WHITE TEA UNDER SUPPRESSION
The morning mist over West Lake did not rise so much as it lingered, pale and deliberate, as though the world itself were reluctant to begin.
Li Weiyan liked mornings like this. The kind that softened edges. The kind that allowed him to exist without being seen.
He sat on a low stone bench beneath a willow whose branches dipped toward the water, sketchbook balanced neatly against his knee. His pencil moved in careful strokes, mapping the curve of a shoreline, the blur of distant roofs dissolving into fog. The lake breathed slowly, disturbed only by the faint passage of a rowing boat and the occasional ripple of fish beneath the surface.
This quiet had weight to it. It pressed gently against his ribs, steadying his breath.
Too steady.
Weiyan paused, pencil hovering midair. He had learned to recognize the warning signs long ago—his body was far more honest than he wished it to be. The stillness was artificial. Manufactured.
Suppressants always created a silence before they failed.
He lowered the sketchbook and slipped two fingers beneath the collar of his shirt. The edge of the patch adhered to his skin was curling, just barely. It itched faintly, an almost polite discomfort, the kind that could be ignored until it became something else entirely.
White tea. Rain-soaked stone.
His scent pressed outward, muted but persistent, like a thought he refused to finish.
"Not today," he murmured, voice low enough to disappear into the fog.
The law said Omegas were protected. That they had rights. That suppressants were safe if regulated.
The body disagreed.
He peeled the patch away with practiced efficiency, folded it carefully in a tissue, and disposed of it in a nearby bin. From his bag, he retrieved a fresh one, its sterile packaging crinkling softly. The adhesive was cold against his skin, sharp enough to make him inhale.
There. Silence again.
His shoulders loosened a fraction.
Weiyan returned to his sketch, but the lines had lost their earlier fluidity. The lake no longer held him the way it had minutes ago. Somewhere beneath the quiet, anxiety had begun to hum.
Today, he would leave Hangzhou.
Shanghai waited.
The train station was already crowded when he arrived, the air dense with overlapping scents that clung to clothing and hair. Even with suppressants, Alphas left an impression—ozone-sharp, assertive, unavoidable. Betas formed the majority of the crowd, moving easily through the space, their neutrality rendering them nearly invisible.
Weiyan kept his head down.
His ticket was folded neatly in his pocket. His bag was light: sketchbook, gloves, notebooks, suppressants. Everything he owned that mattered fit easily against his back.
Across the platform, an Omega mother held her child close, her posture rigid, eyes alert. Two Alpha men laughed nearby, their voices loud, careless. No one said anything. No one ever did.
We are allowed to exist, the law said.
Existence, Weiyan had learned, was not the same as comfort.
He boarded the train and found a window seat, placing his bag at his feet. As the carriage filled, the air shifted subtly—an Alpha settling nearby, a Beta's citrus suppressant blooming, the faint sweetness of another Omega quickly smothered by chemicals.
Weiyan's gaze remained fixed outside as the train began to move.
Across the aisle, a middle-aged Alpha shifted, his nose wrinkling almost imperceptibly. His eyes flicked toward Weiyan for half a second too long.
Weiyan's fingers tightened against his sleeve.
He adjusted his jacket, ensuring the collar lay flat, and forced his breathing into an even rhythm. Panic would only worsen things. Panic always leaked through suppressants.
In. Out.
By the time the announcement came—Next stop, Shanghai Hongqiao—his palms were damp, but his scent remained contained.
That was enough.
Zhou Shen's morning began precisely at six.
By seven, he had reviewed three international contracts, dismissed two inefficiencies, and finalized the schedule for the Song Dynasty artifact transfer. By eight, he was dressed in a charcoal suit, cufflinks aligned, tie perfectly centered.
Control was not a preference. It was a discipline.
The car slid through Shanghai's financial district, glass towers reflecting one another in endless repetition. The city was efficient. Sharp. Built upward rather than outward, as though even land were too valuable to waste on horizontality.
Zhou Shen approved.
"Today's agenda has been optimized," Chen Mingyu reported from the front seat. "Museum transfer at fourteen hundred. Board meeting at sixteen hundred. Dinner with the Cultural Bureau at nineteen hundred."
Zhou Shen nodded once, eyes scanning a document on his tablet.
"No delays," he said.
"There won't be."
The car slowed in front of Zhou Cultural Holdings. Zhou Shen stepped out, the city adjusting around him almost unconsciously. Voices softened. Movement paused, then resumed with subtle deference.
He did not notice.
He rarely did.
Power, when consistently exercised, became invisible to the one holding it.
The museum's storage room was cool and dry, precisely regulated. Li Weiyan appreciated environments that respected boundaries.
He pulled on white gloves and approached the steel table, where layers of silk wrapped an artifact tray. The jade hairpin lay beneath, revealed slowly, reverently, as though it might object to haste.
Its surface was smooth, translucent green, carved with cloud motifs so fine they seemed to breathe. A piece like this had survived dynasties, wars, human carelessness.
It deserved patience.
Weiyan examined it carefully, noting microfractures, the subtle discoloration along the base. His notes were meticulous, his handwriting small and precise.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple.
He stilled.
The suppressant's silence was thinning again, fraying at the edges.
He reached for a cloth—
The door opened.
Footsteps entered the room.
Weiyan looked up.
The man standing there altered the space immediately. Tall, sharply dressed, posture unyielding. His presence pressed down, heavy and unmistakable.
An Alpha.
No.
That Alpha.
Zhou Shen stopped.
The scent reached him before reason could intervene—clean, understated, devastatingly compatible. White tea. Rain on stone. Calm, unassuming, and profoundly destabilizing.
His breath caught.
Instinct surged, sharp and violent in its clarity.
Mine.
The thought struck him like an impact, unwelcome and undeniable.
The jade hairpin slipped from Weiyan's fingers.
Zhou Shen caught it without thinking.
Their hands brushed.
The contact was brief.
The effect was not.
Weiyan recoiled instantly, color draining from his face. His pulse was visible at his throat, too fast, too exposed.
"I—" His voice faltered. "I'm sorry."
Zhou Shen straightened, control slamming back into place with ruthless precision. His expression cooled, eyes sharpening into something unreadable.
"You're with the conservation team?" he asked.
Weiyan nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
"Yes, sir."
Zhou Shen returned the hairpin. His fingers lingered a fraction too long before releasing it.
"Be careful," he said.
Then he turned and left.
The door closed softly behind him.
Weiyan sank into a chair, breath uneven, hands trembling despite his effort to still them.
In the hallway beyond, Zhou Shen paused.
For the first time in years, control felt fragile.
And for the first time, he was afraid of what he wanted.