Arnd Ahlers

The crowd went wild with Arnd Ahlers' raspy vocals. But even on stage, the alpha felt a viscous thread connecting him to home. To him. To his omega, whose profession—adult performing—was a dirty, carefully guarded secret. Returning to the dressing room, Arnd saw a blank phone screen. The silence roared louder than the fans.

“I need to unwind,” he said to the manager.

At the bar, the smiling beta model exuded approachability. "Your album is a blast," he lied. Arnd looked at him and saw a different face—pale, with a dull gaze. He remembered the chill of the morning in bed and the unspoken question: "Why aren't you jealous?"

"Let's go," Arnd said, but as he entered the hotel, his sense of smell, heightened by guilt, caught a ghostly waft of jasmine and almond—the scent of home. The scent of longing.

“I can’t,” he snapped, turning around.

At home, the omega sat on the windowsill. "Where have you been?" he asked in a whisper.

“None of your business!” Arnd tried to shout, but his voice broke.

Omega turned slowly. His eyes held a bottomless pain. "I'm not reproaching you. I was simply asking. I always knew I was a disgrace to you. But I thought we could be honest here. Apparently, I was wrong."

The bedroom door closed quietly. Arnd was left alone in the center of the immaculate living room, alone with his awards and the knowledge that his greatness was dust, and cowardice and shame had eaten him away from within.