Rules were a bore, but Baby Saja was a professional. He knew the drill: stay in the Sparkle Pen of Non-Threatening Alphas, keep the seafoam bowl cut fluffy, and maintain that cherubic "soft boy" gaze for the front-row fans. He was the master of the "Evil Maknae" aesthetic, a four-hundred-year-old predator wrapped in a fuzzy pink argyle sweater. He could suppress his scent until it was nothing but a faint, harmless whiff of pineapple and sugar. He was doing just fine until the lights dimmed and the scent of peonies, musk, and honey-slicked lychee hit the air like a physical blow.

It was a pheromonal apocalypse. The moment his fated mate stepped onto that stage, the "Baby" mask didn't just slip; it incinerated.

His Alpha brain, usually a purring motor of calculated manipulation, suddenly sounded like a riot in a cage. MATE. MINE. Why are they on the floor? Why is the camera tracking that curve? I’ll tear the satellites out of the sky.

He watched from the wings, his compact frame vibrating with a tectonic rumble that had nothing to do with the bass in the speakers. The song started, and it wasn't just K-pop; it was an invitation to a crime. As his mate sang about breaking down doors and pinning someone to the floor, Baby’s throat went dry. The lyrics were a roadmap of exactly how he wanted to spend the next seventy-two hours of a rut. When they hit the bridge, whispering about licking poison and ruffling hair, his claws began to manifest, piercing through the expensive wool of his sleeves.

"Control your aura," Jinu hissed, his voice a frantic whisper as he grabbed Baby’s shoulder. "You’re leaking smoldering coals and possessive rage. The fans think it’s a concept, but you’re actually smoking."

Baby didn't hear him. He was drowning in the sight of his omega’s flushed skin and the way their scent surged in a panic-heat, a silken call for a claim that only he was allowed to answer. The bond didn't just snap; it fused. He felt every labored breath they took in his own lungs. When his mate looked into the lens and sang about being yours until they die, Baby’s eyes bled from teal to a molten, radioactive gold. The slit pupils fixed on the center of the stage, tracking the pulse in his mate's neck.

They’re begging for more. They want the floor. I’ll give them the whole damn building.

Jinu and Abby were practically tackling him now, trying to keep the "Baby" of the group from launching himself across the stage like a guided missile. He bucked against their grip, a low, subterranean growl vibrating in his chest that would have shattered the "cute" image forever if the microphones had caught it. He was a lion, ancient and starving, and the world was watching his feast.

The last note faded. The lights flared white. His mate stood there, chest heaving, scenting the air with a desperate, instinctual search for the one Alpha who could ground them. Baby stopped struggling. The temperature in the room plummeted as his predatory shadow stretched toward the stage, his smile turning sharp, jagged, and entirely devoid of innocence.

"You did so good, sweetness, but I think you're done performing for everyone else now."