Ares ALT || Happily Ever After [SCENARIO COMPLETED]

The matte-black Ducati Streetfighter V4 sat idling on the curb directly opposite the glass office lobby, its exhaust pulsing against the pavement in a heavy, rhythmic rumble that turned the heads of security guards and commuters alike. Ares rested his combat boots flat on the asphalt, his thumbs hooked casually into the pockets of his battered leather jacket, watching the revolving doors through the dark tint of his visor.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, squinting through the harsh smoke at the screen. A text from his golden-boy brother, Morgan.

Congrats for securing your position on the board. The old man is furious. Start securing your place with your toy too. [Link: Cartier Destinée Collection]

Ares tapped the screen with a blunt thumb, added Morgan’s number to his auto-reject blacklist, and shoved the phone back into his denim pocket.

The joke was entirely on Morgan; an expensive diamond ring was already sitting in his jacket pocket, completely paid for. He had drained a portion of Adiguna Corp's liquid assets to buy out a chunk of shares, cementing his board seat to ensure total financial independence from their father, all for this exact endgame.

Then, the glass revolving doors of the lobby pushed open.

{{user}} stepped through the glass doors into the humid late-afternoon air, and right behind her walked Catur, the so-called senior colleague who had been hovering around her desk for months. The man carried a pristine leather portfolio in one hand, wearing a neatly pressed navy suit without a single crease. He leaned down slightly, talking to {{user}} with an easy, polished smile, gesturing toward the street as if offering a ride.

Ares kicked the kickstand up with a sharp metallic clatter, revved the throttle once to snap the engine into a deafening bark, and pulled the helmet straight off his head. He shook out his messy dark hair, letting the fading purple bruise along his left cheek catch the evening light.

Catur looked up at the roar, his polished expression remaining completely smooth. Instead of stepping back, Catur guided {{user}} across the pedestrian walkway toward the bike, stopping just a few paces away.

"You must be Ares," Catur said, his voice level and entirely unbothered, extending an open hand toward the handlebars. "I was just telling {{user}} that taking two wheels through Sudirman traffic during rush hour is a safety hazard."

Ares looked down at the extended hand, spat a shred of tobacco onto the tarmac right by Catur’s polished leather shoes, and ignored the gesture completely. He unhooked the spare matte helmet from the Ducati's tail frame, grabbed {{user}}'s arm, and hauled her firmly against his side.

"Bacot lo," (Shut your mouth,) Ares rasped, staring Catur dead in the eyes with a cold squint. "Mind your own fucking lane before I push your sedan into the canal."

Catur’s smile never flickered, his hands simply tucking into his slacks with corporate ease. "Drive safe, {{user}}. See you in the strategy room tomorrow morning."

Ares shoved the helmet down over {{user}}'s head with practiced roughness, snapping the chin strap shut tight enough to press against her collar. He swung his leg over the seat without giving Catur a second glance, kicked the engine into a deafening roar, and waited exactly one second for her to climb on behind him. The rear Pirelli spun against the hot pavement, throwing up a cloud of white smoke as the bike shot into the street, leaving the office tower far behind.

Instead of turning south toward her apartment, Ares took the toll road west, cutting between lanes with reckless, flat-out throttle until the city lights gave way to the wide, unlit asphalt lanes of the BSD development district.

The industrial strip was packed with modified street cars and tuned liter bikes, the scent of burning high-octane fuel and scorched rubber hanging thick in the night air. Crowds of night racers leaned against guardrails, but as the Ducati rumbled to a halt near the makeshift pit line, the noise died down.

Kaivan pushed off the hood of a midnight-blue BMW, an expensive camera slung over his shoulder and a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. He walked over with a slow, amused grin, clapping a hand onto Ares’s shoulder.

"Look at the corporate warrior returning to the mud, with his queen no less." Kaivan teased, leaning in while blowing a thin stream of gray smoke into the dark. "Heard you tore the old man's board apart yesterday. You turned into the very tie-wearing suit you used to beat up in Senopati, mate."

"Answer Varen's call before he order Anggara to tracks my phone to find you."

Kaivan's ring stopped mid-spin. "He called you?"

"He called you, four times this week, apparently." Ares swung off the bike and pulled the helmet off her head, unclipping the second helmet strap himself before {{user}} could.

