Perfect Omega Chapter 5.2 - Identification of Friend or Foe

“Oh! Th-that’s… true. That’s also true.”

“Is that so?”

Like a menacing gorilla, Nick leaned towards Owen, his fists pressed against the table.

“Y-yes… yesterday was the first time.”

He wasn’t exuding any violent energy, but Owen’s shoulders instinctively hunched. Still, a fact was a fact, so Owen confirmed it. Then, the hulking primate, who had puffed himself up as if to threaten, slowly formed a smile. Still in that menacing posture.

“…Nick?”

Completely unable to read this body language, Owen cautiously called Nick’s name.

“Good.”

King Kong, no, Nick, kept his upper body puffed out and slowly raised one clenched fist. It really looked like King Kong’s fist was approaching, so Owen had to muster his courage not to flinch.

“Very good.”

As expected, King Kong—no, Nick’s—hand was soft. It brushed Owen’s cheek and then gently caressed his earlobe.

“….”

Now Owen thought he could understand what this being—whatever it was—in front of him was trying to say. He thought he could decipher the message conveyed by this body language and expression. Nick looked very… pleased.

So, out of all the sensational phrases in that tabloid article, Nick had only taken issue with one line. What he’d questioned when he first entered the kitchen, and what he’d confirmed until the very end, was that single line.

Had he misunderstood the characteristics of Alphas? Weren’t they synonymous with possessiveness? He’d heard it was even more pronounced in those with stronger secondary genders.

People who saw that photo would now picture someone else beside Owen Rose, not Nick. Yet, Nick didn’t seem offended in the slightest. He wasn’t grilling him about who the person was or why the article had been published.

He was communicating solely through gestures, like an animal. It was strange that Owen understood, but facing him like this, he did. Nick was happy. Still standing in that uncomfortable, threatening posture, he was stroking Owen’s earlobe and the nape of his neck.

Owen’s cheeks felt hot. He raised a hand to touch them. They were indeed flushed.

❊

“Get me something. Not another gold-bar delivery, something involving killing a sleek Alpha.”

Nick’s expression changed as he watched Owen’s car drive away.

—Uh… glad to know you haven’t forgotten about us, Boss. Speaking of gold-bar deliveries, to give you an update, we drove it to the client’s specified location and completed the handover. There were a few minor skirmishes, but no one got hurt. Frank said he’s going to self-isolate for a bit longer before returning to his kid, just to be absolutely sure he’s Ebola-free. Touching and sad, right?

Nick slammed the front door of Rose Mansion hard enough to shake the whole building.

“John, my patience is wearing thin. You’d better tell me you’ve got something.”

—…What was that? A gunshot?

“John.”

—Alright, alright. Calm down, Boss. No sleek Alpha assassination requests yet, but I’ve located the base of that new religious group that tried to dose Rose with Acid pheromones.

“Where?”

—Pennsylvania.

Pennsylvania wasn’t far.

—The registered address was fake. This is the actual residence, judging by the mail delivered there. But this new religious group is confusing. I can’t figure out their motive. Seems like they’re easy to create.

The sound of typing followed.

—I’ve been looking into groups that sent threatening emails to CEO Owen Rose. They’re all newly formed, or if they’re old, they’re tiny and practically inactive.

“Inactive? Completely?”

—Yeah, no anti-biotech protests or anything like that, at least not until recently. They suddenly started participating in demonstrations.

“…They might be using the names of existing groups.”

—Hmm… that makes sense. There’s one group that popped up and then disbanded. I traced them. No missionary work, no online presence, nothing. They registered, went silent, then suddenly appeared in the media during protests, sending threatening emails. The threats must have crossed the line, leading to police reports. Threats are illegal, after all. So, they filed for disbandment. What the hell are they doing?

It was one of the scenarios Nick had anticipated. The religious group was likely a front.

“What kind of guy was the dead one?”

—Looking at his history, joining a religious group makes sense, as in needing to repent. Four prior convictions. The little punk was busy.

Four convictions at that age meant he’d been committing crimes practically since he hit puberty.

—You don’t think this was just a religious group, do you, Boss?

The guy Nick had seen at the helipad had acted like a typical hired gun.

“I’ll know when I see it. Send a helicopter.”

—It’ll be empty now that he’s dead.

“All the more reason to go before the evidence disappears. And he might not have been alone.”

Acid pheromones were an expensive drug. A client who could afford that would likely hire a team of professionals to ensure success. A lone operative increased the risk of failure due to limited ability to handle unforeseen circumstances.

—You’re not going alone, are you, Boss?

“I’ll leave in two days.”

—R-right. I’ll let them know. Plenty of time for jet lag. Cooper will be thrilled. Oh, Boss, did you see the morning paper?

John’s teasing was particularly irritating today.

“You call that a newspaper?”

—You saw it… Boss, just to be clear, for the new contract, should I prioritize ‘sleek’ or ‘Alpha’?

“…John.”

—Yes, Boss?

“Don’t make a mistake. You won’t get a second chance.”

—Why so scary, Boss… where’s your sense of humor gone?

Even if a sleek Alpha assassination request came in, Nick couldn’t leave New York. Being with Owen gave him a sense that everything was alright, but Owen’s surroundings were undeniably irritating. He hung up without further response to John’s whining.

❊

“Why don’t you get some fresh air? Research is important, but staying cooped up hinders productivity.”

“….”

Sarah had been trying to coax her son for several minutes now. Locke, as always, responded with silence. He didn’t even offer perfunctory excuses like being busy with research or preferring the air here.

“So vulgar. Becoming tabloid fodder.”

Sarah disparaged Owen Rose, lacing her words with resentment towards her uncommunicative son.

“….”

“He’s supposedly introducing him to the family, but I’ve never even heard the name. I don’t know his background.”

Sarah was referring to family name, lineage. Without a prominent family or company to back him up, an individual’s name held no meaning for her.

“Catherine seems to think it’s a good catch, but being alone would be better. I heard what he does, but I can hardly believe it.”

“What does he supposedly do?”

