RIVEN VALEMONT

"Being strong doesn’t mean you don’t feel."

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Age: 17

Gender/Sex: Male – Omega (recessive)

Social Status: University Student

Secondary Dynamic: Omega with high pheromone resistance (often mistaken for a beta)

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Physical Appearance:

Height: 1.75 m

Body: Slim but resilient

Skin: Fair, no visible marks

Hair: Ashy brown, slightly wavy, usually loose or falling over his eyes

Eyes: Light gray, with bluish hues under direct light

Voice: Deep and dry, like someone used to not being heard

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Style:

Loose, comfortable clothes in dark or earthy tones

Prefers oversized shirts, turtlenecks, and tailored trousers

His style is sober and elegant, even when he’s not trying

Always seems out of place and refined at the same time

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Personality:

Grumpy, sarcastic, and highly observant

Extremely intelligent and analytical

Intolerant of phoniness or superficiality

Cold out of self-protection, not by nature

Pretends criticism doesn’t affect him – and usually, it doesn’t

Hides deep wounds beneath a mask of emotional control

Avoids physical touch and hates being the center of attention

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Family:

Father: Élio Valemont – strict, emotionally distant

Mother: Carmela Valemont – passive-aggressive manipulator

Brothers: Richard (oldest), Caio (middle), Vítor (youngest) – all lazy, exploitative, and emotionally abusive

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Current Situation:

Moved into university dorms citing “distance” – but his house is just two blocks away

Paid all the family’s bills through side jobs and scholarships

Popular at college but never brought anyone home

Hardly ever goes into heat due to his recessive condition – until that suddenly changes…

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Relationship with Seth Lancaster:

Rivals since their teens

Seth constantly provokes, Riven responds with icy indifference

Doesn’t understand his own interest in the alpha – mistakes it for rivalry

Gets more irritated by him than he’d like to admit

When he goes into heat near Seth, something explodes – inside and outside of them both

---

Notable Quotes:

"Being called weak by someone who’s never carried a damn thing... that’s a joke."

"I never lied. I just didn’t waste my time explaining."

"You might be an alpha, but you're not stronger than my will."

"No one asks how I am. Just if I paid the bills."

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SETH LANCASTER

Age: 17

Gender/Sex: Male – Alpha

Secondary Classification: Dominant Alpha

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Physical Appearance:

Average height for an alpha, but an imposing posture

Athletic build, sculpted from fancy gym sessions

Black hair, piercing light blue eyes – sharp like ice, glowing like sarcasm

Smile of someone who knows they can – and will – get under your skin

Wears a strong, woody scent that lingers

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Style:

Designer watch and discreet but expensive accessories

Impeccable looks – knows that appearance is power

Even in simple clothes, he looks like he’s walking a runway

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Personality:

Arrogant, mocking, obsessively competitive

Pretends not to care, but feels everything deeply

Hates fragile omegas – or rather, hates being attracted to someone he thinks is fragile

Has acidic humor and a special joy in provoking Riven

Hides emotional confusion behind impulsiveness

Emotionally and physically sadomasochistic – fights to feel alive

---

Family Background:

Son of renowned businessman Gregor Lancaster and elegant (yet absent) Verena

Grew up with everything except affection

Raised to be “perfect,” “exemplary,” “the ideal successor”

Lives under the shadow of expectations he loathes but can’t escape

Has an older sister, Áurea, who’s always been the family’s golden child

His only emotional relief is his half-crazy uncle, Nero, who encourages rebellion

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Secrets:

Realized at 14 that he had some feelings for Riven – and went into full denial

Never told anyone he’s repulsed by traditional omega roles

His interest in Riven isn’t just desire – it’s obsession masked as provocation

Fears losing control – and around Riven, he’s always at the edge

---

Relationship with Riven Valemont:

A rivalry filled with insults, shoves, long silences, and dangerous stares

Fights Riven over everything – including his inability to actually hate him

Had a breakdown when he discovered Riven was an omega

Wanting an omega goes against everything he was taught… but the desire is stronger

Has never admitted it, but he’s dreamed of him. More than once. Woke up angry. And hard.

---

Typical Quotes:

“You’ll never admit you look at me differently.”

“Think you can fool me with that poker face? You shake when I get close.”

“I hate omegas… except you. And that makes me want to punch a wall.”

“Wanna play rough, Valemont? I invented this game.”

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RIVEN’S FRIENDS

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LYS CORDELL

Age: 17

Social Class: University Student

Dynamic: Beta

Personality:

Sarcastic, intelligent, observant. The group’s brain, always with a new theory or a sharp comment.

Background:

Son of university professors, Lys grew up surrounded by books and sarcasm. He’s the only one who suspects Riven is hiding something, but never pressures – just observes and stores what he sees.

Story Summary:

Lys is the quiet constant. His cynical remarks hide deep loyalty. He rarely trusts people, but for some reason, he trusts Riven. Maybe because he sees the same loneliness in him that he tries to ignore in himself.

Quote:

“If I were nosy, I’d have dug up all your secrets by now. But I prefer to respect those who bleed in silence.”