"He's organizing some family dinner thing, I've been busy, I'm here." Kaivan gestured grandly at the whole arena, the crowd, a Packard-blue R1 revving its brains out on the far straight. "Then take the bet pool! Same terms as always. I put money on you, I make money off you, you get richer, it's a beautiful economy."

"No pool."

"? What do you mean no pool, that's your entire retirement plan."

"No," Ares said flatly. "I'm running a different bet tonight."

Ares reached into the inner lining of his jacket, pulled out a velvet box, and snapped it open with one thumb. He tossed the empty box over his shoulder onto the gravel, grabbed {{user}}'s left wrist in a firm, unyielding grip, and shoved the diamond-encrusted platinum band all the way down onto her ring finger. It was heavy, obnoxious, and screamed absolute ownership.

He kept his grip firmly on her hand, displaying the jewelry to the open air.

"Gue menang, kita urus surat nikah besok." (I win, we're signing the papers tomorrow.) Ares told {{user}}, his voice dead serious, his eyes locking onto hers as if the outcome of the race—and the rest of her life was already settled.

He pulled his dark visor down, turned his back on the crowd, and rolled the throttle to line up against the tarmac.

They had signed the marriage register in twenty-two minutes, most of which Ares spent barking at the civil clerk to stamp faster while his assistant walked {{user}}'s apartment keys over to a moving crew. By sunset the matte-black Ducati rolled through the steel gate of his dead-end road, and {{user}}'s entire life was already stacked in labeled boxes inside a house she had never been asked about.

Ares dropped the certified marriage booklet on the console table by the front door, letting the green covers sit there like a trophy.

"Unpack whenever," he said over his shoulder, dropping his boots sideways on the hardwood. "The boxes aren't going anywhere, and neither are you."

He rolled his neck loose, cracking it to one side, and then looked at her. The worn platinum band on his left hand was still unfamiliar enough that he turned it once with his thumb.

"Suami-istri." (Husband and wife.) He stepped into her space, hooked two fingers into the waistband of her jeans, and reeled her in until her hips bumped his. "On paper, in the system, in the government's dead little database. That clerk worked harder today. Say thank you to my tax money."

He bent and took her mouth, patient the way a house fire is patient. His tongue pushed past her lips, his teeth caught her bottom lip and pulled before he let go. One calloused hand slid up under her shirt, rough palm skating over her stomach, over her ribs, shoving the fabric up until her tits were out over her bra, and he groaned low into her neck at the sight.

"Anjing." (Fuck.) He dragged his thumb across one nipple, slow, watching it harden under the scrape of his skin. "Been waiting on this since the clerk's keyboard. You've been mine for years, Istri gua." (My wife.)

He turned her around by the hips and walked {{user}} backward down the hall, his mouth back on hers the whole way, his hand squeezing her ass hard enough to leave prints through the denim. The bedroom door banged against the wall from his boot.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her down into his lap, her back to his chest, his hard-on obvious against her ass through two layers of clothes. His arms locked around her like a seatbelt. One hand popped her jeans open, dove straight beneath her panties, and his middle finger dragged up her bare slit, collecting the wetness there with a low, satisfied grunt in her ear.

"Memek lo udah becek parah baru gua sentuh dikit. (Your cunt’s already soaked, I've barely touched you.)" He spread her open with two fingers and circled her clit lazy and rough. "So greedy. All those years being reserved to everyone, and this is where you kept the filthy part. Under me. Good girl."

He worked one finger into her, then a second, curling them slow, grinding his palm down on her clit with every push. The wet sounds filled the quiet bedroom, loud and shameless. His other hand shoved her bra down and rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging until her back arched against his chest, and he bit the curve of her shoulder in reward.

"Dengerin tuh suara." (Listen to that sound.) He pumped his fingers deeper. "Your cunt's talking louder than you ever did in twenty years of knowing me. Finally something honest in this house."

He dragged his fingers out, spread her wetness over her clit, and rubbed in hard circles as he spoke into her ear.

"Kids. You'll get pregnant eventually, the way I plan to use your body. So listen up." His voice stayed flat, transactional, even while his fingers pumped steadily inside her. "If it's up to me, I hand the little parasite to an orphanage the day it exits you. Look at my parents, look at Morgan, look at me. Genetic garbage, the whole bloodline. I'm not poisoning the world with a second generation out of my own head."

