Chapter 12

The spoon hovered in Damian's hand for a moment before he finally took a bite. Warmth spread across his tongue—simple, hearty. The green onions gave just enough bite to cut through the savory richness of the pork. It was good.

He glanced at Theodore, who sat on the far end of the kitchen table, eating in silence. His eyes were downcast, his posture composed, yet distant. He didn't know why Theodore changed his mind but Damian was content.

"Thank you," Damian said, voice low.

Theodore didn't look up. "You should eat faster. Your probably late to.. whatever it is." He said, he was also curious to what made Damian, who usually slept in for hours, wake up so early. But he didn't ask, he didn't want to speak.

Damian's jaw tensed. "I know." He focused on the food, scarfing down the rest in quick bites. After rinsing his plate and setting it on the drying rack, Damian wiped his hands and grabbed his coat. "I'll probably be back late."

Theodore's gaze drifted toward the sink, then to the drying rack where Damian's plate sat, clean and neatly placed. His brows furrowed slightly. Since when did Damian know how to wash dishes? Whatever.

"You don't have to tell me."

Damian opened his mouth, wanting to say something. Maybe a thank you, or something stupid like you looked peaceful last night. But the words refused to pass his lips. Instead, he reached into his pocket and set a small black pouch on the table.

Theodore frowned, suspicious.

"Emergency suppressant pills. Just in case," Damian muttered.

Theodore's face froze. Damian didn't wait for a reply, knowing he wouldn't get one. He turned and walked away, leaving behind the faintest trace of lavender smoke.

---

The door shut, and silence returned.

Theodore stared at the pouch for a long time, then slowly picked it up. He turned it over in his hands, expression unreadable.

Suppressants.

They made him sick. His body rejected them every time, but it was the only way to survive in this goddamn world. Still, it wasn't the pills that made his stomach twist. It was Damian's pheromones, even now, he could still smell the lavender in the air.

And it terrified him. He can't have any lingering feelings, he needs to go through with this divorce with finality.

Theodore shoved the pouch into a drawer, slammed it shut, and turned toward the sink. He needed to do something. Anything. Clean the dishes. Mop the floor. Breathe.

But even with running water in his ears and soap bubbles numbing his fingers, his thoughts kept circling back to that bed, that embrace, and the soft murmur of "..stay."

Damian adjusted the cuffs of his coat, his fingers lingering near the hidden blade tucked into his sleeve—not out of fear, but out of habit. The car ride had been quiet, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional static burst of the security scanner embedded in the dashboard.

He could still hear his mother's voice ringing in his head from the earlier call.

"What kind of responsible alpha spends millions fortifying a mansion like it's a war bunker? Are you hiding from something—or someone? The media are starting to talk. Your father wants to see you."

The gates of the La Cosa estate opened slowly as the car approached, revealing a manor that hadn't changed in all the years he'd lived, died, and come back. Nothing had decayed here yet. Not the polished marble steps, and not the manicured gardens.

Efrain La Cosa stood behind his desk when Damian entered. The man was still an imposing figure despite his silvering hair and neatly pressed suit. Sharp lines etched his features, and his gaze carried the weight of expectations that had never been met.

"You're here," Efrain said, eyes never lifting from the tablet in his hand. "And not a minute early."

"I wasn't aware punctuality mattered when you're being dragged in for a scolding," Damian replied, voice dry.

Efrain placed the tablet down, folded his hands neatly. "Let's not waste time. Would you care to explain this absurd expenditure on perimeter barricades? Hired contractors running night shifts like you're preparing for a siege?"

Damian said nothing.

"I've turned a blind eye to a lot of things—your independence, your sudden reclusiveness, even this ridiculous idea of living alone in that cavernous mansion. But I will not tolerate the misuse of family funds on your paranoid fantasies."

Damian's jaw clenched. "It's not paranoia."

"Then what is it?" Efrain pressed, standing tall now. "Because it looks like a young alpha, fresh out of heat season, spiraling into delusions. Do you know what people are saying? That you've become unstable. That you're hoarding weapons. Some even say you've joined a militia."

Damian said nothing.

Efrain's voice rose. "We live in one of the most secure districts in the region. There is no war. No plague. No threat. Your behavior is reckless, and worse, it reflects on me."

For a moment, Damian almost said it. Almost told him everything—the walking corpses, the crumbling cities, the starvation, the jaws that clamped on living flesh. About how he'd died with starvation etched into his bones and woken up.

Damian finally spoke. Voice controlled. Tentative. "Father. Do you perhaps know of the Pureline Program?"

Pureline Program.

He hadn't heard it in over a decade. Not since the early weeks of the apocalypse, before the news broadcasts turned to static and the last of the government fell. Back then, there were whispers—about pharmaceuticals, corrupted trials, and a program called Pureline.

The name La Cosa had been tossed around on survivor radio channels. But no one had known what it meant. And he was determined to figure it out, after all.. he was an outcast in the apocalypse and couldn't join any survivors groups due to being La Cosa.

---

That night, Damian stayed in one of the guest rooms on the second floor—far from the master wing but close enough to the west study. The walls were thick with money and silence. His mother had gone to bed with a warning not to "snoop around like some rebel teen."

She didn't know how close to the truth she was.

By 2:00 a.m., the hallways were still.

Damian moved with practiced quiet, dressed in dark clothing, gloves snug on his hands. The old floorboards didn't creak under his steps anymore—not since the estate was remodeled. Everything here was new. Polished. Pristine.

Except the secrets.

He slipped into Efrain's private office—the one his father never used during meetings. The real one, with the reinforced lock Damian had bypassed as a teenager out of petty rebellion. He still remembered the override code: E.L.C.193.

It clicked open like muscle memory.

---

Inside, the air was cool and dry. The room smelled of leather, ink, and something faintly metallic. Files lined the shelves, organized meticulously—paper and physical drives. No cloud backups. Efrain never trusted online security, which was, ironically, the only reason Damian had hope of finding anything.

He started with the drawer labeled "Bio Initiatives."

Most of it was standard—grants, investor reports, ethics board approvals. Then he saw it.

A folder marked PURELINE: Restricted Access.

He opened it.

Inside were proposals wrapped in government letterhead. Promises of "enhanced omega viability," "pheromone synchronization," "heat suppression without hormonal compromise." All of it couched in sterilized, clinical language.

Until he saw the term CRS-21 Genomic Isolation Trials.

His blood ran cold.

He remembered that code. From a wall. Spray-painted across a burned-out lab in the future. A lab filled with corpses in white coats, and failed test subjects restrained in blood-slicked glass chambers.

CRS-21 had been the precursor strain.

It starts with omega gene purification. Then control. Then conversion. Then decay.

Damian's fingers trembled slightly as he flipped to the funding report.

Primary Corporate Sponsor: La Cosa Conglomerate.

He stepped back from the desk like the paper had burned him. His heart thudded loud against his ribs.

His father didn't just fund a lie.

He funded the end of the world.

And the bastard didn't even know it.