He found an inconspicuous little inn and asked the price—seventy for one night.
Still affordable.
Sometimes Yan Yi couldn’t help but feel it was unfair. All the other omegas serving Lu Shangjin received luxury cars, villas, and endless funds. Why did he get nothing?
Lu Shangjin allowed him to buy anything, but would never give him even a tiny amount of property. Even things that seemed expensive were trivial to Lu Shangjin, completely disregarded.
This nameless street inn had lax management—pay the fee, and you could stay, no ID required. His ID still boldly displayed in purple: “Omega Lop-Eared Rabbit A3.”
Ordinary people looked at awakened glandular omegas with envy and admiration, much like teachers giving praise and privileges to good students.
For J1-differentiated alphas, people were reverent, respecting their innate power and limitless potential.
If one encountered an M2-differentiated alpha, no one would dare offend them. Second-stage differentiation—whether alpha or omega—usually had entire families providing resources. Second-stage development required rare pheromones as catalysts; some rare individuals might naturally evolve. Most J1-differentiated glands required hundreds or thousands of rare pheromones to artificially stimulate evolution, forming the top 1% of the pyramid.
A3-differentiated glands, however, drew attention in a different way. People didn’t revere them; they flocked to observe, shocked and curious as if witnessing a living dinosaur, taking photos and posting online. By morning, the whole world would know that a rare A3 gland had appeared in a certain country, province, or city.
So far, only a few elite operatives in classified records were A3.
National privacy protection policies for gland types were still insufficient, printing the gland grade directly on IDs.
Gland hunters emerged, seeking high-level omegas for powerful families—kidnapping or transplanting them to breed superior offspring.
Rarely would high-level omegas voluntarily undergo transplantation—the match might fail, and their bodies might not withstand such strong glands. To avoid accidents, families often chose the safer route: imprisoning them as reproductive tools.
The weather this year was abnormal; in April, it was still a late cold snap. The little inn had no floor heating. Yan Yi piled soft blankets and pillows into a small nest and dragged the electric heater close, warming his back.
He hadn’t forgotten to retrieve his phone from the cupboard before leaving. In case Lu Shangjin called, he could still answer.
He absentmindedly scrolled through his phone, switching between apps without purpose. Though sleepy, he couldn’t put it down—subconsciously waiting for a reason to fall asleep peacefully.
He looked at his text messages, seeing his contact for Lu Shangjin saved as “Jin-ge.”
It used to be “Dear,” but one night in a fit of temper, he had changed it.
He scrolled back through countless messages, never deleting any, passing through the icy lines of “Come to my office,” “Not coming home tonight,” until he reached one: “Goodnight, baby.”
His heart quivered slightly, as if brushed by the willow catkins of early spring.
Each message above this one brought a small, involuntary smile.
——January 23, 2011——
Jin-ge: “Today the company was too busy. I didn’t finish everything. Wait for me; I’ll be back before ten. If you’re sleepy, sleep first. I’ll hold you when I get back.”
Yan Yi: “I want to wait… I want a kiss on my ear.”
Jin-ge: “Okay, kiss your ear, kiss your little feet.”
Yan Yi: “Hug me, brother qaq”
——February 16, 2011——
Jin-ge: “Yan Yan, I miss you. Big dinner tonight.”
Yan Yi: “What do you want to eat? I’ll prepare it.”
Jin-ge: “No need, I’ll take you out. You don’t really have any favorite food; I’ll pick anything, and you’ll like it.”
Yan Yi: “Because I like the food you pick…”
Jin-ge: “Tomorrow is the Lantern Festival. Buy some yuanxiao to feed me, the small ones the size of beans, feed me one by one.”
Yan Yi: “No, we’ll eat half each with our mouths.”
Jin-ge: “Hard. When we get home, I’ll do it.”
Yan Yi: “Clean little rabbit waiting under the covers for you ??ω??｀).”
——September 25, 2012——
Jin-ge: “I’ll kill him sooner or later.”
No reply. At the time, Yan Yi hurried to find Lu Shangjin, injured and weak, leaning against a wall. He asked, but got no answer.
