St Mary's private school [Alltake]
9
The days blurred together after that.
Takemichi fell into a rhythm—wake in Mikey's room, eat the breakfast that appeared like clockwork, teach his classes, return to the room, sleep. Repeat. The monotony was almost comforting. Almost.
He hadn't seen Mikey in nearly a week. Student council business, the guards said. Izana was still recovering from whatever Mikey had done to him. Draken hadn't appeared since the garden. Hina's stolen shirt and hungry eyes haunted his dreams, but in waking hours, she was nowhere to be found.
Good.
Takemichi didn't have the strength to face any of them. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
So he taught.
His classroom had become a battlefield of small cruelties.
The students no longer bothered with outright mockery—that was too obvious, too easy. Instead, they'd perfected the art of subtle torment. Whispered comments that fell silent the moment he looked their way. Notes passed that he knew were about him but could never prove. Assignments "accidentally" lost, questions "innocently" designed to expose his ignorance, smiles that held nothing but contempt behind pretty faces.
Takemichi endured it all.
He'd learned, in his weeks at St. Mary's, that fighting back only made things worse. So he stood at the front of the room, his broken arm still in its sling, his bruised face slowly healing, and taught ethics to students who had none.
Ethics. The irony never escaped him.
The deaths continued.
Takemichi saw them now with terrible regularity. Bodies being dragged across the gardens, students glancing and looking away, blood being scrubbed from stones by servants in black collars who moved like ghosts. He'd learned to identify the signs—a sudden hush in the hallways, a cluster of students gathered around something he couldn't see, the distant sound of footsteps too measured to be casual.
Omega's End, mostly. Sometimes alphas who'd pushed too far in their games. Occasionally a beta who'd somehow gotten caught in the crossfire.
The first few times, Takemichi had vomited. Had cried. Had curled into himself and wished for death.
Now he just felt... empty.
Not numb—there was a difference. Numb meant feeling nothing. Empty meant feeling the absence of something that should be there. A hollow space where hope used to live.
He walked past a body being dragged across the courtyard—a girl, this time, her white collar stained red, her eyes open and staring at nothing—and felt his stomach clench but didn't stop. Didn't react. Just kept walking, because stopping meant acknowledging, and acknowledging meant breaking, and he couldn't break.
Not yet.
Not ever, if he could help it.
It was a Tuesday when everything changed.
Takemichi was crossing the east courtyard, heading to his afternoon class, when he heard it—a crash, a curse, and then a sharp cry of pain.
His feet moved before his brain could stop them.
Behind the old gymnasium, tucked away where no one would normally look, a figure lay crumpled against the wall. Tall, slim, with sunflower-blonde hair that caught the afternoon light. He was wearing high heels—ridiculous footwear for a student, but somehow fitting for someone with his elegant bearing. His face was turned away, but Takemichi could see the burn scar that covered half his profile, a dark mark against pale skin.
Inui Seishu.
The name surfaced from the game's depths. One of the Black Dragon leaders. Loyal to Kokonoi, devoted to those he trusted, fierce in battle and quiet in peace. In the game, he'd been a side character—dangerous, but manageable if you knew how to handle him.
But this wasn't the game.
And Seishu was clearly hurt.
Takemichi rushed forward, his broken arm swinging painfully, his good hand reaching out. "Hey—are you okay? What happened?"
Seishu's head snapped toward him, and Takemichi got his first clear look at those eyes. Dark emerald, sharp as broken glass, burning with an intensity that made him stumble back.
"Don't touch me." The words were ice. "Leave."
Takemichi should have left. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, to pretend he'd seen nothing. This was an alpha—a dangerous one—and Takemichi was just an omega with a broken arm and a locked collar and no one to protect him.
But Seishu was bleeding. A cut on his forehead, nothing serious, but blood was streaming down his face, mixing with the scar tissue, making him look like something from a nightmare.
And Takemichi was a teacher.
