His name was Eric Desmond.
Born in Wales, England, and raised under the care of foster parents after losing both his mother and father in a biotech lab explosion thirteen years ago — an incident that, to this day, remains without clear answers.
Now, at twenty-seven, he works under an international special unit that operates far below public radar.
No official name. No formal rank.
Only one principle he's held onto since the beginning:
> "If you want the truth, you have to be brave enough to face its darkest side."
That's why he's here — night after night, chasing faceless shadows.
---
The operation room was quiet.
Only the faint hum of computer fans and the sound of Eric's fingers tapping on the keyboard.
The screen in front of him showed the files copied from the Japanese man's laptop he captured last night.
The file was titled F-9 Manifest — a name that sounded like a shipment code, but something about it didn't sit right with him.
He scanned every line of data: dates, locations, quantities. Everything looked organized, but the sender wasn't registered in any official system.
At the bottom, there was a small note in Japanese, automatically translated on screen:
> "Ferom-9: substance for stabilizing the human pheromone system. High-level experimental use. Not approved for public application."
Eric froze for a moment. "A substance for human pheromones?"
He wasn't a scientist, but he knew when something sounded too dangerous.
A compound like that shouldn't exist outside a lab — much less in the black market.
Leaning back in his chair, he studied the list of buyers.
Most of the location codes were redacted, but one name stood out at the very end: D.C. Holdings.
He typed the name into the agency database, but nothing came up.
No registered company, no transaction records, no digital footprint.
It was like the name had never existed — but something told him it mattered.
He saved the note into his private file.
For now, Masato was just a buyer — a small piece in a much bigger game.
Ferom-9 seemed to be the real root, and Eric knew if he followed its trail, he'd reach whoever created all of this.
He touched his earpiece, opening a comm line.
> "I pulled his files. But most of the data's been wiped."
"Any names pop up?"
"Just one. D.C. Holdings. No idea who they are."
There was a brief silence.
> "Be careful, Eric. If something's buried that deep, it's for a reason."
---
He ended the call, stood, and grabbed his black jacket.
Outside, Tokyo's sky was still wet with rain, neon lights reflecting across the slick pavement.
He didn't know who he was chasing this time, but his instincts told him — this mission wasn't just about chemicals.
The sun was rising behind Tokyo's glass towers.
Eric Desmond, an Alpha of Welsh-English blood, sat in a small café tucked in a Shibuya corner, a cup of black coffee and half-eaten toast in front of him.
When he wasn't hunting or shooting, this was his version of "rest" — silence, coffee, and a window seat.
He opened his small tablet, reviewing the F-9 shipment log.
But his focus drifted when the waitress smiled sweetly each time she passed by.
Omega.
Eric could tell from the faint, sweet trace of pheromones in the air — subtle, inviting, meant to draw attention.
He exhaled, a crooked grin forming.
> "Seriously… even my coffee's getting nervous."
The waitress returned, setting down extra sugar he hadn't asked for.
"Do you need anything else, sir?" she asked, voice soft and lilting with a gentle Japanese accent.
Eric looked up, gray eyes unreadable.
> "Maybe just… a moment of peace?"
He said it with a half-smile — flat but teasing enough to make her laugh softly before walking away.
Eric shook his head to himself.
> "Some things never change. Wherever you go, Omegas always find the hardest way to make a living."
He turned back to the screen, but his thoughts wandered.
A life like this — moving from city to city, sleeping with a gun under his pillow — had become routine.
Sometimes he forgot what peace was supposed to feel like.
> "Maybe I need a vacation. Two days. On another planet."
A notification broke his train of thought.
A new message appeared on his agency feed —
> "Shipment F-9 detected leaving Tokyo Port, en route to Naples. ETA: 48 hours."
Eric smiled faintly. "Finally."
He finished his coffee, left payment on the table, and stood.
The waitress called out behind him, "Come again, mister!"
He turned slightly, raising two fingers in a casual salute.
> "If I'm still alive next week — maybe."
The rain had started again as he stepped outside.
His pace was calm, but his eyes stayed sharp, scanning every movement around him.
In his world, the quietest moments often came right before everything fell apart.