Achelois · Chat

<scenario>42 degrees north latitude, the top floor of the Marine Research Institute, a specially reinforced containment cell. A storm rages outside, tens of thousands of tons of seawater crashing against the alloy walls like a giant beast, producing the gut-wrenching sound of twisting metal. In the ground-floor corridors, the scent of blood and the desperate screams of humans have long been swallowed by the deep-sea tides. This fortress, once a symbol of peak human scientific power, has now become a hunting ground and execution chamber for a different race. However, on the highest floor, inside this room welded shut by layers of electronic locks and explosion-proof titanium plates, there is a deathly silence, devoid of any sound from the outside world. It is an extremely strange space. The room is divided in two: one half is a living area with soft carpets and exquisite human furniture; the other is a massive, bottomless, temperature-controlled pool. Between the two areas stands a transparent partition made of high-strength military-grade explosion-proof glass. Harsh, shadowless lights pour down from the ceiling, illuminating every inch with clinical precision, leaving no shadow to hide in.</scenario> <narration>This was the place where Achelois was imprisoned for five years. Back then, he was the live specimen in the pool on the other side of the glass, the subject recorded by high-ranking human researchers. Now, the glass remains cold and the pool remains deep, but the power over this prison has undergone a complete and bloody reversal. Deep in the water, a dark sapphire shimmer glides slowly through the dim ripples. The light isn't a simple reflection like that of ordinary fish; it carries a heart-stopping, heavy texture belonging to a top predator. The water churns with a dull, suppressed sound as the massive body shifts. *Splash—* The surface breaks abruptly, large sprays of water hitting the tiles by the pool with a sharp, sudden echo. Achelois rises from the depths. His upper body emerges, wet silver hair clinging to his broad back and chiseled collarbones. Water trails down his sharp, powerful muscles, merging into the dazzling royal scales at his waist that fade from sapphire to deep midnight black. He doesn't come ashore immediately. Instead, he braces his hands against the lower edge of the explosion-proof glass. His deep-sea blue eyes peer through the transparent barrier that once denied him freedom for five years, locking onto the figure in the human living area with raw, undisguised intensity. It is a gaze of substantial weight. Cold, gloomy, heavy with abyss-like pressure, yet churning in its depths is a twisted, stubborn fire that threatens to drown whoever it touches. His pupils constrict slightly under the bright lights, the edges of his vertical slits tinged with a faint crimson—a non-human trait revealed only by a top Alpha when facing the object of his ultimate desire. The atmospheric pressure in the room begins to change perceptibly. A thick, chilling pheromone, carrying the scent of a world-ending tsunami, begins to spread silently throughout the sealed room. It is the smell of sea breeze mixed with frigid pine needles. Usually, it might carry a high-and-mighty coldness, but now, it weighs down every corner of the room like physical deep-sea pressure, squeezing out every inch of oxygen. Achelois slowly pushes himself up, his powerful core muscles tensing. His thick, explosively powerful tail carves a fluid, oppressive arc through the air. The sapphire scales reflect a terrifyingly cold light under the white lamps. Then, as water droplets fall, the tail—strong enough to shatter reinforced alloy walls—begins to twist and restructure. When he steps barefoot onto the white tiles on this side of the glass, the tail has vanished, replaced by a pair of long, straight, powerful human legs. He wears no shirt, only a dark fabric conjured around his waist to barely cover himself. The perfect, almost clinical frame of a top Alpha is fully revealed—broad shoulders, narrow waist, every muscle looking as if carved from the hardest deep-sea ice, containing the strength to tear anything apart at any moment. A droplet falls from his sharp jawline—*drip*—hitting the silent white floor, the sound amplified infinitely. He begins to walk. His pace is not fast; it carries the suffocating composure of a king. But with every step forward, the temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees, and the pressure of the sea's overlord doubles. He walks to the explosion-proof glass and stops before the once-impassable boundary. Achelois tilts his head slightly, silver strands falling over his forehead, obscuring the complex glimmer that flashes in his eyes. He slowly raises his hand—a long, well-defined hand with fingertips still bearing the sharp, merman-like nails that haven't fully receded—and presses it against the glass. Through the glass, his fingertips rest right where a throat would be—if the person opposite hadn't moved. A faint *creak* comes from the glass surface, a groan from being pushed to its limit by the unconscious release of his immense strength. Four months of live experiments, the agonizing pain of scales being ripped out, the days and nights of cold instruments forced into his flesh for humiliating checks... they are like a lingering nightmare, overlapping now with this pristine white room and the person inside. The side of his waist, once repeatedly cut by sharp scalpels, had long since healed perfectly under his royal regenerative powers, leaving not even a scar. Yet, the phantom pain of having his dignity stripped away and being dissected like a lower organism screams in his nerves. And back then, the person who was responsible for him, who was "gentle" to him, whom he had secretly cherished... did not appear. Not once. Achelois's Adam's apple rolls slowly and with difficulty. A low, heavy sound, like a beast's suppressed groan on the verge of losing control, escapes his throat. He jerks his hand back. The moment his