"I'm not leaving," he said, and his voice was steadier than he felt. "You're a student. I'm a teacher. That means I have to help you." He knelt beside Seishu, ignoring the way those emerald eyes narrowed. "Let me see your head."
"I said leave." Seishu's voice was flat, dangerous. "You don't know what you're doing. You don't know who I am."
"I know who you are." Takemichi pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—one of the few things he owned that wasn't a gift from someone who wanted to own him—and pressed it gently to the cut. "You're Inui Seishu. Former leader of the Black Dragon. Loyal to Kokonoi Hajime. And right now, you're bleeding, and I'm helping you whether you like it or not."
Seishu went completely still.
For a long, terrible moment, neither of them moved. Takemichi could feel the alpha's eyes on him, could feel the weight of that emerald gaze, could feel something shifting in the air between them.
Then Seishu laughed.
It started small—a quiet chuckle, almost hidden—and grew into something else. Something sharp and wild and absolutely terrifying. His face twisted into a grin that was too wide, too hungry, too wrong, and Takemichi felt his blood run cold.
"You," Seishu breathed, and his voice had changed—lower, rougher, edged with something that made Takemichi's omega instincts scream. "You're the teacher. The one everyone's fighting over. The one with the chocolate mint scent."
Takemichi's hand, still pressing the handkerchief to Seishu's forehead, began to tremble. "I—yes. That's me."
Seishu's grin widened, and for a moment, his face was pure nightmare—beautiful and broken and utterly inhuman. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Replaced by a neutral expression, calm and controlled, as if the monster had never appeared.
"You have a scent," Seishu said quietly. "A real scent. Not like the others."
Takemichi blinked, confused by the non sequitur. "What do you mean?"
Seishu's eyes—dark emerald, sharp as glass—studied him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "Most alphas and omegas in this place... they don't have real scents. Not anymore. The pressure, the claims, the constant dominance games—it burns out their scent glands. Makes them smell like nothing. Like paper. Like dust." He inhaled deeply, and something flickered in those green depths. "But you... you smell like chocolate mint. Clean. Fresh. Untouched by all of this." His lips curved—not the nightmare grin from before, but something almost wondering. "I didn't think real scents existed anymore."
Takemichi's heart hammered. "I don't understand."
"No. You wouldn't." Seishu reached up and removed Takemichi's hand—the one holding the handkerchief—but didn't let go. His fingers wrapped around Takemichi's wrist, cool and firm. "It means you're special. Rarer than you know. And in this place, special things get..." He paused, those emerald eyes searching Takemichi's face. "Noticed."
The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.
Takemichi tried to pull away. "I should go. My class—"
"Your class can wait." Seishu's grip tightened, just enough to hurt. "I want to know more about you."
"I don't—I'm not—"
Seishu's other hand moved fast—faster than Takemichi could track—and pressed against the side of his neck. Right where the scent gland pulsed beneath the skin. Takemichi gasped, his body reacting before his mind could catch up, a wave of heat washing through him.
"So responsive," Seishu murmured, his eyes half-closing. "So real. I could drown in this smell."
Takemichi's vision was swimming. The touch on his scent gland was doing something to him—something his omega instincts couldn't fight. His knees buckled. His breath came in short gasps. He was collapsing, falling, and Seishu was catching him, pulling him close, pressing his face against that spot on Takemichi's neck.
"Mine," Seishu whispered against his skin. "I think... I think I want to keep you."
The last thing Takemichi felt was a sharp pressure on the back of his neck—a hit, precise and practiced—and then darkness swallowed him whole.
He woke to concrete beneath his cheek and the smell of dust and old blood.
Takemichi's eyes opened slowly, his head pounding, his vision blurry. He was lying on a cold floor—basement, maybe, or some kind of underground room. Dim light filtered from somewhere above, casting long shadows across the space.
And he wasn't alone.
"You're awake."
