POV: Dante
The nursing station email leaves my inbox before she receives it.
"Subject: Medical checkup – Vega. Please report to the nursing station, 15th floor. Instruction registered from Management."
Four lines. Enough to make it look like protocol, not personal interest.
I close the email window and, for a moment, all I hear is the hum of the building. Noir Tower breathes differently since Aurora arrived. It's not poetry: it's chemistry.
The intercom flashes.
"Mr. Noir," says Andrade's voice. "Sorry to bother you, but we had another... minor incident with Miss Vega.
I knew this was going to happen.
"Define 'incident,'" I reply.
"Dizziness again," he explains. "She got up from her desk and went to the emergency exit. The analyst in the next cubicle followed her. She didn't faint, but... she doesn't look well."
The "analyst in the next cubicle." The sensitive beta.
"Is she working now?" I ask.
"She's on the service staircase," he says. "She hasn't returned to the floor yet."
I check the time.
It hasn't been five minutes since I went up to my office.
I could blame stress, the bus, the poor-quality coffee. I don't. Her body is no longer playing in the same league as the rest.
"Send a brief report of what happened to the nurse's office," I say. "I've already given instructions."
"Understood, sir."
I hang up.
I open one of the side screens, connected to the internal security system. I don't need to see everything; just the flight of stairs between the thirty-first and thirtieth floors.
A couple of clicks and there it is.
Aurora, sitting on a step, her back against the wall. Her hair a little messy, her hands clasped on her knees. In front of her, the beta, talking to her with that mixture of irony and attention I've seen before.
I turn down the volume; I don't want to hear any words. The image is enough for me.
Aurora's posture is all I need: body on alert, rapid breathing, legs firmly planted on the floor as if she fears the building will move without warning. It's not the fragility of someone who is weak. It's the fragility of someone whose system is changing and who is struggling not to let it show.
Her phone vibrates. I see her look at the screen. I know which email she's reading; I know exactly which line her eyes are resting on.
Instruction registered from Management.
I don't smile, but part of me is pleased with what that phrase means: for her, anonymous power; for the rest of the building, a wall.
I turn off the camera. I don't need to see her reaction any more than I have to. If I keep watching, instinct will gain ground.
I dial the nursing extension.
"Medical unit."
"Noir," I say. "I've already sent the order for a check-up for Miss Aurora Vega. When she arrives, only trusted personnel are to attend to her."
"Of course, sir," they reply. "Any specific instructions?"
I think of the medical clause, of the words "hormonal evaluations," of how easily a human doctor can label an awakening as 'dysregulation' and fill out a form.
"Basic general exam," I say. "Vital signs, glucose, blood pressure, blood count if you want. Nothing else. And I want a direct copy of the results." If anyone suggests psychotropic drugs or external referral, let me know before you blink.
"We'll make a note of that," they reply. "Should we note the reasons?"
"Work stress and recurring dizziness," I reply. "We don't need to embellish it any further."
I hang up.
The problem with sending a latent Omega to the internal infirmary is simple: if the results fall into the wrong hands, they become negotiable information. The benefit is just as clear: at least I know what's going on in her body without relying solely on smell and instinct.
I need both.
The intercom turns back on.
"Alpha," Sebastian's voice says now; he's using the internal channel, not the corporate one.
"Go ahead," I reply.
"Valcourt confirmed," he says. "Not only did they finance part of the program, they also placed one of their doctors on the list of occupational health consultants. He doesn't work in the tower, but he reviews some 'special' reports."
Perfect.
"Take him out of circulation," I order. "Quietly. If anyone asks, he's 'traveling' or 'overloaded'. I don't want his hands on anything to do with her.
"I've already taken care of that," he replies. "He's not on any circuit today. But if they suspect anything, they might try to refer the results to him.
"That's why I want the direct copy," I say. "Report any external transfer requests to me."
"Understood."
There is a brief silence.
"And the Omega?" he adds. "Are you going to tell her anything?"
I look at my reflection in the window. It returns a neutral expression that doesn't match the knot in my chest.
"Not yet," I reply. "As long as I can maintain the human version of her symptoms, it's safer for her. And for us."
Sebastian doesn't argue, but he doesn't approve either.
"Time won't always be on your side," he says. "When she crosses a certain threshold, no protocol will be able to cover it up."
I know.
"For now, all I need is for her to get to that point without a prescription for 'stabilizers' from a doctor who doesn't understand what he's looking at," I reply. "It's bad enough that her scholarship is currency in Seraphim. I don't want her body to be the next form to fill out."
I hang up before my annoyance becomes more audible.
I return to the security screen, this time to the fifteenth-floor hallway.
Aurora steps out of the elevator a few minutes later. She carries her ID card in her hand, as if it weighs her down. The beta isn't with her; good. The curious glances of bystanders make these processes worse.
I see her hesitate in front of the nursing station door, take a deep breath, and go in.
For a moment, my mind jumps back years.
I remember another young woman standing in front of another white door, in another city: same tension in her shoulders, same overly attentive eyes. She wasn't mine. Someone else claimed her first.
I don't intend to repeat that story.
The new mail icon appears in the corner of the screen.
"Subject: Vega control protocol – received."
The nursing station confirms that it will follow the instructions. No extra tests, no further comments.
I can't control everything that happens when Aurora sits on that stretcher, but I can close some doors.
The mark, the record, the war with Valcourt... all that will come later.
For now, the important thing is simple:
She's going to walk off that floor.
And when her results come in, it will be me, not Valcourt or anyone else, who decides what they mean.