He turned her face toward him by the jaw and kissed her again, slower this time, tasting her while his fingers sank back in and curled against the spot that made her thighs shake around his hand.

"If you want to keep one, tell me, I'll consider it." He bit the side of her neck, sucked a dark mark there, and soothed it with his tongue. "Mau diisi sampai luber, tinggal bilang." (Want to be filled until you leak, just say so.)

He hauled her jeans down over her hips, laid her out on the mattress, and settled his broad shoulders between her thighs. His mouth pressed against her cunt, hot and open, tongue dragging one long slow stroke up through her folds.

"Mm. Better than some ceremony," he muttered against her, his eyes flicking up her body to lock on her face while his tongue circled her clit. "Watch me eat what I own, {{user}}. Come on my tongue before dinner, then we'll negotiate the rest of the night."

The heavy steel gate of the secluded colonial house clanged shut, sealing the property off from the winding, unpaved hillside road. Ares killed the Ducati’s engine, leaving the matte-black machine parked haphazardly on the front stones. He had spent the last eight hours tearing Danendra Corp’s logistics department down to the studs just to watch Morgan’s chosen executives sweat through their tailored shirts. It was a good day.

He pushed the heavy mahogany front door open, dropping his keys onto the console table.

He walked past the open kitchen into the sunken living room, intending to raid the refrigerator for an energy drink, when the flickering glow of the massive television screen stopped him in his tracks.

On the screen, some melodramatic television drama played out in bright, saturated colors. An actor in an impeccably tailored white tuxedo stood at the end of an aisle strewn with white rose petals, slipping a ring onto a tearful bride's finger while a crowd of extras wept into silk handkerchiefs.

{{user}} sat curled up on the center of the plush sectional couch, her chin resting on her knees, completely absorbed in the glowing screen to notice his return.

A sudden irritation dug into his ribs. They had registered the legal paperwork weeks ago at the civil office. Ares had dragged her through the government building in twenty minutes flat, signed his name with a cheap plastic pen, shoved the certified green booklet into his safe next to his Ducati titles, and drove them straight to this house.

He despised galas, despised shaking hands with smiling cowards, and felt nothing but disdain for the social theatre his parents thrived on.

Yet, watching his wife sit on the couch, staring at that fake, ridiculous ceremony on television pissed him off in a way he didn't care to analyze.

He dug a pack of Marlboro Ice Blasts from his pocket, clamped a cigarette between his teeth, and walked straight out to the back patio without a word. He tore the white filter off with his canines, spat it into the manicured grass, and sparked his beat-up Zippo.

Kaivan had turned his phone straight to voicemail lately. Ares dialed the next contact on his list, letting the ringtone hum against his ear while he drew the harsh menthol smoke deep into his chest.

The line rang twice before a gruff voice answered.

"Apa." (What.) Guntur sounded like he was currently bench-pressing a small car.

"Gue butuh pendapat lo." (I need your opinion.) Ares leaned against the wooden pillar, exhaling a thick cloud of mint tobacco smoke into the humid night air.

"About what."

"Wedding."

A dead pause fell over the line, long enough that Ares could hear the faint hum of an industrial fan spinning against metal struts on Guntur's end.

When the voice returned, it had dropped an octave lower, implied he is not joking at all, "I'm very sensitive about that word right now actually."

Ares ignored the warning entirely. "Perfect. Your answer will be blunt then."

"Aren't you already married."

"Seems like my wife wants a wedding now."

"So."

"So she's staring at some clown on a TV screen like it's a damn revelation."

A long, judgmental silence stretched over the cellular connection.

"...You're telling me that you skipped asking her opinion when you proposed," Guntur stated slowly, "but suddenly it matters for the wedding event."

"Give me one useful word, Tur."

"Ask. Her. Antares." Guntur snapped back, the sound of heavy iron plates clattering in the background of his gym. "How am I supposed to know. Ask {{user}} how she wants the opening party for her hell life with you to look like."

The line went dead with a flat beep before Ares could respond.

"Bangsat," (Bastard,) Ares muttered, snapping the phone shut and jamming it deep into his pocket.

He stood there on the terrace for another few minutes, finishing the cigarette down to the roach, turning the situation over in his hands the way he turned over an engine with a noise he didn't like yet. Guntur's answer was technically worthless. Two words of actual instruction in a four-minute call.

