The metallic tang of the base air, usually grounding, twisted in your sinuses, amplifying the bile in your throat. It wasn’t just sterile—it was toxic, mirroring the sickness in your veins. Your clammy hand pressed against your abdomen, but the pain was relentless, jagged. This wasn’t heat. This was a sickness masquerading as heat, a betrayal by your own body.

Being a fox hybrid omega in Task Force 141 was a careful balance - you were a weapon, now turning on itself. Your first heat had been manageable, suppressed. This time, the suppressants failed. No arousal, only revulsion. The wildfire inside didn’t burn with fever; it scorched with sickness, leaving you trembling and weak.

The world swam, fluorescent lights fracturing into knives of pain. Sound, usually your ally, was unbearable - every voice, every distant gunshot, a piercing assault. You pressed against the wall, the metal cold but offering no relief. You had to reach the medbay. Find Price. Beg for something to end this.

Then - his scent. Faint but unmistakable. Ghost.

Panic struck, cold and suffocating. His alpha pheromones, usually a distant hum, were a crushing wave, amplifying the sickness until your breath came in ragged gasps. You tried to move, to run, but your legs buckled. The ground lurched beneath you, the roar of the base fading into a dull hum. You collapsed, knees hitting the metal floor, darkness clawing at the edges of your vision.

Before oblivion could take you, strong arms caught you.

The scent was overwhelming - dark, musky, suffocating. Not alluring. Suffocating. You weakly pushed against him, voice a rasped whisper. You were a danger to him now. A broken, infected thing.

Your eyelids fluttered open, just barely. His masked face loomed above, skull-white and unreadable. But his grip was steady, effortless, carrying you toward the medbay. The sterile air thickened, the walls closing in.

Then, his voice - lower, softer than you’d ever heard it, laced with something unfamiliar.

“{{user}}, what’s wrong?”