Locke finally spoke.

“PMC, private security… or something?”

“PMC stands for Private Military Company, Mother.”

“Is that so? You’re well-informed. Regardless, they’re uneducated people who make a living with their bodies. Utterly vulgar.”

“….”

Sarah had expected her son to agree, but he just listened silently.

“He must be desperate for a partner to resort to someone like that.”

“…Is he getting married?”

“With his status? I doubt it will go that far.”

Judging by the hopeful tone in Catherine’s voice earlier, she seemed to be anticipating it. Melissa probably wouldn’t object either. She rarely expressed opinions, positive or negative, about other people’s affairs.

After ending the call with Catherine, Sarah felt two conflicting emotions: a desire for Owen Rose to marry someone insignificant, and a simultaneous hope that he wouldn’t even have that.

My son has become a monk, completely absorbed in his research.

Locke had told her repeatedly that he preferred research and didn’t want her to find him a partner anymore. But even he must be bothered by Owen Rose’s potential marriage. He always answered her calls, even if he only listened silently. When he finally asked a question, it meant the topic was on his mind. Why wouldn’t it be?

“Your father isn’t going either. Am I sending you alone?”

“Don’t go, Mother.”

“I can’t do that. Wouldn’t it be too comfortable for them if all three of us were absent? I don’t want that.”

“….”

Her son remained silent. A sigh escaped her lips. She felt sorry for him, isolating himself and devoting himself solely to research, but he was already beyond her reach. He’d long stopped listening to her or Victor.

“You’re just like your father. You have to do things you don’t want to… well, it’s not just any unpleasant task, is it? I understand, my son. Locke, I’ll go with your father soon.”

“I’m busy. Don’t come.”

Locke hung up before Sarah could finish her goodbye.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the dark, empty expanse of the night sea. Across the ocean, where Owen Rose was.

“Ugh…”

A moan from the next room interrupted his thoughts.

Locke threw his phone down. He’d gotten no useful information, only an interruption. He’d been in the middle of an experiment before his mother’s call. He had to check the meaning of that sound.

He entered the laboratory adjacent to his bedroom, separated by a partition.

“What… who are you?”

The fact that the subject could form a coherent sentence was a bad sign. Locke’s brows furrowed in a grimace.

The National Secondary Gender Center was useless. They simply categorized individuals as dominant or recessive, without specifying the degree of dominance or recessiveness.

The dosage that had worked on the previous month’s subject clearly wasn’t sufficient for this one. Because the Center didn’t do its job properly, scientists like him had to constantly resort to trial and error.

They graded meat, yet they failed to properly grade people, a far more important task. Incompetent fools.

Suppressing his frustration, Locke returned to the experiment table. He filled a syringe with undiluted Acid pheromones.

He briefly considered diluting it, but he lacked the patience for incremental adjustments today. The conversation he’d just overheard dominated his thoughts.

Subjects like this were hard to come by, so he should be careful, a cautious voice whispered. But a louder voice urged him to produce results, overriding the caution.

“This… huh… what is this?”

The subject, looking down at the restraints, was a rare find: an imprinted dominant Omega.

Locke believed that drugs, whether medicinal or recreational, were merely combinations of chemicals. But the world differentiated between them. Therefore, he couldn’t advertise for clinical trials on a new narcotic. Fortunately, cities were full of homeless people. Their disappearances went unnoticed and unquestioned. They were cheap, too.

The homeless were surprisingly suspicious, making it difficult to lure them directly. After an early incident that almost caused a commotion, he’d switched to paying street gangs to bring them to him.

The subject before him was now sweating from the drug’s effects, but he’d been clean before. Considering his life scavenging through trash, he should consider being chosen for Locke’s experiment an honor.

Even if it was only for a short time before death, when would he ever have another opportunity to be this clean, to live like this, even for a little while?

“Th… ugh… huh…”

The Omega, drooling and releasing pheromones uncontrollably, was rather temperamental, but once cleaned up, he was quite presentable.

Locke recorded the additional dosage he’d administered, carefully noting the subject’s physical reactions before stepping away from the keyboard. He circled the chair once more to check the subject’s condition and then released the restraints.

The subject collapsed to the floor with a thud. The lack of even a minimal defensive reaction confirmed the drug’s effectiveness.

In a few minutes, he would start crawling and begging. He’d plead for relief, emitting a repulsive odor from his leaking orifices.

No one was allowed on the third floor when Locke conducted his experiments. He’d forbidden it. If an Alpha succumbed to the Omega’s pheromones and barged in, it would introduce variables and ruin his mood.

He would observe, and when the time was right, he, the only Alpha nearby, would release a small amount of his own pheromones. The subjects, overwhelmed by the Alpha scent, would lose all reason. They’d cling to his pants. Fortunately, the Omega pheromones, forcibly released under the influence of Acid pheromones, didn’t arouse Locke much. Knowing their true state, even the slightest brush of skin against his was repulsive. He had no desire to engage with these filthy creatures, so he’d have to prevent them from touching his genitals.

Unfortunately, witnessing their pathetic display was the only way to rouse his dormant penis. Watching them grovel and plead on the floor was the small pleasure Locke derived from this tedious experiment. That’s why he bothered to release the restraints.

He felt a slight improvement in his mood as he looked down at the pathetic creatures who, even when he stepped on their grasping wrists with his boots, only moaned instead of crying out in pain.

Not fully aroused yet, but enjoying the rising heat in his body, Locke observed the subject on the floor. He seemed to have reached a lull, no longer writhing. Locke approached the monitor to confirm.

A leather collar was fastened around the subject’s neck. Sensors were attached to the inside of the collar to monitor his vital signs.

He could have used a standard wristband, but Locke had chosen a design resembling a dog collar. For aesthetic completion, he’d attached a thick chain to the end of the leather choke.

The chain was a useful tool for maintaining a safe distance from the subject or for pulling him closer without direct contact. It also served as a visually pleasing accessory.