——September 30, 2012——
Jin-ge: “Goodnight, baby.”
——
By 2016, they had broken up.
——
Yan Yi scrolled through the old messages, covering his mouth, tears slipping through his fingers onto the pillow. Over the years, he had switched phones, yet each time carefully imported these precious conversations.
How did it come to this? A love he thought would last a lifetime, so effortlessly overturned?
He had tolerated Lu Shangjin’s arrogance and cold indifference, clinging to the sweetness of the past. He didn’t want this changed Lu Shangjin; he had changed, no longer the domineering yet gentle Jin-ge he remembered.
He zoned out, dialing the number he knew by heart.
The call was answered faster than he expected.
“Yan Yi.” Lu Shangjin’s tone was cold, tinged with irritation. “Come back before I locate you using my differentiation ability. Otherwise, don’t ever come back.”
The peregrine M2 alpha’s tracking ability meant no matter how far the little rabbit ran, he could bring him back.
Yan Yi held the phone dearly, curling up, tears glistening on trembling lashes, voice choked with grief:
“Jin-ge… why… why don’t you love me anymore?” He hadn’t cried like this in years, utterly defeated.
“I’ve always been obedient. If it’s because I went to the club, I’m sorry, I was wrong, please don’t abandon me… so long… haven’t you forgiven me? I was wrong, okay? How can I make it right? Please tell me…” Half his voice was muffled by sobs as he hid his face in his arms, returning to a childlike state, unsure and scared, crying uncontrollably.
The other party was silent for a few seconds, about to speak when an assistant interrupted: “Sir, this is a call from Mr. Xia.”
The call ended.
The last flicker of light in Yan Yi’s eyes vanished with the busy tone.
——
Lu Shangjin impatiently took the assistant’s phone, forcing himself to remain calm: “Mr. Xia.”
“Have you been looking at a hamster omega recently?” Mr. Xia asked.
“Yes,” Lu Shangjin replied coldly. “I like it very much. But recently it fell ill; it’s under care.”
The omega was confined in a special care ward for gland transplantation surgery.
Mr. Xia chuckled: “Someone accidentally showed a photo of your little hamster to Bi Rui Jing. He liked it a lot. You’re not planning to compete with him, right? Everyone knows that arrow-poison-wood alpha is tricky. Besides, don’t you already have a wife?”
Lu Shangjin exhaled: “I think that photo was deliberately shown to Bi Rui Jing by you.”
The other party tutted: “Not at all.”
——
Yan Yi lay quietly in his blanket nest, afraid to turn off the light, but also afraid of brightness, so he covered his ears with his lop ears.
He didn’t know how to give birth to a little rabbit. Before, with Lu Shangjin, they always used protection, and cross-species conception was rare. He had never been pregnant.
Lu Shangjin had never mentioned wanting children, perhaps he just didn’t like the idea.
Yan Yi tried for a while but felt nothing. Perhaps it wasn’t time yet; it would take longer for a little rabbit to grow.
Then the phone rang.
He jumped, clutching his racing heart, frozen before finally answering. He admitted he held a thread of hope to hear something, anything that might comfort him.
Lu Shangjin’s flat, unflinching tone only made Yan Yi feel colder.
“Last time I ask, will you have the surgery or not?”
Yan Yi fiddled with the pillow zipper: “Not now… next year… I’ll do it next year.”
Lu Shangjin snorted lightly: “Why?”
Yan Yi hesitated, afraid Lu Shangjin didn’t want children. If it were an alpha, the Lu family might take it as an heir; if not, he risked losing the protective power his A3 glands granted, unable to shield the child.
Lu Shangjin’s authority in Yan Yi’s mind had fallen below passing. He began to doubt whether changing glands would even earn Lu Shangjin’s protection.
Lu Shangjin ground his teeth: “Do as you like. Whatever you want, go ahead.”
Author’s note: I originally planned to set their timeline a few years ahead, but feedback suggested it could confuse readers. I adjusted the timeline to align with the present year, making it easier to follow.