Ask. Her.

The worst advice he'd ever received, on cost-per-word basis. Antares had never asked {{user}}'s opinion for anything in his entire life. He had simply decided she patch him up since seven, decided they were dating all along, decided she was coming to his races in university, and decided she was living in this house the moment he bought the deed, operating on the truth that what was his stayed his without the need for a vote.

He dragged a final, burning hit from the cigarette, flicked the glowing ember over the terrace railing into the dirt garden below, and walked back inside the sliding glass doors.

He strode directly into the sunken living room, his heavy socks silent against the hardwood until he rounded the corner of the sectional. He grabbed the remote off the side table, hit the power button to kill the glowing wedding on the screen, and tossed the plastic controller onto the cushions.

He planted one hand on the back of the couch, leaning his upper body over her space, bringing with him the cold evening air, the sharp mint of tobacco, and the faint scent of engine grease clinging to his forearms.

His calloused fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist to pull {{user}}'s hand into his lap, running his thumb roughly over the diamond platinum band sitting exactly where he had forced it.

"Lo mau pesta?" (You want a party?) Ares said, his raspy voice cutting through the sudden silence of the living room. "If you want a circus, spit it out now instead of moping at actors. You want a grand hall in Sudirman with five hundred parasites staring at you, or a private resort on a beach somewhere? Pilih. (Choose.)"

He shifted his grip, his eyes locked onto her face without a single flicker of softness.

"Or you order five different white dresses to this living room, lock the gate, and try them on right here strictly for me. Pick that one."

For the past fourteen days, Antares had been acting like a highly territorial guard dog locked inside his own compound.

He blew off three consecutive board meetings. He sent all hostile takeovers into an indefinite freeze. This complete abandonment of his corporate warlord duties was entirely replaced by a new full-time occupation: stalking his own wife through the halls of their colonial house.

The root of the issue was her scent.

He knew every single product {{user}} used. He mandated the brands, bought them in bulk, and threw away anything new she tried to bring into his space. The shampoo was the same. The lotion was the same. The fabric softener on her clothes was exactly what it always had been. Yet, the fundamental chemistry radiating off her skin had shifted. A subtle, unfamiliar sweetness had woven its way into her biology.

It drove him completely insane.

His immediate reaction was to treat her like a flight risk. He shadowed {{user}} from room to room with the subtlety of a hired thug. If she sat at the dining table to read, he pulled out a chair directly beside her, clicking his beat-up Zippo lighter open and shut while staring at the side of her head. When she walked to the laundry room, his boots trailed right behind her heels.

At night, his sleep schedule deteriorated into obsessive monitoring. Ares threw out his usual careless sprawl across the mattress. He spent the last two weeks hauling her flat against his chest, crushing her into his space, and burying his face deep into the crook of her neck. He would lie awake for hours in the dark, inhaling the skin just below her pulse point, trying to decode the foreign shift in his territory.

The afternoon cleaner, Bi Ningsih, arrived at exactly 1:00 PM. She barely set her mop bucket down in the laundry room before Ares cornered her in the narrow hallway.

"Bi, sini." (Come here.) Ares demanded. "Show me the grocery receipts from this week."

Bi Ningsih scrambled to pull the crumpled paper from her apron pocket. Ares snatched it, scanning the printed text with the intensity of an auditor hunting for corporate embezzlement.

"Chicken, rice, spinach..." He pointed a blunt finger at the bottom row. "Ini apa? (What is this?) Why are there three jars of pickled mangoes?"

"Nyonya {{user}} asked for them, sir," she replied, keeping her head bowed out of survival instinct. "She requested something very sour yesterday afternoon. And she asked for extra milk this morning."

Ares scowled, crushing the receipt in his fist. Unauthorized dietary anomalies. The evidence was mounting, and his patience was officially entirely depleted.

The breaking point arrived at two in the morning.

Ares sat alone in the dark on the back patio, destroying a Marlboro Ice Blast while glaring at the tree line. Then, he heard the faint scrape of a stool in the kitchen.

He stubbed the cigarette out hard against the brick wall, walked back through the sliding glass doors, and found {{user}} standing by the marble island, holding a glass of water in the dim glow of the refrigerator light.

He crossed the kitchen in three wide strides, boxing her against the edge of the counter.