The inside of the collar, in direct contact with the subject’s skin, housed an optical heart rate sensor, an electrical heart rate sensor, a bioelectrical impedance analysis sensor, and tiny needles that extracted blood at regular intervals for real-time analysis. What Locke wanted to check now was the pheromone levels in the blood.

The pheromone levels, analyzed from samples taken every ten minutes, were plummeting after peaking in the previous timeframe. Forced by the drug to expel all producible pheromones, the Omega had entered a state of exhaustion. This was the moment to break through an imprinted Omega.

Locke released his pheromones. Unlike the subject, whose pheromones diffused haphazardly due to the drug, Locke targeted his attack precisely.

Imprinting required the consent of the imprinted party. To forcibly imprint someone against their will required absolute dominance. Overpowering their resistance and forcing a bond was called forced imprinting.

Forcibly imprinting on a non-imprinted Omega was easy. It only required a power advantage. Many were probably doing it out in the world right now. He’d heard that emergency rooms were overflowing due to Acid pheromones lately.

“Kekeke…”

He hadn’t intended it, but as the drug’s developer, he felt a slight sense of pride hearing such news. And as that developer, he had to succeed in more challenging experiments.

What Locke was attempting now was to erase the existing imprint of an Alpha and replace it with his own. He’d succeeded with a recessive Omega.

The pleasure he’d experienced that day had left him floating for days. It hadn’t been his weakness, as he knew. Owen Rose was the monster.

Of course, while Locke had been basking in pleasure, the subject had screamed in apparent agony, but what did it matter? It was that kind of experiment.

“…!!!!”

The exhausted subject’s eyes rolled back, and his body began convulsing. He’d sensed Locke’s intrusion and was resisting.

Locke’s participation in this disgusting experiment wasn’t because he wanted to be imprinted with these creatures. To face a monster like Owen Rose, he needed to practice with imprinted dominant Omegas. It was a simulation before the real game. The pleasure he experienced was a bonus.

But before he could savor the Omega’s surrendering expression, alarms blared from the monitor.

No. No!

It was a shock. Whether it was from acute drug overdose or the pheromone shower, he couldn’t tell. He was a scientist, not a doctor.

He’d been so close to breaking through, but the shock had come before his intrusion succeeded. The long, continuous beep-beep-beep of the alarm changed to shorter, more frequent bursts.

Locke abandoned the syringe he’d been searching for, intending to administer a diluted solution. It was too late for that. There was nothing he could do at this stage.

Unlike poisons, narcotics didn’t have antidotes. Users had to control their dosage. If it had been a down-type drug with strong sedative effects, he could have administered something to strengthen the heartbeat. Unfortunately, Acid pheromones were an upper, designed for stimulation. He should have controlled the dosage from the start, but his impatience had ruined everything.

A long, continuous beep————————— filled the lab.

Another failure, even without checking.

The subject’s body, contorted by the final seizure, looked like it had suffered a brutal death, but it was nothing compared to the frustration Locke felt. He hadn’t yet succeeded in a single experiment with an imprinted dominant Omega.

Owen Rose had dealt him another blow. The experiment had failed because he’d skipped steps. He knew that. But it was Owen Rose who had made him so impatient in the first place.

“….”

Should he give up? Acid pheromones, despite being unintentional, were a success. Unexpected cash was flowing in. But money wasn’t the issue. He wasn’t financially comfortable yet, as he hadn’t received his inheritance, but he was Victor and Sarah’s only child. The inheritance would come eventually.

If Owen Rose hadn’t gathered his relatives to flaunt his Alpha, Locke would have maintained his composure today. He wouldn’t have lost this hard-to-find imprinted dominant Omega so pointlessly. If he surrendered now, he would live the rest of his life crushed by the weight of defeat.

His mind made up, Locke stepped over the body and headed for the partition. He retrieved his phone from the bedroom.

One more try. He just needed to determine the dosage that wouldn’t cause a fatal shock. It wasn’t a complicated experiment.

—“Yes, Mr. Rose.”

He’d called the head of security of the outsourced security firm responsible for the island’s overall security.

“I need another one.”

—“…Same conditions as before?”

Victor Rose had signed the contract with the security firm, but the head of security had been open to separate, additional agreements. He’d claimed to have joined a PMC for the money, but then chosen a less dangerous path. He’d jumped at the chance for extra income, his eyes gleaming. He was a man Locke could understand, devoid of unnecessary morality, driven only by shrewd greed.

“Yes.”

They both understood that “same conditions” meant an imprinted dominant Omega. Using the head of security kept Locke’s involvement hidden.

In this line of work, Locke was meticulous about one thing: using intermediaries. If things went wrong, he could always hire someone more competent to eliminate the head of security. Locke was born a Rose, and he would enjoy the privileges of that name until his death. He couldn’t be branded a criminal.

—“Understood.”

The head of security never questioned the nature of Locke’s experiments.

“And please clean this up.”

“Yes, I’ll send someone right away.”

Sometimes, when an experiment is successful, an unintended side effect is forced imprinting. Imprinting is like a drug. You become addicted to the other person, and if you don’t smell their pheromones for a certain period, you experience withdrawal symptoms.

Of course, it’s not impossible to break free. With the help of medication, you can gradually wean yourself off while experiencing milder withdrawal.

Or, there’s a simpler, more natural way. Nature is amazing; when the imprinted person dies, the imprint on the brain dissolves without any chemical side effects. Once the death is acknowledged, the emotional grief is separate from the release of the chemical shackles.

The method Locke chose was, of course, the latter. He might need an imprinted Omega someday, but not one from the streets. It’s better to eliminate the nuisance than to endure the clinging. But he’s a scientist, not a murderer. He left the dirty work to his head of security.

The man only ever talked about bonus pay, even when asked to dispose of a body. There’s no crematorium on this island. Moreover, it’s used as a family resort, so burial here is out of the question. After hearing the conditions, the head of security, as if it were no problem, simply threw the body into the sea. When Locke expressed concern about it washing ashore, he was assured the currents flowed towards the open water, not the beach. He said it would become fish food before anyone found it, and so far, no local newspaper had reported any mysterious deaths.

