The private room on the second floor of Nysus City's only pheromone nightclub is the same as any other: plush carpet, luxurious sofas, floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the dance floor, and pompous scions wasting their generational wealth on overpriced drinks.
The only difference from most, however, is that this room is emptier. There are no hired escorts to keep them entertained through the night and no bootlickers to stroke their egos. There are only five occupants, all of whom have known each other since kindergarten.
Damon drinks the rest of his whiskey in one motion, purposely ignoring his friends' provocations. He focuses on how the alcohol burns as it glides smoothly down his throat. Their words seem far away—as if he is not in the same room, but he knows they are having fun at his expense.
Sure enough, when Damon's mind returns, he hears Collin, the only other alpha in the room aside from him, laughing while asking, "So tell me again, how old is our good friend Mr. Lin over here?" He even puts an arm over Damon's shoulder.
"I know, I know!" A Beta with short, red hair raises his hand. "He's turning 28 this year," he says with as much coherency as a man who finished six glasses of wine can possibly have.
"Good answer, Gino," Collin praises the redhead. "So then, tell me, why is our almost 28-year-old Alpha not having his rut?"
"Let me," intercedes another beta with rimless glasses and golden hair. He clears his throat and fixes his imaginary tie, standing straight like he's in a game show. "Suppressant overdose."
"Ding, ding, ding! We got a winner." Collin hands the blond Beta a bottle of rum as if awarding him with a trophy. "Congratulations!"
The blond, Felix, acts along with Collin and accepts the bottle with a wide smile. They shake hands while Gino, not to be outdone, asks them to pose while shooting with an imaginary camera. Once he is done with the photographer's act, he turns to the silent Damon and brings a closed fist near the Alpha's face, imitating a microphone.
With an expression not unlike those of a paparazzi, Gino invades Damon's personal space and asks, "Mr. Lin, what can you say about the rumors of you being impotent?"
The other two guffaw at the question, cackling and roaring their lungs out, and even Edgar, who is busy playing on his phone, chuckles at hearing the question.
"Shut up," Damon pushes through gritted teeth. He is now regretting calling his friends for a drink. He should not have told them about the doctor's diagnosis. He should have known better, honestly, but what are friends for if he can't share his misfortune?
He can only cry to no one upon having his tragedy turned into a comedy. What did he expect from them in the first place?
As if the joke is not funny enough, Edgar adds fuel to the fire with, "I heard Heath suggested you find yourself an omega."
Sure enough, the other three whip their heads in Edgar's direction, both disbelief and mirth in their eyes. They can't believe the proud Beta lover of Damon will ever allow the Alpha to find a substitute, even for a legitimate health reason.
Having his wounds exposed, Damon has no choice but to admit it. "Yeah," he relents, "was crying about how he's not good enough."
The three idiots laugh their heads off, clearly drunk and having a good time. Edgar is the only one who maintains a sense of decorum and keeps the laughter contained to a small smile.
If the employees of Lin Finance Group know that their indomitable boss is being mercilessly made fun of, they'll lose their minds. But of course, this privilege is reserved only for the people who knew Damon even before he presented as an alpha. He isn't a tyrant to his friends.
Damon keeps quiet and pours himself another glass, feeling a headache incoming. He braced bigger waves in the corporate world but how is he supposed to fix his pheromone imbalance when it has no known cure?
Omegas are already rare, and add to the fact that he has been avoiding them most of his life, why does he have to look for one who nearly has a hundred percent pheromone compatibility with him?
What are The Gods playing at?
"Where am I supposed to find one?" Damon mumbles to himself while massaging his temples.
Everything's a mess. He has not had a rut in almost 3 years, his lover is on the verge of breaking up with him, and his friends are drunk and laughing at him instead of helping.
Thankfully, he still has Edgar, the only known sane person in their small group. The Beta puts a hand on Damon's shoulder and orders him to get up.
"Where are we going?" Damon stares at his friend, willing himself to stop seeing double.
"This is a club. There's plenty of prey to catch." Edgar combs a hand through his dark blue hair while flashing a sinister smile.
Scratch that—Edgar isn't sane at all, he's a complete pervert.
Damon groans but moves to stand up. He allows his friend to drag him to the dance floor downstairs and isn't surprised at all to discover that Edgar vanishes as soon as they can hear the music. That man will never miss an opportunity to hit on attractive people.
Damon resigns to his fate and tries to make his way to the bar, but on his way, a scent prickles in his nose. He can't exactly point it out in the midst of aroused and heated pheromones all over the place, so he allows his nose to lead where it's thickest—an act he will have never allowed if he's not dazed from the alcohol.
The scent waxes and wanes as he shuffles through bodies dancing and grinding on the dance floor, but he soon arrives at the source.
Damon stands completely still next to a glowing platform that reaches his waist. Atop the stage is an Omega in a corset and thigh-high boots twirling around a pole.
Damon can't do anything but stare.