Chapter 4: Chains That Burn

The air was thick with silence, half-shattered by the throb-throb of the mark on his wrist. Ben's head spun, a whirling tempest of fear, confusion, and ominous dread. The training session had been a sour reality check, a bitter reminder of how far he'd strayed from the life he'd abandoned.

He re-lived the punch, the surreal, paralyzing shock that had coursed through him. It was a wild thing, an instinctive reaction that had lain dormant for years.

He'd felt a strength, a crude, unlearned power that had for a moment grasped him. And Jack had seen it. The recollection of the eyes of Jack growing a bit wider was more unsettling than any blow to the body. It was not the face of a man surprised by a stroke of fortune. It was the face of a man who had just developed a suspicion, a man who had seen a piece of a puzzle fall into place.

He rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. The patterns danced and taunted him, reminding him of the gold cage that surrounded him. A pawn in a game he knew not was played, a game manipulated by brilliant men with interests they concealed.

The banging on the window was a crisp, jolting noise which shattered the calm. He jolted into consciousness, the pounding of his heart in his chest. Two stories. It could not be done. And yet the form beside the window stirred, a dark silhouette against the moon's light.

"Ben. Open the door."

Max's voice was low, even, a threatening whisper in the darkness. Ben's blood chilled. He had known

better than to roll down the window. He had known better than to play dumb, pretend not to have heard, not know his friend. But curiosity, wanting to know,

needing to know, needing  to know so desperately took over from fear. He strode to the window, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He released the catch, and the cold night air flooded into the room. Max slid through the gap, his movements smooth and silent.

"How in the world did you get up here?"

Ben whispered.

"That's not the problem," Max replied, his eyes fixed on Ben. "We need to talk."

"About what?"

About today," Max panted, speaking softly and hotly. "In the gym. You knew, didn't you?"

Ben hesitated. He did not want to admit it, did not want to confront the strange, unsettling tension that had accrued. But he could not deceive.

"Yes," he gasped, his voice barely audible. "I felt something."

"Something…different," Max said, his gaze boring into Ben's face. "Something you don't understand."

"I don't," Ben said, confusion in his voice. "What was it?"

Max hesitated, his eyes brimming with a strange mixture of warning and worry. "I don't know exactly. But I've seen it before."

"Seen what?"

That. Burst," Max said, his voice low. "That pure power. It's not natural, Ben. It's not just an omega thing."

Ben's mind reeled. He'd always known he was unusual, that he didn't quite fit. But he'd never dreamed he had something like this, something dangerous.

"What do you mean?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

"You're not just an omega," Max said, his face stern. "You're something else. You're special."

He stopped, his eyes sweeping Ben's. "Jack knows. He felt it too."

Ben's breath suspended. He remembered the glint in Jack's eyes, the flash of awareness. He'd felt something in him that Ben didn't feel in himself.

"What does he want?" Ben whispered, his voice shaking.

"Control," Max said, his tone biting. "He wants you to be controlled. He wants you to be controlled as to what you are."

And what am I?" Ben asked, his voice despairing.

Max hesitated, his eyes filled with a strange mix of pity and fear. “I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s dangerous. And it’s going to change everything.”

He stepped back, his gaze lingering on Ben’s. “Be careful, Ben. You’re playing with fire.”

He turned and strode towards the window, slipping out into the night as silently as he had entered. Ben stared at the closed window, his thoughts reeling.

He was an omega, yes, but more than that. He was something else, something unstable. And Jack wanted to control him. He wanted to use him.

He perched on the edge of the bed, his body trembling. He was a prisoner, not of the mafia alone, but of his suppressed potential. He was a pawn in some game that he could not grasp, a game worth a cost that he did not understand.

He looked down at the mark on his wrist, the second heartbeat pounding through his veins. It was not a mark. It was a chain, holding him to Jack, to this shadowland of pretense.

He was locked in a gold cage, and the chains branded him at every tick of time. The night was a dark, bottomless pit of secrets and silent horrors before him. He alone stood, shipwrecked in an ocean of doubt, without a compass to guide him.