The hum of the air conditioner was low, and the room grew so quiet one could hear a pin drop. Their breathing slowed, lingering pheromones still filling the space, creating a weighty tension.
Bai Chunian sat on the carpet, staring at the pearl in his hand, lost in thought.
He remembered the first day he met Lan Bo—they had been lying on adjacent surgical beds. Bai Chunian recalled Lan Bo’s frailty, body tense, fingers clawing at the bed. His nails, like a cat’s claws, had even torn small holes in the surgical pads.
A nurse nearby selected tools, the surgical knife clinking against a tray with a chilling sound. Doctors and anesthesiologists spoke quietly amongst themselves.
Bai Chunian, detached, lay on his bed staring at the lights, shielding his eyes from the harsh glare with his hand.
The merfolk omega beside him shifted slightly, turning to study him, their deep, cold sapphire eyes locking.
It was rare for an omega to possess such a dominant, wild gaze. Researchers explained that he was a recently captured devilfish omega from the Caribbean. The research team had immediately brought him back from Honduras.
Omega glands were smaller than alphas’ in capacity. When energy overflowed, extra gland energy would cause cells to mimic evolution. Exceptional omegas could reach one-eighth mimic evolution, showing biological traits in ears, tails, paw pads, and other areas. The higher the mimicry, the stronger the glands.
The omega beside Bai Chunian had undergone a half (50%) mimic evolution.
The doctors finished their discussion, and the anesthesiologist casually remarked to Bai Chunian, “A beautiful omega, right?”
“Mm,” Bai Chunian agreed.
“He’s nervous,” the anesthesiologist added. “You know, after anesthesia, it won’t hurt. Calm him down a bit.”
Bai Chunian thought for a moment, then turned to his side and gently touched the merfolk’s fin.
Lan Bo wiggled away slightly. The fin Bai Chunian touched flushed red before returning to its original color. Many creatures change color with emotion; this fish seemed a little annoyed.
Bai Chunian released soothing pheromones, carrying a faint aroma of brandy, enveloping the merfolk. He extended a hand toward him.
The merfolk, now reassured, instinctively relaxed his fear and tentatively touched Bai Chunian’s fingers.
Between Lan Bo’s fingers grew a layer of translucent webbing. Amused, Bai Chunian gently poked it, then clasped his own fingers together to show Lan Bo, proudly demonstrating that he could do the same.
The merfolk stared at him blankly for a moment, then, with a snap of sharp teeth, tore the webbing between his fingers and intertwined his left hand with Bai Chunian’s.
His hands were cold, but not uncomfortably so—more like the crisp, early morning breeze around six or seven o’clock.
Bai Chunian had rarely seen the outside world. The only memory he had was the one time he went out of the lab with the senior researcher surnamed Bai. The cool wind brushed against him, and the old man told him it was early summer.
That senior researcher was a plump man in his sixties, always wearing a gold-rimmed pair of glasses hanging from the chest pocket of his lab coat, a miniature edition of Lan Bo’s Poetry Collection tucked into his pocket.
Sometimes, if experiments ended early, he would pull out the small book and read aloud. Bai Chunian would sit inside the isolation chamber, hands pressed against the glass, listening to the old man’s voice, old and scratchy like a misfiring hair dryer, recite:
“I have embraced the summer dawn.”
At that time, Bai Chunian thought this poet the old man favored was the epitome of romance. In his scarce moments of freedom, the poet represented all the beauty of the outside world that Bai Chunian could imagine.
Carefully, Bai Chunian cradled the merfolk in his arms, the icy body pressed against his chest.
“Lan Bo.”
That was the name he had given him.
Bai Chunian pulled the small paper packet containing the fish scales from his team uniform pocket, placed the pearl together with a few blue scales inside, folded it, and slipped it back into his pocket. He then sat by Lan Bo’s bed and lifted a corner of the blanket.
As expected, Lan Bo curled into a tight ball, motionless. Unlike before, his blue tail and fins had flushed bright red.
“That’s your fault—what gives you the right to turn red like that?” Bai Chunian lay down beside him, releasing calming pheromones.
He could not bear to think of the wound he had just seen, but the image of the jagged scar involuntarily surfaced in his mind. The stitch lines were numerous, clearly not done in a single session; the small, red, inflamed orifice contained a few pale ulcer spots. His alpha must have been reckless, charging in without care, completely lacking any gentleness.
Bai Chunian regretted bringing Lan Bo here. He should have listened to the guild head and entrusted him to the omega alliance specialists for a thorough check-up and treatment.
Under the soothing pheromones, Lan Bo gradually relaxed, his body opening up as his tail returned to a calm blue. As he slept, his body was soft, pliable, and easy to hold.
The air conditioning on the second floor was a bit chilly for Bai Chunian; goosebumps rose along his arms and neck. Still, he cradled the soft, sleeping fish in his arms, continuously releasing calming pheromones to help repair the fin he had accidentally damaged.
Lan Bo curled slightly, forehead resting against Bai Chunian’s chest, pale eyebrows furrowed. His eyelashes twitched occasionally, endearing yet unaware of the effect.
It wasn’t entirely his fault. Every time Bai Chunian met Lan Bo’s gaze, those deep, ocean-blue eyes sent an invisible jolt through his heart. Could any alpha resist the urge to touch him? Impossible—an alpha could not suppress the desire to reach out.
“When we get out… will you try to run again?” Bai Chunian lowered his head, pressing a kiss into Lan Bo’s fluffy golden hair. “I’ll keep you in my basement, come to see you every day, feed you… that way no one knows you’re here, and no one can take you away. Is that okay?”