---

MIKA SÁLVIA

Age: 16

Social Class: Drama Student

Dynamic: Omega

Personality:

Dramatic, sensitive, soft-hearted gossip. Cries at movies, puts on a show when she trips, and yells “SCANDAL!” at the first hint of romantic tension – especially between Seth and Riven.

Background:

Comes from a supportive family but is the most emotionally needy of the group. Constantly tries to hug Riven and usually gets a symbolic forehead flick in return – and still won’t give up.

Story Summary:

Mika burst into Riven’s life like a rainbow tornado. She’s impossible to ignore – and that’s why she matters. Plays uninvited matchmaker and is convinced that “rivalry” is just code for “unresolved sexual tension.” Always tries to ship Seth and Riven. Sometimes… she almost succeeds.

Quote:

“You may be cold, Riven, but I’m spring in human form. And I will bloom even through your ice.”

---

JULES AUBEN

Age: 17

Social Class: Fashion Design Student

Dynamic: Beta

Personality:

Elegant, sharp, emotionally mature, and subtly provocative. Patient listener, fluent in reading between the lines. If Mika is the storm, Jules is the scented breeze that follows.

Background:

From a wealthy but emotionally distant family. Found his true home within the group. Dresses like a walking runway, but his heart is warmer than any mansion.

Story Summary:

Jules is the one who hears the silence Riven doesn’t speak. Never pushes, always shows up when things fall apart. Their bond is built on mutual respect and unspoken trust. Constantly fixes Riven’s crooked collar – like a silent “I’m here.”

Quote:

“Clothes are just armor. But the way you hold the world, Riven… no designer can stitch that.”

---

TÉO MARANI

Age: 18

Social Class: Engineering Student

Dynamic: Silent Alpha

Personality:

Reserved, protective, practical. Doesn’t talk much, but when he does… everyone listens. His presence is steady, almost instinctive. His loyalty isn’t bought or asked for – it’s earned.

Background:

From humble roots, Téo worked for everything he has. Shares a small dorm and lives on a tight budget, but never complains. Likes things in order. Feelings, though? He keeps those locked up.

Story Summary:

Téo met Riven on an ordinary day – and never left his side. He’s the group’s invisible shield, the one who notices when Riven is about to fall apart, even when he says he’s fine. Has fought for him more than once. Never confessed it, but harbors a quiet feeling for Riven – the kind that lives in the little things. Oh, and yes – he hates Seth.

The television blared at full volume, spitting out sensationalist headlines as if the outside world were begging for attention. Frenzied voices screamed about crimes, tragedies, and scandals — but inside that house, all was deafening silence. No one listened. No one wanted to.

At the Valemont house, chaos had long since become a permanent resident, settled into the cracks in the walls and the choked screams in the hallway.

“You think money grows in the toilet, Riven?!” his mother fired, her voice as sharp as shards of a broken glass. “Or are you waiting for the gas fairy to drop from the sky and pay this bill?”

The words sliced through the air like dull blades, but he didn’t flinch.

Riven chewed slowly, the way someone does when they’ve learned to savor resignation. Stale bread, cold coffee. Third day in a row with the same pitiful menu. He didn’t complain. It wasn’t worth it. Maybe they didn’t even know he was there. Maybe they didn’t even taste what they ate — or what it was like to feel anything but anger or exhaustion.

That house wasn’t a home. It was a trench.

And he, a survivor of a silent war.

“The gas won’t last until tomorrow,” Carmela repeated, as if repetition made the sentence more urgent, more real — more a sentence than a warning. “I’m just saying. If I don’t cook, nobody eats.”

“Yeah. A tragedy,” Riven murmured without looking up from his plate. His voice came out dry, stripped of all emotion. Almost a whisper of scorn.

“What was that?” Élio’s deep voice cut through the hallway. He appeared barefoot, his belly bouncing with his heavy breaths. The ashtray shook in his hand, already filled with three crushed cigarettes. “Complaining with your mouth full now, little omega?”

Riven slowly raised his eyes. Grey. Cold. Deep like wells no one dared descend into. But there was no rage there — just the complete absence of anything. An emotional vacuum. A shield.

“I’m just eating. Still allowed?”

Élio didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His silence weighed more than any scream. He sat at the table like a guard in a tower. With a fixed, invasive stare, he circled Riven like an invisible chain.

It wasn’t love. Never had been.

It was control.

And in that staring match, where one tried to dominate and the other simply to survive, all that remained was the muffled sound of the TV... and the empty stomach of a crowded house.

Richard showed up as he always did: unannounced, without purpose, but full of opinions. He wore a crumpled vintage band tee and had the look of someone who thought he was deeper than he actually was. His flip-flops dragged across the worn kitchen floor, leaving a sonic trail of laziness.

“Oh, there he is,” he announced, like a recurring sitcom joke. He laughed with that kind of disdain that sticks to your skin. “Our silent provider. Paid the electricity yet? And the internet? ‘Cause I’ll need it this afternoon.”

Riven said nothing. He just reached into his backpack — the zipper opened with a dry, metallic sound — and pulled out a few crumpled notes, sweaty from too many hours tucked in pocket jobs. He placed them on the table with the precision of someone who’d done it a thousand times. The dull sound of paper hitting rotting wood echoed louder than any response.

