Compability System pt.2

As Viktor stepped out into the crisp air of the facility courtyard, his thumb hovered over the gold-lit screen of his phone.

A Secondary Alpha. He was part of the upper tier, the protected class.

He wasn't an Elite Dominant—those were gods like the oldest son of the Sokolovs, Maksim Sokolov who breathed lightning and walked on glass—but he was close enough. He felt ten feet tall, his new status already swelling his chest with a sudden, arrogant heat.

"I might not be a god like the Sok—"

The name died on his lips.

CRACK.

His phone flew from his hand, the screen hitting the pavement with a sickening sound. Viktor was knocked backward, his shoulder colliding with something solid and lean. He stumbled, his 98% compatibility high instantly replaced by a flash of irritation.

"Sorry, I—" Viktor started, reaching down for his device, but he was cut off by a voice that sounded like gravel and honey.

"Idiotic rat! Who walks on a public road staring at their screen like a lobotomized dog?"

The insult was sharp and fast.

Viktor froze, his hand still on his cracked phone. He looked up, ready to apologize again, but as he took in the person in front of him, the apology curdled in his throat.

He let out a dark, mocking chuckle, his demeanor shifting instantly from a nervous student to a predatory Secondary Alpha.

He stood up slowly, looming over the stranger. The guy was a mess.

He wore dark, ripped jeans that had seen better days, cheap metal necklaces that probably turned his skin green, and beat-up sneakers. His hoodie looked like he’d slept in it for three days.

"You're the one who should watch your step, baby boy," Viktor sneered, stepping into the stranger's personal space.

He let just a hint of his new Alpha scent leak out—aiming to make the smaller man's knees buckle. "I'm a Secondary Alpha. I don't owe an apology to a pretty face with no status."

Viktor’s eyes traveled down the boy's cheap clothes with disgust before returning to his face. "If it weren't for the fact that I already found my 98% match, I would’ve fucked some brains into that pretty head of yours."

Viktor reached out, a smug grin on his face, and pressed a finger firmly against the boy's lower lip, right beside a small, dark mole. "Consider yourself lucky."

"AAAGH! MY FINGER! HE BIT ME! THIS LUNATIC BIT MY FINGER!"

The courtyard erupted in a scream that was definitely not Alpha-like.

Viktor was doubled over, clutching his hand to his chest, tears of shock and pain springing to his eyes as blood began to seep through his knuckles.

The boy didn't even flinch. He spat on the ground, his face a mask of cold, bored defiance as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm not your baby boy," Kit hissed, his voice low and dangerous. He didn't look affected by Viktor's scent at all; he looked like he was about to do it again. "And the next time you cross my path and speak such nonsensical shit, it’s your dick I’ll bite off. Fucking idiot."

The sound of a bus hissing to a stop echoed behind them.

Without a second glance at the screaming "Secondary Alpha," Kit Holloway turned on his heel, jammed his hands into his pockets, and hopped onto the bus just as the doors slammed shut.

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The bus dropped Kit three blocks from the skyscrapers, into the world the Sokolovs ignored. He stood before a concrete box draped in purple neon:

VELVET FANTASY.

He spat his gum into a bin and pushed inside. The silence was murdered by thumping industrial techno.

"Peaches! Back for more?" a customer cheered.

Kit didn't slow down. To them, he was Peaches—the club’s scentless mystery. In a world of pheromonal manipulation, his "void" drove Alphas crazy. They paid triple just to try and catch a whiff of a man who smelled like nothing but laundry detergent and rebellion.

"Ready for a performance, Melocotón?" Mico, the Mexican Alpha Bar attender, asked with a grin.

Kit shot a look back, sticking his tongue through his fingers in a suggestive gesture. Mico roared with laughter. "Playful, but never for the real thing, eh?"

"I sell the fantasy, not the body, Mico my love," Kit called back. "They can look until their eyes bleed, but they don't touch."

In the cramped dressing room, Kit stripped off his hoodie. His frame was lithe and feminine—a curve-heavy American-Asian mix that made Alphas lose their minds. He pulled on see-through mesh leggings and a silk harness, then sprayed a synthetic Crushed Peach perfume over his pulse points to mask his scentless "glitch."

He pouted at the mirror, adjusting his red gloss. "Damn. I look too good to be true."

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The dressing room door swung shut, momentarily cutting off the bone-rattling bass of the club. Kit slumped into his vanity chair, his muscles screaming.

He was drenched in sweat, the synthetic peach perfume now mixing with the scent of cheap stage fog and effort.

With a groan, he reached into his stiletto boots and began pulling out the tips. He tossed the crumpled bills onto the dressing table. Some were damp with spilled vodka; others carried the heavy, musky stench of Alphas who had gotten too close to the stage.

"God knows what these motherfuckers do with their money for it to smell like this," Kit muttered, flicking a particularly grimy hundred-ruble note away with disgust. "Gross. Absolute trash."

He counted the pile twice. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.

"If I go now, the landlord will be camped outside my door like a gargoyle," he whispered, burying his face in his hands. "So Fucking broke."

He swiped his phone screen to check the date. December 2nd. The first heavy snow of the Moscow winter was already piling up outside, and he was weeks away from a real paycheck. These tips wouldn't even cover a week of groceries, let alone the heat bill.

"Peaches! Stop sulking at your reflection, you're making the mirror sad."

Kit didn't lift his head. He knew that voice. "Anton, I swear to God, if you’re here to tell me I’m on in five, I will bite your finger off too. Let my broke ass rest for an hour."

Anton, a man whose sharp suits were as dangerous as his reputation, chuckled as he leaned against the doorframe. "I know you're scheduled for another set, but plans have changed. You’re lucky I’m a generous man."

Kit finally looked up, a hopeful spark in his tired eyes. "Does that mean I get the rest of the night off? Oh, thank you, my incredibly handsome, generous, saint of a manager—"

"I'm laughing, Kit. Truly," Anton cut him off, his face turning serious. "No, you aren't going home. You have a private client. High profile."

Kit’s expression flattened instantly. "NOPE. If you're asking me to go play 'Omega-in-distress' for some Alpha’s bed, forget it. That’s Ji-Hoon’s department. I’m a performer, not a mattress."

"How do you have a face like a doll but a mouth like a sailor?" Anton sighed, shaking his head.

"It’s a gift," Kit mocked.

"Listen. Ji-Hoon called in. He’s got a cold, and the SK health codes are strict—sick employees stay home. But this client... he didn't want the club. He wants a private performance at his hotel. I’ve already sent the location to your phone."

"Anton..." Kit started to protest.

"I’ll pay you a five-thousand bonus on top of whatever the Alpha gives you," Anton said smoothly. "And considering who this guy is, his 'tips' usually start at five figures."

Kit froze. He did the math. Rent, groceries, the landlord’s silence, and maybe even a new pair of boots that weren't Ji-Hoon's hand-me-downs.

"How much?" Kit asked, his voice low.

"The booking f*e alone is $1,000 " Anton smirked.

"Just for ninety minutes of dancing. No touching. No intimacy. Your rules stay. He just wants to... watch."

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