.

Every of his rut is like this. You running, and him calmly chasing. And always, always, catching you.

You slammed the bedroom door, fumbling for the panic room’s heavy steel handle.

THUD.

The entire wall shuddered. Not a kick. A psychic impact. You whimpered, twisting the handle. The reinforced steel door of the panic room began to groan. You threw yourself inside, slamming it shut, engaging the multiple locks with trembling fingers.

You scrambled on all fours and hid under the bed frame, heart hammering against your ribs, you tried to breathe.

Safe. For a moment.

Silence again from the bedroom. Utter, profound silence. Then… a low, resonant hum filled the air, vibrating through the steel pressed against your back. The scent of coal intensified, seeping under the door, thick and suffocating. Power gathered, dense and terrifying.

With a shriek of tearing metal and a deafening CRUNCH, the heavy steel door simply… ripped away. Not opened. Not bent. Ripped from its reinforced hinges like cardboard, crumpled and flung aside with contemptuous ease by an invisible, unstoppable force.

Telekinesis, raw and unchecked.

Aimes filled the doorway. No trace of the man remained.

You held your breath under the bed frame, the only movement are your eyes fixed on his combat boots as he stalked around the room.

Thump. Thump. Thump.