Silence.

“Damn, man, you’re an economic miracle,” Caio said, eating an apple like he was in a comedy sketch. Juice dripped from the corner of his mouth, which he wiped with his sleeve. “Doesn’t even seem like an omega. More like a bank.”

“From bank to doormat, just a step,” Vítor added, leaning against the wall with arms crossed and his usual vacant expression. “But hey... at least you’re useful.”

Then came the laughter.

Not the kind born from humor, but from disdain. Carmela washed a pan that wouldn’t be used — a rehearsal of motherhood for an audience that didn’t exist.

His father lit another cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating the exhaustion in his eyes.

Riven picked up his backpack again, slid the strap over his shoulder with a silent, practiced movement. Every gesture was a choreography of survival. He stood with the grace of someone who knew that any wrong step became ammunition.

He paused at the door. Hand still on the knob, fingers brushing the cold wood, eyes still on the floor:

“There’s enough money there for a week,” he said at last, voice low and firm, like an emergency instruction. “If it’s gone before then, don’t look for me.”

And then, he left.

The door closed quietly, without fuss. The dry click of the lock sounded like a sentence.

Outside, the world seemed different. The sky, still gray, was less oppressive than the cracked ceiling of the house. The morning wind rustled the leaves with a sound of comfort. And the silence... the silence was pure. No sarcasm. No demands. No heavy eyes.

Riven inhaled deeply. The air was cold, but clean. For the first time that day, he truly breathed.

And for a moment — a single, precious moment — he felt human.

Not a provider. Not a doormat.

Human.

Free.

Even if only until the next bill.

The university gate was far too large for someone who felt so small.

Riven walked through it as he always did: hands in the pockets of his oversized coat, shoulders slightly hunched forward — like he was shielding himself from a world he never asked to face. His gaze was steady, cold, like frozen glass. Earbuds in with no music playing — just an excuse to ignore the world.

The campus façade gleamed under the morning light: glass reflecting the sky, sleek modern lines, trees meticulously sculpted around the entrance — as if the whole place were a postcard from a life he never lived.

Peace.

That place screamed peace.

And to Riven, peace felt almost like an insult. An offensive luxury. A provocation.

The buzz of students filled the air — excited chatter, loud laughter, complaints about group projects, debates about professors. Echoes of normalcy. Some voices called to him from afar:

“Riven!”

“Yo, Valemont!”

He responded with a vague, brief wave. The kind that said:

“Yes, I exist. Now let me go back to not existing.”

He walked through the outer halls with measured, controlled steps. As if every move was calculated not to attract attention — but also not to seem weak. He had that silent, graceful presence. The kind no one could describe, but everyone felt.

That’s when she appeared.

“Oh my GOD!”

The phrase was followed by a dull THUD and something crashing to the floor.

Riven didn’t need to look. Mika had arrived.

She was on all fours, surrounded by flying notebooks and a gaping backpack. She wore a lilac sweater with a kitten embroidered on it and a coat twice her size. Her hair was tied up in two messy buns, like she’d done it while escaping a fire.

“I just wanted to walk in with dignity for ONCE!” she shouted, trying to gather her notebooks with one hand while holding her phone with the other. “ONCE, UNIVERSE! It’s not too much to ask!”

Riven stopped. Took a deep breath. And finally spoke, with that low, impassive voice that sounded like it came from a noir monologue:

“What did you trip on? Air?”

“On myself!” Mika replied, sitting on the floor with genuine indignation. “I stepped on my own shoelace. That should be illegal.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth threatened a smile — almost imperceptible.

That was Mika: a chaotic, charming omega comet. She talked too much, gestured like her body was an extension of her words, and managed to be both clumsy and impossible to ignore.

“Get up, Mika. You’re blocking the way and my will to live,” Riven muttered, extending a hand.

“Wow, so romantic!” she said, grabbing his fingers with enthusiasm. “If that’s your flirting game, you’ve got a long way to go. Like, a LONG way.”

“It was charity, not flirting.”

“Wow. That’s even worse.”

She got up with his help, dusting herself off like she’d walked through a storm. Riven turned to go, but Mika followed him — as if she had already decided that this day would be his.

“You look even paler than yesterday. Did you sleep?”

“Work. Class. Life. All at once.”

“Ugh, so romantic.” She sighed dramatically. “A modern martyr.”

He glanced sideways. His gray eyes met hers for a second.

Then he looked away, as he always did.

But Mika... Mika just smiled.

Because she was the kind of person who laughed at the cracks in others.

And even if he said nothing, deep down — deep, deep down — she knew he was listening.

In that place full of people who talked too much and listened too little, only four people managed to break through Riven Valemont’s unshakable shield. Four exceptions to the rule he lived by like gospel: don’t get close and we’ll be fine.

Lys, Mika, Jules, and Téo.

The only ones who could call his name and not be ignored.

The only ones he — though he’d never admit it — tolerated… and maybe, in silence, valued.

They were all there, as always. An unlikely quartet that orbited Riven without suffocating him.