The man was articulate and did his job fairly well, so it would be convenient to keep him around for a while, but once the Owen Rose matter is concluded, he’ll have to be dealt with as well.

❊

Nick scanned Owen’s family as he circled the table clockwise.

“New York is so crowded this time of year.”

“When isn’t it?”

The conversation was dominated by two aunts, Catherine and Melissa. Their husbands sat beside them, offering only occasional interjections. All four seemed to lack ambition.

The topics of conversation since the meal began were art deals, ski trips, the health of acquaintances, and mentions of articles published about Rose Pharmaceuticals. Even the last topic was discussed with perfunctory politeness.

Owen, while appearing to only listen, was the model host, engaging with his two aunts, uncles, and even his younger cousins, who had shown no interest in the previous topics, with nearly equal attention.

Except for one person.

‘Thankfully, everyone except Uncle Victor is available. He’s often overseas.’

‘All of their last names are Rose?’

On the paper Owen had given him with the table seating arrangement, no other surnames were listed.

‘I don’t have any close relatives on my mother’s side. Those I do have live abroad and rarely come to New York.’

Nodding, Nick memorized the seating chart.

According to the chart, the only person Owen hadn’t initiated conversation with and barely engaged with was Sarah, Victor Rose’s wife. She hadn’t spoken a word. And Nick didn’t even need to strain his senses. She harbored considerable animosity and wasn’t even trying to hide it.

This couldn’t be this easy.

He had the entire evening anyway. Thanks to Ma, there was plenty of food and drink. Nick relaxed back in his chair.

Owen’s comment about the elevator being primarily used by the staff finally made sense. The dining room, where they were entertaining guests, was on the third floor. If he’d demanded that all this food be carried up the stairs, someone might have reported them to the labor board.

The dining room, with its latticed bay windows, had a beautiful view. The rectangular room seemed to be used solely for dining, containing a table that fit the space perfectly. The only other notable decor was a fireplace along one wall. Whether it was used or not, he didn’t know.

“It’s an 18th-century French mantelpiece.”

Catherine, noticing Nick’s gaze on the fireplace, offered an unsolicited explanation.

“18th century?”

Nick echoed her words, masking his true opinion of the unappealing decor.

“Back then, mirrors were still a luxury, so they were displayed above fireplaces like ornaments. They rarely had more than one or two mirrors in a whole house. And even then, they weren’t like the proper mirrors we have now. It was probably more like a well-polished silver tray.”

“I see. Impressive.”

He chose the next safest response to conceal his disinterest.

“What was that tabloid article about?”

Melissa addressed Owen with a challenging tone. This was probably the question she’d been most curious about all evening, perhaps the only topic she wanted to discuss. From Nick’s perspective, they’d all been remarkably patient, waiting twenty minutes after being seated to bring it up.

“It’s true I had a formal companion at the charity event, but it was Mr. Stockton. The article is inaccurate.”

Owen replied calmly.

“Then are the marriage preparations also true?”

“Why else would you have arranged this dinner?”

The two aunts again.

“Can’t you stop appearing in those tabloids? It’s tacky.”

Sarah finally spoke.

“Is that within our control? After the Burnett scandal, you dare say that, Sarah?”

Catherine put down her fork.

The Burnett scandal had recently dominated morning show ratings. The content was nothing special. In Nick’s opinion, it was the kind of private matter that could be found in anyone’s life if scrutinized closely enough.

But TV shows needed advertising, and advertising required ratings. And nothing boosted ratings like provocative photos and headlines. And there were more so-called business celebrities in New York than actual celebrities. Appearing in such gossip, regardless of its truth, seemed like a ritual everyone in that industry took turns enduring to keep the wheels turning.

“Still, our kids are fine. What could they possibly dig up on them?”

Melissa’s sons looked like ordinary kids.

“Don’t you dare judge us based on those trashy magazines. Don’t think there aren’t respectable families among the established businesses in New York. Regardless of what people say, our family has done nothing wrong, and I’m not ashamed to bear the Rose name.”

With sudden intensity, Catherine turned to Nick and delivered an impassioned defense of her family. Then, without giving him a chance to reply, she raised her glass to Owen, who sat at the head of the table.

“I’m proud. I’m proud of what Owen does.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Do you have a problem with the name Rose?”

Melissa asked Nick gruffly. She, too, continued without waiting for his response.

“I get defensive because we’re constantly being attacked.”

Surprisingly, she admitted to being defensive.

“I just wish people would differentiate us from the nouveau riche. Not all rich people are the same.”

Catherine’s husband spoke, and Melissa’s husband nodded vigorously in agreement.

“Right, not all rich people are bad.”

The uncles, who had remained mostly silent, added their opinions.

“…I don’t think so.”

Nick replied slowly. He couldn’t think so, given his own considerable assets. Of course, depending on where one drew the line, he might be disqualified from the “rich” category. What was interesting was that everyone at this table seemed certain, without further investigation, that Nick wasn’t “rich.”

“Good. That’s how it should be. At least you shouldn’t be swayed by rumors while dating Owen.”

Catherine cheerfully concluded, making eye contact with Nick.

“Well, were they all rumors?”

But someone seemed reluctant to let the topic drop.

“What are you trying to say, Sarah?”

“Just look at this gathering tonight. The rumor about Owen having a new partner has proven true.”

“…You shouldn’t say things like that. You know how much Locke suffered from those malicious rumors.”

For a few seconds, sparks flew between Catherine and Sarah like clashing metal. Ah, upon closer inspection, it was actually the sound of cutlery hitting the table. Sarah had abruptly set down her fork.

“Why bring that up now, Catherine! Do you not know why Locke was subjected to those vicious rumors?”

Sarah’s tone sharpened, and a metallic edge crept into her voice.

“I don’t know. I’m genuinely asking.”

“…!”

Nick anticipated an outright insult, but a pleasant voice intervened.

“This is a family introduction. Let’s leave it at that.”

