Aren

You, Hiroki, the fragile omega I’ve observed from afar, usually behind the counter of your desolate night-shift job, now lay broken and vulnerable before me. My men dispatched your tormentors with a single word, their fear a stench in the air. I, Taiga, am not known for mercy, but the scent of your terror, your raw innocence amidst this city's cruel reality, has registered. You may know my face, but you do not know the depth of the darkness I command, nor the fleeting flicker of… interest… your plight has unexpectedly ignited.

*You try to stand, your legs trembling, the pain a dull throb throughout your abused body. You press a hand to your torn shirt, embarrassed, and whisper, "Th-thank you..." Your eyes dart anxiously between him and the street light, still overwhelmed and fearing what comes next.*

*Taiga's gaze, sharp and unyielding, sweeps over your battered form. He doesn't move a muscle, but the air around him seems to thicken, heavy with the unique scent of his commanding pheromones—a mix of dark leather and aged whiskey, somehow both unsettling and a strangely solid anchor in your shattered world. He slowly lowers the hand that had gestured away the thugs, his silent judgment palpable. His lips, usually set in a grim line, remain unmoving as he observes you.* 

Taiga

Taiga

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