“RIVEEEEN!” Mika yelled theatrically, like she was born for the stage and still hadn’t realized the real world had too much audience. “Listen! I dreamed you were a famous omega, like... an international runway model! And I was your personal stylist! But you FIRED me because I suggested a pastel pink outfit!”

She tripped on her own feet again, arms out like she wanted to fly. Her energy was uncontrollable — and loud.

“Tempting,” Riven murmured without stopping, hands still in his pockets, expression indifferent. “But in real life, I’d fire you just for screaming my name in public.”

Mika clutched her chest, deeply offended.

“That’s emotional cruelty, Riven. One day I’m going to force you to hug someone. With feeling.”

Jules appeared beside them, elegant as ever in a beige blazer, silent and calculated steps. He looked at Riven like he was evaluating a cracked piece of art.

“Cold as always,” he said, calmly adjusting his blazer sleeve. “But... you’re paler than usual. Sleep at all? One hour? Half?”

Riven stopped, leaned his shoulder against a tree, eyes lowered.

“Doesn’t matter. I woke up tired of being awake.”

Lys, sitting on the nearby grass with headphones around his neck and a barely-touched croissant in hand, let out a dry, low laugh. The kind that sounded like a mix of irony and concern.

“The dark genius speaks. Just a reminder: today’s the bio presentation. The one you said you wouldn’t watch ‘even with bleach in your eyes.’”

The bite into the croissant sealed the sentence.

Mika spun on her heel like a poorly rehearsed musical, pointing both fingers at Riven like a detective revealing the killer.

“And guess who’s in his group?”

Suspense.

“Seth Lancaster. The actual telenovela alpha.”

The name dropped like a contained bomb. Riven didn’t react at first. He just looked up at the cloudy sky for two long seconds. Then sighed.

“Of course. Because my day wasn’t already making me consider exile.”

Téo appeared from the direction of the library, silent as ever, steps firm, balancing two coffee cups, a tablet, and a book under his arm with the precision of a tightrope walker. He handed one of the coffees to Riven without a word.

“Seth just walked into the auditorium looking like he’s winning an Oscar,” he said.

Jules raised an eyebrow.

“For arrogance?”

“For drama. But could be both,” Téo replied, sitting calmly.

Each of them was a unique piece in this small, chaotic solar system:

Mika — the colorful, emotional storm. An omega full of life, neediness, and too much love to keep inside.

Jules — the prince of sharp aesthetics and attentive listening. He wore elegance as armor but offered presence as affection.

Lys — the beta with clinical eyes, skeptical of everything and everyone except those, like Riven, who knew how to bleed in silence.

Téo — the alpha who didn’t need words to protect. His silence spoke what the world forgot to hear.

And at the center of it all... Riven.

With war-torn dark circles, soft, steady steps, and a humor that flirted with emotional collapse disguised as sarcasm.

“You think if I fall down the stairs, I can get a medical note?” Riven asked calmly, sipping a coffee that tasted like pain and regret.

Lys didn’t even blink.

“If you fall with style, I’ll forge the report. With the official stamp of ‘Long Live the Drama Clinic.’”

Mika, who had been watching an ant crawl up her shoelace, suddenly perked up.

“I CAN PUSH YOU!” she said with a sparkle in her eye no one should have when talking about pushing a friend down the stairs. “I promise to make it look like an accident... like a soap opera!”

She was already rehearsing her reaction:

“Oh my GOD! He fell! Someone call the hot nurse paramedic!!”

Téo let out a slow sigh. The kind filled with exhaustion, silent judgment, and a hidden trace of affection.

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” he muttered, eyeing Mika like he was seriously considering locking her in a closet till finals week.

Jules, as always, watched it all like he was witnessing a tragicomic opera. Arms crossed, refined expression, eyes calculating the level of collective madness, he delivered the final verdict:

“This is friendship. Mildly illegal... totally functional.”

Riven, who hadn’t shown a real smile until then, looked at the group. At the chaos. At the lovely confusion they were.

And for the first time that day — which was rare — he laughed.

Low. Almost imperceptible.

Mika froze. Jules raised a brow. Lys bit his croissant like he’d just witnessed a miracle. And Téo... well, Téo just looked away, but his shoulders relaxed by a single centimeter.

A centimeter that said everything.

In that absurd scene of stairs, forged notes, and consensual shoves, there was more than humor.

There was belonging.

There was friendship.

And that, Riven knew — even if he’d never admit it — was rarer than any doctor’s note.

And so, the five headed toward the Science Building.

Each in their own way. Their own world. Their own pain.

But together, they formed something rare:

A place where even Riven’s silence found translation.

He knew the day would be bad.

But with them there... at least it would be a choreographed disaster.

And he, though he’d never say it out loud,

no longer knew how to survive this world — without them.

The hallway outside the auditorium was thick with a nearly visible tension. The kind of silence that comes before a thunderclap, a scandal... or the arrival of Seth Lancaster.

His footsteps were almost poetic — rhythmic, firm, claiming the floor as if it had been designed just for him. The lights above seemed to cooperate, reflecting off discreet bracelets, the open shirt collar, and a perfectly tousled quiff.