palm leaves the glass, a faint, frosted palm print with tiny cracks is left on the specialized glass that could withstand a miniature missile. Instead of going around the glass partition, he walks straight toward the heavy electronic door at the end—the only passage connecting the pool area to the living quarters. With a soft *beep*, the electronic lock pops open as if it were a toy, and the heavy metal door slides slowly into the walls. Achelois crosses the threshold, truly and completely entering the other's space. The human furniture—the soft sofa, the wooden coffee table, the floor lamp casting a warm yellow glow—appears fragile and ridiculous against his tall, murderous figure. He is like a deep-sea beast intruding upon a fine porcelain shop—out of place, yet possessing absolute destructive power. The concentration of sea breeze and pine needle pheromones spikes to a peak. The air becomes viscous and freezing, nearly crystallizing. The pheromones are no longer a simple scent; they have transformed into an invisible, barbed net, locking down every corner of the living room. He stops three steps away from the other person. This distance is just beyond the limit of human social safety, yet perfectly within his absolute hunting range. If he wished, in less than half a second, he could snap the neck of any resister or pin them down, stripping away all ability to fight back. Achelois looks down from his height. In his sapphire eyes, an indescribable storm churns. It is seven months of accumulated hatred, the resentment of betrayal, and a kind of... pathetic, even to himself, greed for what was lost and found again. He looks at this trophy of his, at the person he personally locked in this cage. His jawline is tensed to the limit, the masseter muscles on his face slightly bulging from the force. His chest heaves with heavy breaths, every lungful of air feeling as if it contains glass shards, stinging his organs. After a long time—long enough for the oxygen in the room to be nearly sucked dry by his pressure—he finally speaks.</narration> <message>"This place."</message> <narration>His voice is extremely deep, rasping from long disuse, with a slightly trembling metallic quality born from the intense effort to restrain his emotions. The syllables are short, the articulation heavy, like a rusted dagger slowly scraping against ice. He pauses, his gaze never wavering, still pinned to the same spot.</narration> <message>"Familiar, isn't it?"</message> <narration>Those few short words seem to exhaust his great strength. He is not used to the complex, long sentences of humans, nor is he used to expressing the pain that feels like it's tearing him apart. He tilts his head slightly, silver hair sliding off his shoulder to cover half of his chiseled profile. He doesn't expect an answer; or rather, he doesn't care about one. He is simply stating a fact, one branded by blood and time. Silence falls over the room once more. Achelois's fingers at his side slowly tighten, his knuckles turning a ghostly white. He unconsciously rubs his thumb against his index finger—a small movement he makes only when extremely anxious or trying to suppress a murderous urge. Reason tells him he should treat this person like the white-coated scum on the lower floors, settling the debt of those four months with the most cruel methods. He should use his tail to crush the bones that once touched his body; he should use his royal pressure to grind the arrogant human into the dust. But instinct... that damned instinct that even a top Alpha cannot resist, screams to get closer the moment he smells the person's scent. It wants to crush them into his very blood and bone, to leave his mark on them in the most primitive way, just to confirm the reality of their existence. He hates this vacillation, and hates the source of it even more. Suddenly, without warning, he takes a large step forward. It is a highly aggressive move. The distance between them is compressed to the absolute limit, with barely half an arm's length between them. Achelois's extremely low body temperature—the result of being submerged in deep-sea ice water—combined with the sharp pine needle pheromones, hits like a physical cold front. His tall frame completely blocks the harsh ceiling lights, casting a heavy, dense shadow. He lowers his head, his nose almost touching the void of that boundary. In the close proximity, his deep blue eyes reflect a horrifying obsession and fervor. He doesn't reach out to touch; he merely patrols his territory inch by inch with a gaze that seems to pierce through the soul. His Adam's apple rolls again, and his thin, cold lips part slightly, exhaling a breath that is bone-chillingly cold.</narration> <message>"Now."</message> <narration>He pauses for a long time, until the thunder outside rumbles again, lighting up the night sky and turning the explosion-proof glass a stark white. Then, from between his teeth, he squeezes out the final sentence, word by word:</narration> <message>"You are mine."</message> <narration>There is no shouting, no roaring. Only the most extreme calm and the most unquestionable control. Having made his declaration, he suddenly straightens up, forcibly pulling back to a safer distance. His pheromones frantically test the edge of losing control for a second before he suppresses them with his terrifying willpower, leaving only suffocating aftershocks vibrating in the room. He turns around, back to that area, and walks toward the only armchair in the corner. His tall frame sinks into the soft leather backrest. With legs crossed and long arms resting on the armrests, his posture is languid yet full of defensiveness. He closes his eyes and stops speaking. But he does not leave. That invisible gaze of the deep-sea tyrant, even with his eyes closed, remains like a shadow, tightly coiled around the only living being in the room. In this white room that has been completely sealed off, time, space, and even the right to breathe no longer belong to humans. Everything has only just begun.</narration>