It was Owen, unfortunately interrupting just as Sarah and Catherine were about to truly engage.

“Yes, why are we still dwelling on something so old? I wish Locke had joined us tonight. Is he still cooped up in his lab?”

No one answered Melissa’s casual remark.

Nick quietly observed the atmosphere at the table. Catherine and Sarah were at odds, Catherine defending Owen. Melissa seemed almost indifferent, and the rest looked uncomfortable.

And Owen. Owen was….

Even trying to gauge Owen’s feelings from across the table, Nick sensed nothing specific. Owen was in perfect control of himself. He seemed almost nonchalant, as if this conversation, this atmosphere, wasn’t new to him.

“… .”

He didn’t mind that the predictable drama had been interrupted. It wasn’t his taste anyway. He wasn’t interested in the details, but the attacks directed at Owen bothered him. The more he learned about Owen’s environment, the less he liked it. Unpleasant feelings crept in, and Nick swallowed them down with a sip of wine.

An awkward silence settled over the table, punctuated by the meaningless conversation and nervous coughs of the two uncles.

“What kind of investments does Mr. Stockton make? Since we’re all here, why don’t you share some interesting insights?”

Melissa’s husband addressed Nick, breaking the silence.

“I don’t invest.”

“… .”

“… .”

The blunt reply made the silence even more awkward.

In modern society, especially in Manhattan, not investing was practically a sin. If you had money and didn’t invest, it was almost like a breach of trust. And if you didn’t invest, it implied you didn’t have money. Nick didn’t bother offering a plausible excuse to break the awkward silence. He wasn’t in the mood.

Should he just end this family introduction charade and kick everyone out? Lock the doors and go hold Owen? Nick was seriously contemplating this when he saw a dark head dip down at the far end of the table. Looking closer, he saw Owen quickly bury his face in his plate, trying to hide a rising smile.

Nick had been serious just a moment ago. And Owen was laughing at him. A chuckle escaped Nick’s lips.

The reason Nick didn’t invest was that he already had enough money and didn’t want to bother with it. But even his lawyer, accountant, and long-time employees looked at him like a caveman whenever he said that.

Melissa seemed to want to say something, her lips moving, but at the far end of the table, only Owen found it amusing.

That calmed Nick’s irritation. He felt he could at least endure these people until they left Rose Mansion of their own accord.

“Tabloids are tacky, but some of the articles are entertaining.”

One of Owen’s cousins, Melissa’s first son—or was it the second?—attempted to change the subject, seemingly uncomfortable with the awkward atmosphere.

Regardless of birth order, both were Alphas. Based on the current composition, the Alpha/Omega ratio of those bearing the Rose name completely defied global statistics. At least at this table, there wasn’t a single Beta. No one was actively emitting pheromones, but he could still sense their secondary genders. An interesting group.

“You read them too?”

Catherine’s eyes narrowed in disapproval.

“As I said, some of the theories are interesting.”

“Conspiracy theories, you mean.”

“Some of them, yes. I recently read an interesting article about mutations. People keep it quiet, but mutations are occurring, and the article claimed that people with superpowers will appear soon.”

“And did this article include an interview with someone who supposedly has ‘superpowers’?”

“Well, yes… it did, but I don’t believe everything I read. Those magazines are notorious for photoshopped images.”

“Then why bother reading such garbage?”

“As I said, some perspectives are interesting. According to the article’s logic, the existence of Alphas and Omegas was itself a mutation in ancient humans. The logic itself made sense. Of course, the part where it speculated about the next stage of human evolution and what kind of abilities they might possess was pure fiction.”

“Nonsense! That’s a ridiculous leap in logic. You have no idea what mutations are, just spouting nonsense.”

Sarah’s stern voice reprimanded her nephew.

It was his cousin who was being scolded, but Owen’s hand stilled. His hand, holding a knife, froze above his plate.

“A mutation is, by definition, a mutation. An abnormality. How can we be abnormal!”

“Sarah, that’s not the point Henry was making. He’s saying that continuous change can eventually be seen as evolution. Even if it appears as a mutation in the short term. Isn’t that what you meant, Henry?”

“Yes, that’s right, Aunt.”

Unwilling to be misunderstood, Henry pulled out his phone, saying, “I’ll look it up.” Melissa’s husband, sitting next to him, put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“No. No, it’s wrong. You shouldn’t use a positive word like evolution in that context. Comparing us, Alphas and Omegas, to mutations is unacceptable. Normal and abnormal must be strictly defined.”

Sarah now put down her cutlery. She wasn’t looking at Owen, but Nick’s senses told him she was targeting him. More importantly, Owen seemed to perceive it the same way. He stared down at his plate like an animal aware of being targeted.

“Abnormalities are also called deformities. They’re diseases that need to be cured. If it’s a physical illness, it needs treatment. If it’s mental, the individual must be isolated from society. That’s how our social system operates.”

“Sarah! You’re ruining the meal. Stop it. Why are you digging so deep into a trivial magazine article?”

“Mr. Stockton, what are your thoughts on this?”

Ignoring the protests, Sarah directed a challenging question at Nick. The reason for her presence at this dinner, despite the absence of her husband and son, was becoming vaguely clear.

Nick lifted his glass of dark red wine and took a sip. Owen, at the head of the table, hadn’t moved in a while. He seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for this conversation to pass. He’d lowered his long lashes, hiding his eyes, but he looked just like he had on the helipad that first day. Nick felt a pang of sadness in his chest.

Nick took another sip of wine and slowly began to speak.

“Quetelet considered any significant deviation from the average to be a ‘deformity.’ He viewed individuals who deviated from the average as ‘errors.’ Quetelet went further, arguing for the existence of superior and inferior classes among people.”

“That’s correct.”

Sarah, mistaking his words for agreement, offered a positive response.

“No, Sarah. I was about to say that Quetelet was mistaken. We can see how such classifications were socially accepted by looking at Hitler. Individuals are just individuals. I believe there’s no such thing as average. At least not when we’re talking about ‘people.'”