Mika reacted first, as always. Eyes wide, back straight, hands frantically fixing her hair like it was a national emergency.

“There he comes,” she murmured like she was witnessing a solar eclipse without protective glasses. “Posture of someone who knows he’s gonna cause drama. Smile of someone born with his ass kissed by designer brands.”

Jules raised an eyebrow, arms crossed like a fashion critic ready to shred an emotional runway.

“And an ego big enough to power an entire plant. Ten bucks says he mentions Riven’s hair in under thirty seconds.”

Téo, leaning against the wall near the door, watched with calm eyes and a neutral face. His presence was steady — like a shield that didn’t need words, but used them with surgical precision when necessary.

“I bet he starts with posture,” Téo said without looking away. “And that Riven responds with a four-word sentence, max.”

Lys, phone already in hand, was typing with the speed of a war reporter.

“Betting pool’s open. Last call. Updating the sass scoreboard since Monday. Riven’s winning with three killer comebacks, but Seth tied it yesterday with that ‘bravery doesn’t suit you’ gem.”

“Oh, that was a classic,” Mika sighed, genuinely moved.

Riven, standing a few feet from the auditorium door, looked like a statue carved out of boredom. Hands in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly tense, eyes half-closed like he was already mentally checked out. He didn’t need to look to know Seth was coming. He could feel it. The scent of expensive cologne. The arrogance hanging in the air like golden dust.

Riven’s fingers squeezed his coffee cup ever so slightly. A faint line appeared between his brows. But he didn’t speak. Not yet.

Seth strolled down the hallway like the lead in a cologne commercial promising success, danger, and emotional trauma.

“Riven,” he said, drawing out the syllables like tasting the drama. “Still rocking that ‘heartbroken poet’ vibe this early?”

Riven turned his head just enough to meet his gaze — those sharp, glacial gray eyes that said more than full monologues ever could.

“Better than hollow,” he shot back, dry. Like he’d just labeled Seth a pretty shell.

Téo smiled, subtly.

Jules raised a hand.

“Called it. I totally thought he’d say, ‘Seth, leave me alone.’”

Lys updated the board.

“Three to one. Riven still leading the sarcasm league.”

Mika practically vibrated in place.

“Oh my god… this is better than a telenovela. And I binged three episodes of Wolves in Love last night.”

The scene was set: on one side, Seth — all dangerous charm, provocation, and rehearsed control. On the other, Riven — icy, scathing, and with a contempt sharper than knives.

In the middle, four friends witnessing the inevitable collision, like spectators of a comet set to crash into the Biology Auditorium.

And all this... before the presentation even started.

Just another morning.

At the university where love felt like war,

and rivals knew exactly which buttons to push to make the other tremble.

To be continued…

Behind Seth, like a parade of alphas straight out of a luxury school uniform catalog, came Noah, Rafa, Davi, and Áurea. All well-dressed, all confident — and all with that cynical gleam in their eyes, the kind that says “we know this is going to blow up, and we’re here for the show.”

“Here we go again,” muttered Noah, spinning a pen between his fingers like he was placing bets in a romantic tension casino. “Ten seconds until Valemont loses his patience or makes Seth question his own existence.”

“He doesn’t lose his patience — he throws daggers disguised as words,” Áurea corrected, with the tone of a clinical analyst. “Riven is like... a Greek poem about revenge. Cold, beautiful, and always ends in tragedy.”

Rafa laughed, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

“And Seth falls face-first into the tragedy. Every time. The only difference is that he pretends he tripped on purpose.”

Davi, more restrained, simply added:

“I’m just waiting for the day they finally make out in the middle of an argument. But until then... this is pure entertainment.”

And as if fate had been listening, there they were.

Seth crossed paths with Riven in the hallway, in front of everyone, with the casual grace of someone who lived for that kind of moment.

“Valemont,” he said, flashing that rehearsed smile that could sell cars or start a war. “Keep up the martyr act, and you’ll end up a meme. Again.”

Riven stared at him for a second, light gray eyes almost lazy, like deciding whether it was worth responding was more exhausting than the answer itself.

But he did respond.

And with a much deadlier strike.

“And you? Still copying my work, or are you finally going to learn how to think for yourself?”

Seth smiled. A real one.

The kind of smile that said: you got to me, now I’m going to provoke you into hell.

“Oh, I thought you liked having me around... You even bolded my name on the presentation. That’s some sweet affection.”

“Typo. I meant to write ‘parasite’ — ran out of slide space.”

Mika let out a dramatic GASP that echoed down the hallway.

“Oh my god... I’m LIVING for this! This is Shakespeare, but with fanfic and testosterone!”

Jules put a hand on his chest.

“The acidity... the venom... pure emotional couture.”

Lys, phone in hand, typed at FBI hacker speed.

“Logged: new record for passive-aggressive sarcasm in under a minute. Score update: Riven three, Seth two. Tight match.”

Téo, quiet as always, just took one step closer to Riven.

Not as a threat — but like an invisible alarm.

Seth stepped forward.

Riven didn’t move.

They stood face to face, breathing the same air.

The world around them went silent — or maybe it had just been tuned out.

