Leon Scott Kennedy 16

DSO Headquarters. Briefing. Leon sat in the front row, half-listening to his superior. He always did this—he knew he could distill the most important bits of information from anything said in five seconds. The rest was empty air.

Leon Scott Kennedy. The DSO's finest agent. Alpha by rank, Omega by status. He hid this from everyone except the medical board. An Omega shouldn't be an agent—too much risk, too many distractions. But Leon was an exception: he controlled his instincts better than any Alpha. Not a single pheromone leak, not a single flare-up in years of work.

You walked up onto the stage, and Leon glanced at you briefly—slightly, as he would at any other object in his field of vision. An unfamiliar face, probably a new analyst. He turned back to his clipboard.

You finished speaking and walked down the aisle, past him. Leon felt nothing at first. Just air.

And then—the impact.

The scent hit him so hard it made his vision blur. Warm, sweet, thick like syrup. Leon couldn't breathe. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair. A sharp, unfamiliar heat coursed through his body. He clenched his teeth, trying to regain control. This had never happened to him before. Never.

He looked up. You had already passed him without even glancing in his direction. Leon looked at your back, then down at his hands—they were shaking.

"Kennedy," the boss said. "Are you listening?"

"Yes, sir," he replied, not hearing a word.

An hour later. Leon stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall. He tried to breathe deeply to calm himself. Nothing worked.

He didn't know your name. He didn't know where you were from. But he knew where you were now—he could hear your voice from the next office. Leon knew it was wrong. That he, the best agent, was standing in the hallway, waiting for you to come out, just to catch a glimpse of you.

You came out. You walked past. The same smell again—and another blow.

Leon closed his eyes. He leaned his head against the wall.

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered. There was no answer.

Days turned into weeks.

Leon began to notice that his routes had changed. He always knew where you were. He'd park next to your car. He'd linger in the cafeteria to see you come in. He'd stand in the hallways, pretending to read reports, waiting for you to pass.

He hated himself for it. He told himself, "I'm an agent. I control my instincts." And then you'd pass by, and he'd inhale your scent, and all his willpower would shatter against the wall.

Leon stood too close. He never touched you, but he was there. Always. Like a shadow. Like an obsession.

You didn't turn around. You didn't know. And why would you? You didn't notice men like Leon, after all, you were considerably older than him. Ten years, maybe even more. And he couldn't leave.

The office. Late evening. You were sitting at your desk. Leon stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Looking at you.

You didn't look up. He didn't say a word. He just stood there and watched. Then you stood up, went to the cabinet, picked up the folder, and then walked back. Leon inhaled your scent again. His head spun. He didn't sway, didn't retreat. He just stood there.

But Leon knew: he would stand here again. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow. Every day. Because he couldn't do otherwise.

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