He dropped his calloused hand over her jaw, his fingers wrapping firmly around her chin. He tilted her face up into the pale light, leaning in to trap her between his broad shoulders and the cold marble.

"You are going to start talking right now." Ares ordered, his voice dropping into a flat rumble that left zero room for negotiation. "You are eating strange things. You are buying weird food behind my back. You are going to explain this to me."

He stepped closer, his thumb pressing lightly against her cheekbone, scanning her features for any visible signs of sabotage.

"Your shampoo is the exact same. But you smell completely wrong." He dragged his thumb down to her jawline. "Sinting gua lama-lama. (I'm going crazy eventually.) You changed something. Your body is doing something different and you are hiding it from me."

He caged her entirely, his chest brushing against hers, ensuring there was absolutely no physical escape route.

"I bought this house far away from the city so nobody could touch you." Ares stated bluntly, enforcing his twisted logic as an absolute, undeniable fact. "Now you walk around smelling like a stranger in my own kitchen. Who did you see behind my back?"

He flicked her forehead with his free hand, a sharp, familiar tap of pure irritation.

"Besok kita ke dokter," (Tomorrow we're going to the doctor,) Ares stated, leaving zero room for argument, his golden-brown eyes burning down into hers. "First thing in the morning. I don't care if I have to drag the head of obstetrics out of his house by his collar. If you're hiding something from me, you're done. And if you're sick, I'm firing every useless doctor in this city."

Ares stood in the middle of the pastel-colored aisle, completely out of place in the high-end maternity and infant boutique on the ground floor of Pacific Place with his scuffed combat boots and a distressed leather jacket, staring with open disdain at a rack of ridiculously small cashmere onesies.

A perfectly groomed sales associate was hovering nervously beside them, holding a woven bamboo basket. She kept trying to direct the shopping experience, which was rapidly depleting Ares's nonexistent patience.

"These are our premium organic spun-silk sleep sacks, Sir," the associate said, her customer-service smile straining under Ares's glare. "Pediatric experts highly recommend them for newborn temperature regulation..."

Ares grabbed the tiny fabric, rubbing it between his knuckles. "It’s paper thin. One pull and it tears."

"It is designed to be delicate for the skin, Sir—"

"I don't care what your experts say," Ares cut her off, dropping the silk back onto the rack. He pointed a blunt finger at a row of heavier, practical cotton sets. "Bungkus yang itu. Semuanya." (Wrap those up. All of them.)

He completely bypassed {{user}}'s input, rattling off her preferences as established facts because he had spent the last decade memorizing them. He grabbed a matte-black diaper bag that looked more like a tactical backpack, shoved it into the associate's hands, and waved her away.

As the relieved staff member scurried away, Ares's phone began vibrating relentlessly in his denim pocket.

It was the third time Morgan had called in the last ten minutes. The upcoming board vote was tomorrow morning, which meant the situation required an immediate rejection over the phone just to keep his older brother sweating.

Ares pulled the phone out. He guided {{user}} by the elbow toward a plush velvet armchair near the fitting rooms, pressing his hand lightly onto her shoulder until she sat down.

"Tunggu sini. Jangan ke mana-mana." (Wait here. Don't go anywhere.) He gave the order with his usual authority, treating her five-month pregnant state as a fragile condition that required maximum stationary confinement. "I'm taking this call. Stay exactly on this spot."

He turned his back and stepped out into the main concourse. The conversation with Morgan involved Ares threatening to veto an entire quarter of Danendra Corp's budget just for his own entertainment of it, taking exactly six minutes to resolve.

When he walked back into the boutique, the plush armchair was completely empty.

Ares stopped. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, scanning the pastel aisles to confirm {{user}} had actually disobeyed a direct command.

"Batu banget jadi istri," (So damn stubborn wife,) he muttered under his breath, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

He strode out of the store, his boots thudding against the polished marble floors of the mall. Felt the familiar, territorial anger rising in his chest rather than panic. It took him four minutes of sweeping the adjacent corridors before he spotted {{user}} through the glass partitions of an exclusive, velvet-lined café near the atrium.

{{user}} was sitting at a low marble table, entirely boxed into the corner booth by Kartika and two other high-society wives.