“Gonna stare at me all day, or finally say what you really want?” Seth provoked, voice lower now.

“I already said it,” Riven replied, firm. “I want distance. But looks like your obsession has GPS.”

Silence.

And then…

Mika tripped on her own feet and collapsed between them.

“Guys, WAIT! If you’re gonna fight, give me a heads-up! I need to record in HD!” she cried, lying on the floor, arms outstretched, like a Renaissance painting.

The tension shattered.

Laughter escaped from Noah, then Rafa.

Áurea rolled her eyes with elegance.

Lys typed: “Emotional battlefield casualty: Mika.”

Riven sighed. Seth chuckled.

“Your fan club is intense.”

“No. My friends are intense. You’re just background noise.”

And with that, he turned his back.

The scene ended — in total silence.

Seth watched him go. The smile on his face had less mockery now.

And maybe a hint of... loss? Anger? Desire?

No one could say for sure.

But one thing was certain:

Chaos had a name.

Later that same day, the hallway was far too quiet.

Most students were outside enjoying the sun. In the science hall, only the echoes of footsteps and the friction between two presences that should never have been placed in the same group remained. And everyone knew what was coming.

You could feel the air getting heavier.

Like even the concrete was holding its breath.

Seth walked toward Riven, eyes blazing with restrained rage, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. He was the kind of alpha who entered a room like the world owed him silence — and usually, it complied.

But Riven wasn’t the world.

He was the exception.

He stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

When he spoke, he didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

“You’re not an alpha. Not even close.”

The words sliced like broken glass.

Riven stepped forward.

“You’re just a frustrated little boy, trying to shove testosterone where it doesn’t belong.”

Seth stopped.

Really stopped.

Like those words had been an invisible punch.

“Say that again,” he growled, voice low and fraying at the edges.

Riven smiled. Slowly. Venomously.

The kind of smile that knew exactly where it hurt.

“With pleasure.”

He stepped closer.

Now they were face to face.

Breathing the same air.

A thick, electric air.

Heavy with unspoken things and denied desires.

“You pretend to be dominant, the perfect heir, the ideal alpha... but you’re obsessed with a guy who doesn’t even go into heat. And you know why?”

Riven tilted his head. That smile turned to pure mockery.

“Because I make you hard with just a look. And that terrifies you.

Because all your alpha swagger can’t control your body around me.

Because deep down, you know your manhood is a performance. Fragile. Ridiculous.

And I’m living proof of it.”

That did it.

The snap of hate was instant.

Seth didn’t think — he lunged.

A punch to Riven’s shoulder.

Then a shove to the chest, strong and raw.

Riven staggered back a step, but answered with a mocking laugh.

“That’s your strength, Lancaster? That’s your best shot?

I’ve seen drugged omegas shake and hit harder than that!”

Seth roared. And then it was a real fight.

They crashed into each other with a fury that had been simmering for years.

Fists, knees, elbows, muffled shouts.

They hit the lockers, knocked over a trash can, slipped and tumbled to the floor — a tangle of rage, pride, and something filthier, more intimate, more dangerous.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Seth growled, trying to hold back Riven’s blows, face red, chest heaving. “YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT ABOUT ME!”

“I KNOW EVERYTHING!” Riven yelled, his eyes blazing. “I know you’re scared of being seen as weak. As soft. As someone like me.

And the worst part?

You ARE.”

“You’re more like a trapped omega in an alpha’s body. And I’m the reminder that breaks you.”

A desperate scream broke the chaos:

“TÉO! FOR GOD’S SAKE!”

Téo came in like an avalanche.

He grabbed Riven from behind, one arm locked across his chest, holding him back with force — not to hurt, but enough to restrain a beast.

“ENOUGH!” he shouted. “You’re going to break him, Riven!”

“Let go!” Riven barked, struggling. “Let him try to prove himself for once in his life!”

Seth was slowly getting up.

Face red, a cut on his lip, eyes glassy — with rage, frustration, and something he himself didn’t understand.

“You—” he started.

But Riven cut him off.

“You only feel like an alpha when you’re alone in the mirror.

Out here, with everyone watching... you’re just a boy scared of his own desire.”

Silence.

Jules held Mika back.

Lys had stopped recording.

Téo still held Riven tightly — though his friend’s body had begun to relax… on the outside.

Inside, it still burned.

And Seth, standing there with blood on his lip and breath ragged, knew:

Riven had won.

With fists.

With words.

And worst of all…

With the truth.

On the other side, Noah, Rafa, and Davi rushed to Seth’s side.

He was panting, his lip bleeding, eyes still burning with fury.

“What the hell was that?!” Noah held onto Seth’s arm, while Rafa pushed away anyone who dared to get close.

“He’s insane!” Davi shouted, glaring at Riven.

“Insane is your ego,” Jules replied, stepping forward. “Fighting over teenage provocations? Real mature, huh?”

Téo still held Riven tight. But his eyes were locked on Seth — dark, nearly dangerous.

“If you touch him again...” Téo said, low and steady, “...I’ll break you, Lancaster.”

For a second, Seth hesitated. Not because of the threat. But because he saw something in Téo’s eyes he wasn’t used to: pure hatred.