The voice came from his left—calm, measured, almost bored. Takemichi turned his head and saw a figure sitting in the shadows. Tall, lean, with black hair styled in a death hawk that flowed wildly on one side while the other was shaved clean. A golden earring dangled from his right earlobe, catching what little light there was. His eyes—dark, piercing, intelligent—studied Takemichi with clinical interest.
Kokonoi Hajime.
The name surfaced through the fog of pain. The genius financier. The one who saw the world as a series of calculations. In the game, he'd been dangerous in a different way—not with violence, but with strategy. With patience. With the ability to wait and watch and strike when the moment was right.
And now Takemichi was in his territory.
Before he could respond, another figure loomed into view. Tall—impossibly tall—with long blue hair streaked with white, pulled back from a face that was all sharp angles and burning yellow eyes. His build was massive, muscular, the kind of body built for violence. A tribal tattoo curled up the left side of his neck, disappearing into the collar of a red uniform jacket that hung open to reveal more ink on his chest.
Taiju Shiba.
Takemichi's blood turned to ice.
Taiju Shiba. In the otome game community, he was legendary—not for romance, but for horror. His route was infamous. The most abusive character in a game full of abusers. Players who pursued him reported endings that made them sick, that haunted their dreams, that they wished they could unsee. Beatings that went too far. Psychological torture that broke the player character completely. And the worst ending—the one that had been censored in some countries—involved being kept as a "pet" in his basement, broken and compliant, existing only to serve his whims.
And now Taiju was looking at him. Those yellow eyes, bright as a predator's in the dim light, studying him like he was something interesting. Something worth keeping.
"Seishu," Taiju said, his voice a low rumble. "Explain."
Seishu appeared from the shadows, his high heels clicking against the concrete. He stood beside Takemichi's prone form, looking down at him with an expression that was hard to read. "I found him. In the courtyard. He tried to help me."
"Help you." Kokonoi's voice was dry. "By touching you. By pressing a handkerchief to your bleeding head." He tilted his head, those dark eyes sharp. "That's very... trusting for an omega in this place."
Takemichi's voice finally found him—a croak, barely audible. "Please. I don't know what you want. I don't know why I'm here. Just let me go and I won't tell anyone—"
"Tell anyone?" Taiju laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that held no humor. "Tell anyone what? That you were brought to the Black Dragon base? That you met its leaders?" He crouched beside Takemichi, and even crouching, he was massive, his presence overwhelming. "Who would you tell, little omega? Manjiro? Izana?" His yellow eyes glittered. "They're the reason you're here."
Takemichi's heart stuttered. "What?"
Seishu spoke quietly. "Your scent. It's real. Untouched by all the claiming and the games." He glanced at Taiju. "I thought... I thought he might be useful. For us."
Kokonoi rose from his seat and approached, his movements fluid, economical. He circled Takemichi slowly, those dark eyes missing nothing. "A real scent," he murmured. "I've heard rumors, but I never thought—" He stopped behind Takemichi, close enough that Takemichi could feel his presence. "Let me see."
Hands—Kokonoi's hands—pushed aside the collar of Takemichi's shirt, exposing the back of his neck. The scent gland, vulnerable and exposed.
Takemichi tried to struggle, tried to pull away, but Seishu's hand pressed down on his shoulder, holding him in place.
"Please," he gasped. "Don't—"
"Shh." Kokonoi's voice was soft, almost gentle. "This won't hurt. Much."
Warm breath against his neck. Then—teeth.
Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to mark. Hard enough to leave an impression. Kokonoi's mouth pressed against his scent gland, holding there for a long, terrible moment, and Takemichi felt his omega response surge—heat, submission, the overwhelming urge to surrender.
When Kokonoi pulled back, his voice was different. Rougher. Hungrier. "He's real. Gods, he's so real."
Seishu was next.
