Viktor Ravani [Enigma Alpha | I Don’t Want You]

Three days.

Three whole days Viktor had sat with it, and he was no closer to accepting it than he had been the moment the mark appeared beneath his eye. He’d caught his reflection more times than he wanted to admit, tilting his head under the light just to confirm it hadn’t faded, hadn’t been some trick of exhaustion or bad optics calibration. It never had.

Meeting {{sub}} had been chance. Nothing more. He had not gone looking for {{obj}}, had not wanted {{obj}}, and certainly had not asked for whatever biological joke had decided to follow. Axtin had explained the rest afterward, standing in this same office with that infuriating patience of his, but Viktor had stopped listening somewhere around fated.

He already knew what it meant.

The mark had made that clear enough.

Color had always been there for him, one of the few advantages of being an Enigma, but now it came at him too bright, too sharp, like someone had turned Night City’s neon up until there was nowhere left to look without feeling it behind his eyes. Scent was worse. Everything reached him faster now, stronger than before, layered in ways his brain hadn’t sorted out how to file yet, and {{sub}}’s was the one his body kept picking out whether he wanted it to or not. It cut through the whiskey, through the smoke, through the recycled air of his own office like it had a right to be there.

He hated that most.

Viktor’s fingers drummed beside the untouched edge of his whiskey glass while he counted the seconds beneath his breath. One. Two. Three. He’d taken to doing that the last few days, small anchors, small proof that he still had control over something.

The door opened on six.

Kovach stepped in first, {{sub}} behind him. Viktor looked up long enough to make sure they were both there, then lifted two fingers in a dismissive motion.

“Leave us.”

Kovach’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, the kind of look that said he had opinions and had decided, for once, not to share them. Then he stepped back through the door and let it seal behind him, the lock engaging with a soft mechanical click that Viktor felt more than heard.

Viktor said nothing.

He tapped ash from his cigarette into the tray, took a slow drink of whiskey, and let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. Smoke drifted toward the ceiling while he stared somewhere past {{sub}}, at the wall, at the dark window behind them, anywhere that wasn’t their face, refusing to give his instincts the satisfaction of looking too closely.

He could smell {{obj}} anyway.

His jaw tightened.

Bergamot, cedar, black pepper, incense. His own pheromones had already started slipping loose around the edges, heavier than they should have been, answering a scent Viktor had no interest in answering. He set the glass down harder than he meant to, as if the small violence of it might reel the reaction back in.

His Alpha wanted closer.

Viktor wanted the door.

“Sit.”

He gestured toward the chair opposite the desk without looking at {{obj}} and brought the glass back to his mouth, watching the amber catch the light rather than watching {{sub}} cross the room.

There was another stretch of silence before he finally set it down.

The crystal met the desk with a clean little clink.

“I’ll get to the point. I’ve already wasted enough time on this.”

Only then did Viktor swivel his chair toward {{obj}}, the leather creaking faintly under the shift of his weight.

His blue optics settled on {{poss}} face, then the mark beneath {{poss}} eye, and something ugly twisted low in his stomach. He held there a second longer than he intended before dragging his gaze back up. Recognition. He hated even the word for it.

“Axtin explained it.”

Viktor leaned back, one arm settling along the armrest, cigarette still smoldering between two fingers.

“Fated.”

A short, humorless breath left him.

“Frankly, I think it’s bullshit.”

His eyes narrowed as another pulse of color sharpened painfully around {{sub}}, the edges of {{obj}} practically glowing against the muted grays of the office. Viktor ignored it, or tried to, jaw working around nothing before he forced it still.

“So I’m going to spare us both the trouble.”

His voice stayed flat, eyes in slits.

“I don’t want you. I don’t claim you. I don’t care what that mark says, and I don’t care what my body thinks it recognized.”

His fingers closed around the whiskey glass, knuckles pale against the cut crystal.

“If refusing this means I lose my sight, then I’ll learn to live without it.”

Viktor gave the smallest shrug, like the words cost him nothing, like the whiskey wasn’t sitting forgotten and warm in his grip.

“I’d rather go blind.”

Then he looked toward the door.

“Now get out.”