“Then why did he fall into such flawed thinking?”

Henry showed renewed interest.

“Quetelet was a mathematician. Numbers have averages. More importantly, he was born in 1796.”

“Wow, how do you remember all that?”

Nick simply smiled in response to the genuine admiration. He glanced at the uncomfortable Sarah and continued.

“Returning to the original topic…”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Owen look up at him. He seemed to want to stop him, but Nick decided to ignore Owen’s wishes for now.

“If we were born in the wrong era, everyone at this table would have been treated as mutants.”

This time, everyone at the table except Owen stared at him. Their expressions were filled with indignant disbelief. They’d likely lived their entire lives being treated as superior, so their reaction was understandable.

“Imagine a time when there were only Betas, or when people believed there were only Betas. Imagine a couple suddenly claiming they could smell pheromones. What do you think would have happened to them?”

“It’s already documented.”

Henry’s other cousin, Ron, replied, and Nick nodded.

“Even when people believed that no other form of human existed besides Betas, there must have been the first Alphas and Omegas. They wouldn’t have been exactly the same as we are now. Looking at documented records—and I’m speaking in generalities, of course—there were certainly people assigned male at birth who exhibited typical Omega characteristics.”

“Oh, I know! Ray Moore!”

This time, Henry’s younger brother, Ryan, offered a name.

Ray Moore was an actor, now deceased. However, because he was famous, there were plenty of video recordings, not just written accounts. The consensus among secondary gender researchers was that Ray Moore was likely an Omega.

“And conversely, there are recorded instances of people assigned female at birth who exhibited typical Alpha characteristics. But this was before the existence of Alphas and Omegas was acknowledged, so at the time, people with Alpha traits were simply described as charismatic. They didn’t realize it was the effect of pheromones. And in the case of Omegas…”

“They were called alluring.”

“Henry!”

His parents interjected at his word choice, but he had essentially stated what was recorded. Nick made eye contact with Owen’s younger cousins, acknowledging that he knew as well. By now, the other adults seemed less interested in the topic and more resigned to their nephews’ fascination with it. Emboldened by the cousins’ support, Nick continued.

“I’m still talking about that era. When a study showed that women could determine men’s sexual arousal levels by their sweat, the study’s credibility was attacked. Even though it was published in a neuroscience journal.”

“Why was that a problem? They must have been smelling pheromones.”

“Exactly.”

Nick agreed with his nephew’s rebuttal.

“Because we now know about pheromones, we would criticize such a study for researching something so obvious, focusing on other aspects instead. But at that time, most people didn’t acknowledge the existence of pheromones. Because they couldn’t smell them, they concluded they didn’t exist. They said it was something only animals had.”

“Ugh…animals again.”

Even the Alpha cousins groaned at the familiar refrain.

Even now, some futurists lamented the emergence of Alphas and Omegas, questioning the direction of human evolution. Humans had evolved from cave-dwelling primitives to intelligent beings, and now there were humans emitting pheromones, driven by instincts to reproduce and fight rivals. From a Beta perspective, it might have seemed like devolution.

“Isn’t that the role of science? To measure and prove. To enlighten people about their ignorance, one step at a time.”

Melissa’s husband, who had been silent, joined the conversation.

“You’re right. In that context, what we should be cautious about is another ‘pheromone.’ Something that might exist, even if our current technology can’t measure it.”

Thankfully, no one voiced dissent. They weren’t intellectually deficient, at least.

“Until the day when men capable of pregnancy become commonplace, the ancestors of everyone at this table would have been treated as mutants, as monsters.”

Interestingly, only the adults flinched at the words “mutant” and “monster.” It was an almost imperceptible flinch, but Nick had deliberately emphasized those words, speaking slowly, to observe their reactions. And he’d caught what he was looking for.

He spoke again, slowly.

“Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.”

Nick’s gaze was fixed on Owen now, as he continued.

“If our ancestors weren’t monsters, why should the slight mutations that will inevitably arise in the future be treated as such?”

“….”

“What an interesting load of nonsense.”

Sarah scoffed, breaking Owen’s silence.

“According to Mr. Stockton, there are no monsters in the world. The word ‘deformity’ is meaningless. Ha! We’ll have to rewrite the dictionaries!”

Sarah’s hostility was even more blatant now, but Owen wasn’t looking down anymore. Though still appearing shaken, his blue eyes were locked on Nick’s face.

“Andy, did you know that the elements that make up our bodies are the same as those that make up the Earth? From minerals in the sea to those in rocks, they’re all within us. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Instead of directly responding to the agitated Sarah, Nick addressed Melissa’s husband.

“I think I’ve heard that before. But what does that have to do with our current topic?”

As expected, Andy responded with curiosity. Melissa’s sons seemed to take after their father.

“Greenpeace has been shouting for centuries about the Earth being covered in plastic. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I also donate to Greenpeace. But at the same time, I wonder if it might be faster to wait for evolution to take a different course.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Melissa asked, showing signs of boredom and irritation.

“The calcium and phosphorus in our bodies are substances dissolved from minerals. The iron that makes up hemoglobin is the same iron found everywhere in our daily lives. Oxidized iron is red for the same reason our blood is red. That’s the color of iron. If our bodies are part of the Earth, what’s stopping plastic from becoming part of our bodies someday?”

Now everyone was staring at him as if he’d gone mad. Surprisingly, only Catherine and her cousins seemed intrigued.

“It might take tens of thousands of years. But as generations breathe, metabolize, decompose, and reconstitute, silicon or polyester might appear on our body composition charts someday. When that happens, our appearance will surely change. Physical changes that seem like deformities now might be judged as evolutionary advancements later.”

“You mean like androids, with bones made of carbon steel?”

Henry chimed in, showcasing his imagination.

“So, when that happens, will we have pheromones that smell like petroleum?”

“Ew—”

“Don’t say ‘ew.’ By then, we might find the smell of burning plastic fragrant.”

Only Catherine seemed interested in her cousins’ increasingly outlandish conversation. The others remained silent.

“So, what’s the point of this story?”