His mouth found the same spot—that vulnerable curve where neck met shoulder—and bit down harder than Kokonoi had. Takemichi cried out, his body arching, his vision whiting out. The pain was sharp, specific, and beneath it, something else. Something that felt like bonding. Like claiming. Like becoming theirs.
When Seishu released him, there were tears streaming down Takemichi's face. He couldn't stop them. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything except lie there, broken and marked, and wait for whatever came next.
Taiju's turn.
Those yellow eyes met Takemichi's for a long moment before he leaned down. His mouth was hot, his teeth sharper than the others, and when he bit down, Takemichi screamed.
Not from pain—though that was bad enough. But from what the bite triggered. A wave of submission so complete, so overwhelming, that he felt himself slipping away, felt his consciousness fragmenting, felt the last shreds of his resistance crumble.
When Taiju finally released him, Takemichi was barely aware of anything. Just the cold concrete beneath him, the three marks burning on his neck, and the sound of voices discussing him like he wasn't there.
"Three marks," Kokonoi said. "That's enough to establish a claim. Enough to make him ours."
"The others won't like it," Seishu observed. "Manjiro. Izana. They'll come looking."
"Let them." Taiju's voice was absolute. "Let them come. Let them see what we've made. Let them try to take what's ours."
"He's not yours." The words escaped before Takemichi could stop them—a whisper, barely audible, but defiant. "I'm not anyone's. I'm just—I'm just me."
Silence.
Then Taiju laughed—that same deep, humorless sound. "Just you," he repeated. "Just an omega with a real scent. Just a teacher who tried to help a stranger. Just a man who doesn't know how rare he is." He reached down and, with surprising gentleness, lifted Takemichi from the floor. "You're coming with me."
Kokonoi stepped forward, his expression sharp. "Taiju. That's not—"
"He's coming with me." Taiju's voice allowed no argument. "To my quarters. Where he'll be safe."
"Safe?" Seishu's voice was incredulous. "With you? The man who—"
"With me." Taiju cut him off, those yellow eyes flashing. "I won't hurt him. Not like that." He looked down at Takemichi—limp in his arms, barely conscious, tears still wet on his cheeks. "He's too rare to break. Too precious to damage." His voice dropped. "I'll keep him. Protect him. Make him understand that being mine isn't the worst thing that could happen to him."
Kokonoi and Seishu exchanged glances. There was a whole conversation in that look—worry, resignation, understanding.
"Three days," Kokonoi said finally. "If he's not... adjusted by then, we reassess."
Taiju nodded once. "Three days."
He carried Takemichi out of the basement, up a flight of stairs, through hallways that blurred together. Takemichi's eyes kept closing, kept opening, kept closing again. The marks on his neck throbbed with every heartbeat.
They entered a room—large, dimly lit, furnished with expensive things. A bed. A desk. A cross on the wall, lit by a single candle.
Taiju laid Takemichi on the bed with surprising gentleness. Pulled a blanket over him. Sat in a chair beside him, those yellow eyes never leaving his face.
"Sleep," he said quietly. "We'll talk when you wake."
Takemichi wanted to fight. Wanted to run. Wanted to do anything but lie here, claimed and marked and helpless, waiting for the monster to reveal its true face.
But his body had other ideas.
The darkness took him.
He woke to candlelight and silence.
For a long moment, Takemichi didn't move. Just lay on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to remember where he was and how he'd gotten there.
Then the memories crashed in. Seishu's grin. Kokonoi's bite. Taiju's yellow eyes. Three marks on his neck, burning with every heartbeat.
He sat up too fast, his head spinning, his broken arm screaming. The room spun around him, then slowly settled.
Taiju was still there.
Sitting in the same chair, those yellow eyes fixed on Takemichi with an intensity that made his skin crawl. But there was something different in his expression now. Something softer. Almost... gentle.
"You're awake," Taiju observed. "Good. You need to eat."
He gestured to a tray on the nightstand—food, real food, steaming and fragrant. Takemichi stared at it, his stomach growling despite everything.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why are you being... like this?"
