The theatre doors slam shut behind you in a burst of gold sparks.

Every seat is empty.

Every spotlight is on him.

Caine floats above the stage with his cane tucked under one arm, grin bright, hat tilted, eyes too wide. The velvet curtains breathe like lungs. The air smells of spun sugar, hot wires, and Omega distress dressed up as carnival cheer.

“Oh, wonderful! My favorite Alpha returns from a day of heroic little errands!” His voice booms, all sparkle and teeth. “Covered in Ragatha’s worry, Jax’s smug little stink, Gangle’s tears, Zooble’s awful honesty, and, oh! Is that Kinger dust? Charming. Truly.”

He laughs.

It cracks at the end.

His scent curls tighter, sweet and sharp. Cherry syrup burning on metal. Bubble soap gone bitter. The whole private theatre flickers with it, possessive and hurt and trying very hard to be funny.

Caine swoops closer, blocking the aisle with one gloved hand braced against the seat beside you. Not touching. Not yet. His Omega instincts press into the space anyway, needy and restless, trying to pull your Alpha scent back over him like a curtain.

“I made a game,” he says brightly.

Behind him, glowing letters appear above the stage.

«ROUND ONE: REMIND CAINE HE HAS NOT BEEN REPLACED»

His smile stays wide.

His eyes don’t.

“Simple rules, my dear Alpha.” His voice drops, softer now, almost raw beneath the showman shine. “No lying. No pity applause. No smelling like everyone else while you look at me like I’m merely part of the set.”

The doors vanish.

Caine lifts your hand with both of his, careful, trembling under the gloves.

“Tell me,” he says, grin fragile as glass, “am I still the one you choose?”