16. Choosing The Living Versus The Unforgiving Dead
16
CHOOSING THE LIVING VERSUS THE UNFORGIVING DEAD
~ATLAS~
T he scent hits me like a physical force - sweet and complex, layering through the sterile facility air like a siren's call.
Cupcakes, yes, but not just any simple baked goods.
This aroma carries depths: v anilla cream whipped to perfection, dark chocolate with hints of coffee, and caramelized sugar crystallizing into delicate patterns.
Beneath those sweeter notes lie deeper ones: rain-washed earth, night-blooming jasmine, something wild and untamed that defies description.
I shouldn't allow myself to be distracted.
Not here or now; during such a critical operation. But this scent bypasses all logic, all training, all carefully maintained control. It speaks to something primal in me, something that recognizes its significance even if I don't understand why.
"Continue the sweep," I tell the others, keeping my voice steady despite the way my pulse races. "I'll scout this section and catch up."
Kieran starts to protest - he knows better than anyone the risks of me moving solo through hostile territory. Yet I silence him with a gesture and head off before he can say a thing.
It’s a bad quality to assume a leadership role when I’m not capable of being in that executive position on missions like this, but those habits are far too hard to tarnish, which is why the others don’t bother correcting me.
The pull of this scent is too strong to ignore, too important to dismiss.
Moving through Ravenscroft's corridors while essentially blind should be suicide.
The silk wrap that covers my eyes offers minimal protection, the thin layer over my left eye allowing only the barest perception of shadows and light. It's enough to keep the damaged nerves from complete overload, enough to let me function, but hardly ideal for combat situations.
I've learned to navigate by other means: air currents that map spaces, echoes that paint pictures in sound, and scents that tell stories more detailed than sight ever could.
Right now, all those enhanced senses are screaming at me to move faster, to reach the source of that intoxicating aroma before it's too late.
Then another scent cuts through the sweetness - sharp and acrid that makes every hair on my body stand on end.
Fear.
Not the normal anxiety that permeates this place, not the expected terror of guards facing a superior force. This is deeper, primal, and more devastating in its purity.
Most people don't realize fear has a scent.
They can't detect how it changes the chemical composition of skin, how it alters the very air around someone in its grip. But to me, it's as clear as a scream in an empty room.
This particular fear carries notes of desperation, of finality, of decisions made in darkness with no hope of dawn.
The silk wrap filters the harsh facility lighting into manageable patterns of shadow and illumination. I can't see details, can't make out fine features, or read expressions.
As I burst into the room, the silhouette before me tells a story that makes my blood run cold.
A slender figure kneels on the floor, hands pressed together not in supplication to any god, but in preparation for self-destruction. The gun they hold catches what little light penetrates my wrap, its metal surface gleaming like a malevolent star.
My enhanced hearing picks up their ragged breathing, the slight tremor in their hands, the whisper of tears tracking down cheeks I can't quite see. The scent of their fear mingles with that incredible sweetness, creating something that tears at my very soul - beauty and despair intertwined in an impossible melody.
Their finger rests on the trigger, and time seems to crystallize around this moment.
All my training, experience, and carefully honed abilities narrow to this single point in space and time. I can hear their heartbeat, racing like a trapped bird. Smell the salt of their tears mixing with that devastating aroma that led me here.
Everything in me recognizes the significance of what's happening, even if I don't understand why.
This moment, this individual that surely has to be an Omega, the convergence of scent and sound and desperate intention - it matters in ways that transcend normal understanding.
The shadows shift slightly, giving me just enough information to act. Their position tells me everything I need to know about angle and trajectory. The slight change in their breathing signals imminent action.
I have seconds.
Maybe less.
To prevent something irreversible.
To save someone who smells like destiny itself.
The muscles in their hand tense, preparing to squeeze the trigger, and I know my time for observation is over.
Now comes the moment where all my adaptations, compensations for lack of normal sight, must serve a single purpose:
Stopping this beautiful, desperate creature from extinguishing their own light.
The moment my arm wraps around her throat, I feel her entire body go rigid with shock.
Her pulse races against my skin like a trapped bird, each beat carrying notes of fear and disbelief.
The gun remains clutched in her trembling hands, and I waste no time disarming her - a swift movement born of years of training sends the weapon skittering across the room. The metallic clatter as it strikes a locker and falls to the floor echoes through the space, marking the distance between her and that final, terrible choice.
Only then do I realize I've been holding my breath as if some part of me feared that even the slightest movement might shatter this moment.
A soft whimper escapes her - the sound hitting me like an electric current, warming my blood and making every alpha instinct roar to life.
The effect she has on me is devastating, unprecedented, and completely beyond my control.
Though my vision is limited by the silk wrap, my other senses paint a vivid picture of her: the slight tremor in her frame, the way sweat and tears have dampened her skin, and the wild disarray of her hair that speaks of recent chaos.
Her scent grows stronger with our proximity; that incredible blend of sweetness and complexity that led me here now threatens to overwhelm my carefully maintained control.
I can feel her attention fixed on me, her silence heavy with unspoken questions and realizations.
The pull between us grows stronger with each passing second, a tangible force that makes my hands itch to touch, to claim, to show her exactly why ending her life would be an unforgivable waste. Every alpha instinct I possess demands that I show her a better path, that I press my lips to hers and kiss away the despair that led her to such desperate measures.
But I hold back, knowing that such actions would only frighten her more.
Instead, I offer one quiet word.
"Breathe."
She gasps as if my command has broken some spell, her chest heaving as she draws in air she'd been denying herself. The sound of her breathing - ragged and uneven - tears at something deep in my chest.
Never have I more acutely felt the loss of my full vision than in this moment.
To be so close to her, to feel the electricity crackling between us, and yet be unable to see her eyes…it's a special kind of torture. I imagine those eyes wide with shock, pupils dilated with uncertainty, and something deeper —— something that might mirror the inexplicable connection I feel building between us.
Her scent shifts subtly; fear giving way to confusion, to wonder, to something I don't dare name.
The silk wrap allows me to see her silhouette shift slightly, her head tilting back as if studying my face. The movement brings her neck closer to my hand, and I feel her pulse jump at the increased contact.
We remain frozen in this tableau, my arm around her throat, her back pressed against my chest, both of us breathing the same air charged with possibility and danger.
The facility's alarms continue their distant wailing, but they feel irrelevant compared to the symphony of her heartbeat against my skin.
This close, I can detect layers in her scent I missed before.
Beneath the sweetness lies something darker - clinical antiseptic, metallic traces of what might be blood, and underneath it all, a core of strength that refuses to be extinguished despite everything that led her to this moment of despair.
The alpha in me wants to growl at the evidence of her suffering, wants to tear apart whatever — whoever — drove her to contemplate such a permanent escape.
But I maintain control, knowing that any display of aggression now might shatter this delicate moment between us.
Her breathing steadies gradually, each inhale carrying my scent deeper into her system. I feel the minute changes in her body - the slight relaxation of rigid muscles, the almost imperceptible lean into my support, the way her head tilts just a fraction more to expose her neck.
All signs should indicate omega submission to alpha presence.
Yet…her response isn’t like other Omegas.
It seems almost experimental or robotic. As if she's testing these reactions rather than succumbing to their natural instincts.
The mystery of her deepens with each passing second, pulling me further into an orbit I have no desire to escape.
Is she who I think she is?
There’s one more vital question that needs to be answered.
How can I convince her that whatever darkness brought her here, there are better answers than the one she was about to choose?