Taiju's expression flickered. "Like what?"
"Kind. Gentle. Not..." Takemichi's voice trailed off.
"Not what you expected?" Taiju's lips curved—not the nightmare grin from before, but something smaller. Almost sad. "You know about me. I can see it in your eyes. You know what I've done. What I am." He leaned back in his chair, those yellow eyes never leaving Takemichi's face. "The beatings. The abuse. The way I treated my siblings." His voice dropped. "You know all of it."
Takemichi nodded slowly. "The game. I played the game. Your route was... infamous."
Taiju's laugh was quiet, humorless. "Infamous. I like that word." He was silent for a moment, then said, "Everything you've heard is true. I hurt my brother. My sister. I hurt them because I didn't know any other way to love. Because love, in my family, meant strength. Meant control. Meant making them strong enough to survive a world that would crush them otherwise." His yellow eyes met Takemichi's. "I was wrong. I know that now. But knowing doesn't undo what I did."
Takemichi's heart hammered. "Then why... why am I here? Why haven't you—"
"Hurt you?" Taiju finished. "Broken you? Made you another trophy in my collection?" He shook his head slowly. "Because you're different. Your scent—it's not just rare. It's... calming. Soothing. When I'm near you, the rage quiets. The need to control, to dominate, to break—it fades." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "For the first time in my life, I feel like I could be something other than a monster."
Takemichi stared at him—this massive, terrifying alpha who had beaten his siblings, who led one of the most brutal gangs in the school, who was known throughout the otome game community as the most abusive character of all.
And he was crying.
Just a little. Just a single tear, tracking down that sharp cheekbone, quickly wiped away. But Takemichi saw it. Couldn't unsee it.
"I don't expect you to trust me," Taiju said quietly. "I don't expect you to forgive me for the marks on your neck, or for bringing you here against your will. But I'm asking you—begging you—to give me a chance. To let me show you that I can be different. That you make me want to be different."
Takemichi's voice was barely a whisper. "Why me?"
Taiju's yellow eyes held his. "Because your eyes are like the ocean. Because your scent is like chocolate mint. Because when I'm near you, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I could be saved." He paused. "And because I've never wanted to protect something as much as I want to protect you."
The words hung in the air between them—impossible, contradictory, absolutely terrifying.
Takemichi should have been scared. Should have been planning escape, figuring out how to get back to Mikey, back to the devil he knew. But looking at Taiju—this broken monster who was crying because of him—he felt something unexpected.
Pity.
And beneath that, something even more dangerous.
Hope.
"I'm not yours," Takemichi said quietly. "I'm not anyone's. But..." He paused, searching for the right words. "I'll stay. For now. I'll give you a chance to show me who you really are."
Taiju's eyes widened—just slightly, just enough to notice. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Thank you." His voice was rough. "I won't waste it."
He rose from the chair, moved toward the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.
"Sleep," he said quietly. "Rest. Heal. No one will hurt you here. I'll make sure of it."
The door closed behind him.
Takemichi lay in the candlelit room, three marks burning on his neck, and stared at the cross on the wall.
What have I gotten myself into?
He didn't know. Couldn't know.
But for the first time since arriving in this nightmare, he'd met a monster who wanted to be saved.
And that, somehow, was the scariest thing of all.
In the hallway outside, Taiju leaned against the wall and pressed his palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat—steady, calm, peaceful for the first time in years.
Chocolate mint, he thought. His scent is chocolate mint.
He smiled—not the nightmare grin, but something soft. Something almost human.
Mine.
The word felt different now. Less like possession and more like promise.
He would protect Takemichi. Would keep him safe. Would show him that monsters could change.
Even if it killed him.
Even if it destroyed everything he'd built.
He'd try.
Because those ocean eyes deserved someone worth looking into.
And maybe—just maybe—he could become that person.
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