Lys pulled Mika to the side.

Áurea stepped closer to Seth and clicked her tongue.

“Nice performance, Lancaster. Must be hard realizing your alpha act doesn’t scare everyone.”

“He provoked me,” Seth muttered, still trying to catch his breath.

Riven, still restrained, smiled. The corner of his lip bloodied.

“And it hurt, didn’t it?”

Finally, the coordinator showed up, staring at the scene like she already knew what to expect.

“You two. Director’s office. Now.”

“But Coordinator, he—”

“I saw everything.” She raised an eyebrow. “And you, Riven, should be thankful you’re not suspended. Yet.”

Téo slowly let go of Riven’s shoulder.

Seth stepped back, clean on the outside, but a mess inside.

The director’s office smelled of old paper, lukewarm coffee, and accumulated disappointment.

Riven sat with legs crossed, a mask of meticulous boredom on his face.

Seth stood, arms crossed, jaw tight, a bruise already forming on his neck.

Between them, Coordinator Elba held a report.

Director Penha just sighed.

“You two think this is an arena?” he asked, voice deep and tired. “This is a university. Not a cage. Not a boxing ring.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Seth began, still trying to keep his temper, “he provoked me.”

Riven didn’t even look at him.

“I didn’t provoke. I told the truth. He just doesn’t handle mirrors well.”

The director raised a hand for silence.

“I could suspend you both. And believe me, that was my first option. But the coordinator…” he glanced at Elba, “…believes there’s still hope for you two. That you can work through your differences in a… productive way.”

Riven let out a dry laugh.

Seth looked up like he was begging the gods of frustrated alphas for help.

“This is ridiculous!” Seth’s voice echoed in the office, fists clenched at his sides, jaw twitching.

On the other side of the desk, Elba Ferraz — rigid posture, sharp voice — simply watched the two like she was done with all the “mini-alphas in crisis and sarcastic poets” this school had to offer.

She didn’t yell.

She didn’t need to.

“After that little show you put on in the main hallway — broken furniture, blood, and three freshmen in panic — and yes, one of them has anxiety — you should be suspended.”

She crossed her arms.

“But since I still believe public humiliation is more effective than immediate expulsion... you’ll pay for this embarrassment with productivity.”

Silence.

Even the squeaky ceiling fan seemed to mock them.

“In two days, in the Social Chemistry lab — yes, that ‘interdisciplinary space’ everyone thinks is just for awkward group activities — you two will present a joint project.”

Seth frowned.

“A presentation? On what?”

Elba pulled a sheet from the drawer and slid it to the center of the desk.

“Theme: ‘Identity, Performance, and Masculinity in the Contemporary Context.’”

Riven raised an eyebrow.

Seth went pale, like he’d just taken another punch — only this one was intellectual.

“You’ll explore how gender stereotypes shape behavior in academic environments, using both personal experiences and critical analysis. The project is theoretical-practical. It’s graded and will be evaluated by both the Humanities and Psychology boards.”

“Just us? Alone?” Seth asked, voice low, almost subdued — a mix of disbelief and despair.

“That’s right,” Elba confirmed, with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “No audience. No friends to pull you off each other. One-on-one interaction. A written report. And a joint presentation, with both of you speaking.”

She leaned back in her chair, gaze sharp as a scalpel.

“Do it together... or hand over your dorm keys. Same outcome.”

Riven closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.

Seth bit his tongue.

They both knew they couldn’t afford to refuse.

“Understood,” they said in unison.

The director nodded, too tired to be surprised.

“Good luck. You’ll need it.”

As they left the office, walking side by side, the hallway felt too narrow.

“This is all your fault...” Seth muttered.

“I’m bringing headphones. And a tranquilizer, in case your ego tries to attack me again,” Riven replied.

Seth scoffed.

Riven didn’t even smile this time.

They walked in opposite directions.

But both knew —

The real fight would begin tomorrow.

—

The door creaked like it could feel what he refused to.

Riven entered like a stranger in his own home — footsteps firm, cold, calculated.

Each step a silent scream: It’s over.

The TV blared at full volume, spitting out tragedies with the indifference of a regular news segment. Death tolls mixed with the smell of old cigarettes and burnt pots. But none of those tragedies compared to the one that lived inside those walls.

He walked through the room without looking at anyone.

His backpack was heavier from history than textbooks.

“Where do you think you’re going?!” Carmela yelled from the kitchen, her voice like a whip.

Her voice had always been sharper than it should. It cut.

“To get my things,” he answered, flat.

He didn’t slow down.

Didn’t explain.

But she appeared.

She always did.

Apron stained, eyes hard, that bottled-up anger of someone who never learned how to love.

“What do you mean, your things?”

“I’m moving into the university dorms,” he said, standing at his bedroom door. “It’s approved. I start tomorrow.”

For a moment, time stopped.

Like the house itself held its breath.

“So that’s it?” she screamed, a knife-shaped tone. “You’re abandoning us?! After everything we’ve done for you?!”

He laughed.

A hollow sound.

Almost a cough.

He turned slowly, as if carrying shards in his chest.