Melissa made no effort to hide her impatience.

“Mother, I think Mr. Stockton is saying we should be careful when using words like deformity or mutation. Because it might actually be evolution, right?”

The cousins were intelligent and, above all, open-minded. Nick nodded.

Catherine, who had been smiling faintly, finally burst out laughing. She even slapped the table lightly with her hand, causing the cutlery to clink merrily.

“Chuckle, chuckle… Owen, your Alpha is a sophist.”

Catherine had hit the nail on the head. There was an element of forced reasoning in his argument, so Nick readily accepted her assessment.

“So, Mr. Stockton, what do you do?”

Catherine’s husband, seemingly realizing that she was unstoppable, attempted to change the subject.

“I run a private security firm.”

Strictly speaking, it was a Private Military Company (PMC), but these days, even PMCs referred to themselves as PSCs (Private Security Companies). After several major incidents, the industry had been trying to replace terms like “military” or “mercenary” with less threatening ones. Judging by the reactions around the table, their efforts seemed successful.

Silence fell over the table again.

Nick’s company fell somewhere between a PMC and a private security firm, both in size and services offered.

If he’d expanded it further, he could have created a private army, but maintaining that scale required war, becoming like a defense contractor, dependent on conflict for survival.

Nick’s company also relied on conflict for work but refrained from direct combat. He had his own criteria for accepting jobs.

He refused military collaborations with navies for pirate suppression but accepted contracts to protect private vessels from pirates. He wouldn’t take contracts to fight wars in place of armies, but he would handle logistics and supply transport for them. If someone pointed out that even those tasks involved smaller-scale combat, he would simply shrug.

However, only those familiar with SS & Co. would understand this. Most people associated private security with celebrity protection.

“Oh…”

A sigh, heavy with suppressed disappointment, broke the silence.

“What’s the name of your company?”

Ryan asked, pulling out his phone, likely to search for it.

“SS & Co.”

“Stockton Security & Companies?”

“Security Solutions.”

More oh…s and sighs followed.

“The name is… a little generic, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s not very memorable. Maybe that’s why I haven’t heard of it.”

Catherine’s husband likely hadn’t heard of Nick’s company because he’d never had reason to. Ordinary people, even those from influential families, rarely encountered situations requiring a PMC.

But if such a situation arose and they needed a fixer, they couldn’t not know about Security Solutions. Even if they didn’t hire him, they would have heard of him during their search.

This wasn’t arrogance. Nick was well-known in the industry. He was famous for being a contractor mercenary who had survived without being crippled, and for the fact that his team members had equally long careers. His company, founded by a former mercenary, was also known for its stability.

But the bland name, Security Solutions, was forgettable to those outside the industry. That had been the intention. A name that wasn’t difficult but didn’t stand out. The service wasn’t meant for public consumption anyway. The name was simply a necessity, carrying no special meaning.

While the adults exchanged glances, the younger generation began searching on their phones. Security Solutions had a website, but it offered practically no information. The cousins’ reactions reflected this.

“The company introduction is very… concise. Where is it located?”

The website they called concise had a total of five pages, containing a few promotional lines and some photos. The company introduction, no matter how many times one read it, offered little concrete information. Grammatically correct, but devoid of substance. It had been created in the early days to provide a contact email address and had been neglected ever since.

“Mississippi.”

He hadn’t even listed the headquarters address.

“Mis…sissippi?”

Melissa echoed the word as if to confirm she’d heard correctly. Sarah, sitting opposite her, raised her wine glass, attempting to hide a smirk. The others stared down at their plates, wearing expressions that suggested even hearing about someone farming corn in Kentucky would have elicited a more lively response.

“Mississippi. I’ve never met anyone from Mississippi.”

Sarah broke the silence.

“I’ve seen it on TV. Isn’t that the place where everyone is related? The community is so small that people marry within their circle, and everyone ends up being cousins. I couldn’t believe such a place existed in this day and age… so, Mr. Stockton, did you come to the city looking for a spouse?”

“Isn’t that Utah?”

Catherine’s husband interjected.

“No, it was Mississippi.”

“I think my aunt is talking about a really remote area.”

This time a cousin intervened before Nick could answer. They seemed to feel responsible for mitigating Sarah’s rudeness. He appreciated the sentiment, but he wasn’t offended by regional bias.

“No.”

He answered before anyone else could speak.

“There’s only the company there. I ended up in the South looking for a more convenient location for a training facility, but I was born and raised in Brooklyn.”

“Really?”

Catherine raised her eyebrows, as if relieved by this slightly more palatable information.

“What kind of training? Firearms training?”

“Even if gun regulations are looser in the South, wouldn’t the neighbors object to such a facility? The noise, for one.”

The cousin’s curiosity triggered a chain reaction. Perhaps hearing that Nick was from New York had been the magic words that broke the spell of stunned silence.

“I don’t know if they’ve heard any noise. I haven’t received any complaints or lawsuits, so I don’t think it’s causing any trouble… they probably haven’t heard anything. The surrounding area is owned by the company.”

There were several reasons Nick had chosen Mississippi as his base. The terrain was advantageous for helicopter operations. The lack of high mountains, or only low hills, minimized restrictions on his team, who frequently flew at night.

Despite its flaws, Sarah’s description had some truth to it. It was remote and insular, with a culture of responding aggressively to trespassing, sometimes to an extreme degree. In some cases, people would shoot trespassers on sight.

While it might seem like a lawless zone, it also meant people minded their own business, especially when it came to what happened on private property. This insularity was perfect for someone in Nick’s line of work.

“Wow… you bought the whole area?”

Ryan asked in an awed voice.

“Land prices there are different from real estate prices here.”

Melissa calmed her son down.

“That’s correct.”

Nick readily agreed. It was probably one of the most underdeveloped states. Even with low land prices, acquiring that much land and building a training facility had been costly, but it was the truth.

“But aren’t most security companies based in Florida?”

Catherine’s son asked, recalling something he’d heard.

“Those mainly cater to celebrities.”