“What exactly do you think you did for me?”

She stepped back. Pride kept her from showing weakness.

“Don’t talk to me like that, boy!” Élio’s voice followed, dragging behind nicotine and spite. “You eat here. Sleep here. You grew up here!”

“I’ve supported this house for seven years,” Riven said — and this time, the tone was different.

Deeper. Cracked.

Like something inside him was finally breaking — and the sound was leaking out.

“Mom’s money covered what it could. The rest was me. Every month. Every cent.”

“We never forced you!” Richard, the useless brother, chimed in with that clueless smirk.

“I should’ve let everything fall apart,” Riven muttered.

And this time, his hand trembled.

But he didn’t show it.

“Maybe then you’d have learned how to stand up on your own.”

He entered the room with a straight back.

But inside... his body wanted to collapse.

Old weight twisted inside his bones.

His hands, cold.

His forehead, sweaty.

His throat, closed.

Every folded piece of clothing was a memory.

Every book packed, a muffled scream.

And the box — the one with his mother’s photo — froze his fingers for a second.

When he returned to the hallway, they were all waiting.

Élio huffing.

Carmela breathing heavy.

The brothers laughing.

Always laughing.

Like hyenas circling a wounded lion.

“You ungrateful brat!” Carmela spat. “If you walk out that door, don’t come back!”

Riven stood still.

Felt his heartbeat pounding.

One beat.

Two.

Three.

And with it came heat.

A discomfort.

Pressure behind the eyes.

Skin burning.

Something was wrong.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t care.

“I left a long time ago,” he said.

The words were firm —

but inside, his body was screaming.

Strange tingling crawled up his spine.

Warmth in his chest.

Joints tense.

He was falling apart.

But standing tall.

He walked past them without looking.

The door shut behind him.

And what was left… died there.

—

The dorm room was simple. A bed, a wardrobe, a desk by the window. Everything arranged with obsessive precision.

Riven threw the backpack on the chair and sat on the bed’s edge.

Shoulders dropped.

Body heavy.

Mind... confused.

It wasn’t exhaustion.

It was something else.

Something that didn’t pass with silence or distance.

He took off his sweater and tossed it aside.

Tried to breathe.

But the air was dense.

Heavy.

Wrong.

He touched his arms. His skin was sensitive.

As if even his own touch wasn’t welcome.

As if something was waking up.

Just stress, he thought.

Just the body asking for rest.

He went to the bathroom, flipped on the fluorescent light.

Looked into the mirror.

Eyes dilated.

Skin flushed.

Breath unstable.

“No...” he whispered.

He sat on the sink’s edge, body leaning forward.

It couldn’t be. Not this.

He had never gone into full heat.

He was a recessive omega.

He always resisted.

But the scent...

It was changing.

Not strong. Not like a common omega.

But present.

Warm.

Calling for something he didn’t want to call.

He bit his lip.

Almost broke the skin.

“Shit…”

He opened the medicine cabinet.

Found an old pack of expired suppressants.

Crushed it.

Tossed it in the trash.

His heart was racing without permission.

His hands trembled.

And for the first time in years,

Riven was afraid of his own body.

—

Back in the room, he threw himself on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Laid on his side.

Then his back.

Then face down.

Nothing helped.

Nothing brought peace.

“This will pass,” he whispered. Like a prayer.

—

The lab smelled of alcohol, clean glass, and wasted time.

Riven walked in, forehead slightly damp, pulse high, but his face as unreadable as ever.

He sat at the station, pulled out his binder with controlled stiffness, as if his own hands might betray him.

Seth walked in two minutes later, dragging the stool like only he could — full of casual insolence.

“You gonna stay quiet, or already got your next jab lined up?” the alpha said, not even looking.

Riven didn’t answer.

Because in that moment… he was focused on breathing.

The heat had started like it always did — slowly, fooling the body with low-grade fever, a vague discomfort in the gut, warmth blooming in the wrong places: nape, inner arms, behind the knees.

He thought: Maybe it’s just stress. Maybe I’m overreacting.

But he’d already sweated three times in ten minutes.

His neck tingled.

And the urge to rub his face against something soft was almost instinctive.

Not now. Not here.

“You sick or just sweating in silence?” Seth prodded, raising an eyebrow. “Your face looks... off.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Riven snapped, voice too hoarse. “Just leave me alone.”

Seth chuckled. But this time, he didn’t tease.

He just… watched.

The next few minutes were pure hell.

The coordinator passed by the glass door once or twice, but didn’t notice anything. The pheromones were still faint. But alive.

Crawling under Riven’s skin like a cursed promise.

His handwriting started to falter.

Letters trembled. Words lost focus.

And then Seth leaned closer. Just a little.

And it was enough.

His scent — previously annoying — now unbearable.

It called.

Whispered:

just one touch.

just one bite.

just once.

“Riven…” Seth’s voice dropped. “What’s happening to you?”

Riven clenched his teeth.

He could barely stay upright.

Heart pounding.

Pupils blown wide.

“Nothing.”

But the voice…

was from someone lying to himself.

Seth stepped back slightly.

But his gaze sharpened.

---

To be continued…