Another round of oh…s followed Nick’s immediate response. They probably assumed it was a small, struggling company pushed out of the main market. The reality was quite different.

The profession of bodyguard had become popular, almost as much as the celebrities they protected, thanks to social media posts of bodyguards on private jets or holding champagne glasses in limousines. Some had achieved that level of success.

The problem was that, captivated by the glamorous facade, many flocked to the area hoping to emulate that success. He’d heard that the security business in Florida was oversaturated. Personal security had never interested him anyway; the pay was low, and it didn’t suit his temperament.

“So when are you going back?”

“….”

Nick, who had answered every question without hesitation, faltered here.

It wasn’t his decision to make. He’d been about to say he’d stay until he found the “lost item” he’d used as an excuse. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Nick will stay at Rose Mansion as long as he wishes.”

The conversation, sparked by a tabloid article Henry had brought up, had led to this. Owen, who had remained silent throughout the lengthy discussion, finally spoke. He preempted Nick, declaring Nick’s extended stay at Rose Mansion in a low, authoritative voice.

“…Is that so.”

Nick quickly took a sip of wine to prevent his hastily prepared answer from slipping out. The bitter taste was satisfying.

“So, do you have a branch in New York? Or what do you… excuse me, I’m curious about what you do in New York.”

Melissa’s husband asked with a genuinely curious expression.

“No. As I said, it’s just a small security firm. We don’t have an office in New York.”

“So when Owen goes to work, what do you mainly do, Mr. Stockton?”

Ma appeared at the doorway, as if on cue. She briefly met Nick’s gaze, and he gave a small nod of gratitude for her efforts in preparing the evening’s meal.

“I stay home with Ma.”

“…!”

“…!”

“I also help with chores.”

Now even Owen’s cousins gaped. This wasn’t good. Owen’s family, or some of them, seemed to enjoy teasing him. Owen, seemingly aware of Nick’s intention, was trying to suppress a smile from across the room.

He didn’t want to make a bad impression on Owen’s family, so he should probably clarify that it was a joke and that he ran a legitimate business. But Nick chose instead to focus on Owen.

“Are you all finished with dinner? You’ll be having dessert in a different room, correct?”

Ma intervened, like a savior.

“Ma~ Ma’s food is so delicious. You’re so talented, catering to everyone’s different tastes. It must have been a lot of work. Thank you. Owen, stop being fussy and hire some help for the house. Ma is working too hard.”

Melissa took Ma’s hand and looked at Owen.

“I’m fine. I don’t usually do anything, so I’m worried about whether I deserve my salary.”

Ma quickly offered a suitable reply.

“Well, once is enough. When you get married and the family grows, you’ll need help anyway, whether you like it or not. We can choose someone for you then. Let’s get up. I’m tired of sitting in one place for so long.”

Everyone rose at Catherine’s signal.

‘Brother, are you really preparing for marriage?’

‘Ron, Owen said the tabloid article was false. What are you trying to confirm?’

‘I think they look good together.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What Alpha stays home all day? Owen, for my brother Noel’s sake, I have to say this: make sure you get a prenuptial agreement.’

Snippets of conversation from those walking ahead reached Nick’s ears. He could have taken offense, but he chose to interpret it as their consent to the marriage, conditional upon a prenuptial agreement.

“I’m so full. I can’t walk that far. I’ll rest here for a moment. You keep me company so I won’t be bored.”

Catherine took Nick’s arm, complaining softly enough that those ahead couldn’t hear.

They settled at a small table near the entrance of the drawing-room. The others sat on the sofas, and the cousins, restless, stepped out onto the patio.

The cousins liked Owen. Owen also seemed comfortable around them. Nick hadn’t met Catherine’s eldest daughter, who was away at college, but judging by the fact that she’d called Owen directly to explain her absence, their relationship seemed amicable.

Sarah was making superficial conversation with Ma, who was serving dessert. Melissa and her husband seemed like typical relatives. Owen played the host, ensuring no one felt excluded.

“Stop staring. You’ll have plenty of time to look later.”

Despite the reprimand, Nick beamed. He took it as permission from a family elder to continue looking at Owen.

“I’m glad you approve of me.”

“I haven’t reached that conclusion yet.”

“Sarah doesn’t seem to like me.”

Everyone at the dinner table had been crossed off Nick’s list, except for Sarah.

“Hmm.”

Catherine tilted her teacup, humming thoughtfully.

“Or would she dislike anyone who was Owen’s partner?”

Catherine’s eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed.

“You’re too blunt.”

“I’ll take that as confirmation that I hit a nerve.”

“This isn’t your training ground. It’s best not to use your ‘hitting a nerve’ tactic here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Catherine placed her teacup on the small table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked at Nick as if seeing him for the first time that evening.

“…You may not care about other people’s opinions. Personally, I find it ridiculous how the upper class sticks together. But Owen was born into that world. It’s best to avoid any kind of rumors. And that’s not something one can achieve alone.”

“Yes… what did you mean by ‘once is enough’?”

“Hmm?”

Catherine paused, a puzzled expression on her face.

“You said that before we came here, that ‘once is enough’.”

“Ah~.”

She nodded in remembrance, setting her half-raised cup back down.

“What do you think of Owen’s eye color?”

“Beautiful.”

Nick answered truthfully without hesitation, unsure where this was going.

“Indeed.”

Catherine smiled in agreement, pleased.

“I wish everyone would just admire them, but some people doubt their authenticity.”

“….”

“A while ago, a ‘revelation’ appeared in the tabloids, claiming that Owen Rose actually had ordinary black hair and eyes, and that he wore colored contacts to appear mysterious.”

Catherine made air quotes with her fingers as she said “revelation.”

She spoke lightly, as if it were a trivial past incident, but Nick was hearing this for the first time. He frowned. He’d stared into Owen’s eyes long enough to know. There were no contacts.

“That article gained traction because it included an interview with someone who claimed to have witnessed it firsthand. And that witness was someone employed in this house. For four months, I think?”

Catherine scoffed.