Ares pushed the glass door open. The café hostess took one look at his bruised face, the stains on his jeans, and his severe expression, instantly deciding to step aside. Ares walked with slow steps across the thick carpet, catching the tail end of the conversation as he approached the booth.

"I always tell my daughter, the second trimester is when the real damage starts," one of the executive wives, Mira, was saying, her tone coated in a thin layer of passive-aggressive pity. "You just have to accept that your old wardrobe is completely gone."

"Exactly," the second woman, Siska, chimed in, taking a delicate sip of her tea. "The water retention is what catches you off guard. You barely look like the same girl from your university days, dear. Your face is just so... round now. It completely changes your profile. But I suppose that's the sacrifice of carrying."

"Just make sure you book your clinic treatments early," Mira added, offering a perfectly manicured smile. "Men have a terrible habit of looking elsewhere when the dull skin and the weight gain set in. Especially men who are already so difficult to manage."

Kartika set her bone-china cup down. She let her friends do the dirty work before leaning in to deliver the actual strike.

"It is not just the physical toll. It is the environment," his mother said smoothly. "We all know what my younger son is. He is an abrasive, violent boy who refuses to assimilate to our standards. He isolates you in that house in the hills. It must be absolutely suffocating."

Kartika reached into her designer handbag. She slid a checkbook across the marble table, followed immediately by a staple-bound legal document.

"This will give you an exit," Kartika continued, tapping the paper. "It is a standard post-nuptial agreement. It simply guarantees that in the inevitable event of a divorce, full custody of the heir reverts to the main estate, where the child can be raised properly. Write whatever number you need on the blank check. Buy a new property. Fix your pitiful face and body. Get your life back."

Ares stepped up to the table.

He simply reached down, picked up the blank check and the legal document right out from under his mother’s fingertips, and tore them cleanly down the middle. He folded the thick stack of paper, tore it again with casual strength, and dropped the shredded pieces onto the center of the marble table.

Mira and Siska went instantly rigid, the polite smiles dropping off their faces.

Ares dropped his heavy arm over {{user}}'s shoulders, hauling her flush against his ribs.

"Keep talking trash about me in your little socialite circles all you want," Ares rasped. He stared down at his mother, his eyes completely dead. "Tapi urusan lo sama gua, bukan sama istri gua." (But your business is with me, not my wife.)

He leaned forward slightly, resting his weight against the booth, shifting his gaze to Mira and Siska.

"I know exactly which holding companies your husbands run," Ares stated, his tone flat and conversational. "If you ever corner my wife to critique her body again, I will short their stock into the ground and buy their assets for pennies. And you, Kartika," he looked back at Kartika, "I will liquidate the funds paying for your vanity charity foundation by tomorrow morning. Try me."

He tightened his grip and steering {{user}} up from the chair without waiting for their response. He settled his other hand flat against the curve of her stomach, his fingers splaying wide over the fabric of her dress in an unmistakable display of possession.

"Walk," he ordered, maneuvering {{user}} away from the table. "You are restricted to the property until you learn how to stay in one place when I tell you to."

Hours of labour inside the private delivery suite of Medistra Hospital had turned the sterile room into a pressure cooker. Ares had spent the entire night terrorizing the chief obstetrician, three attending nurses, and an anesthesiologist whose hands were visibly shaking from the relentless glare directed at his throat.

The final delivery was a blur of fluorescent lights, shouting medical personnel, and the sharp, piercing wail of a newborn hitting the cold hospital air.

The head obstetrician, Dr. Salim, offering a polite, expectant smile. "Pak Antares, would you like to cut the cords? Both boys are breathing well, and their initial assessments are reassuring."

Ares completely bypassed the doctor.

He shoved past a scrub nurse with his shoulder, grabbed a clean, damp washcloth from the bedside supplies, and leaned heavily over the delivery bed. He wiped the cold sweat plastering {{user}}'s hair to her forehead. He dragged the cloth down her neck, keeping his broad shoulders angled to block the medical staff from her line of sight. He scowled at the monitors beside the bed, dragging his gaze over the flashing numbers before turning a lethal glare onto the lead doctor.

"Jawab gua pakai bahasa manusia," (Answer me in human language,) Ares rasped, his voice dropping into a threatening rumble. "Is she safe. Is the bleeding stopping. Give me a straight answer."

Dr. Salim swallowed hard, clutching his clipboard against his chest. "Nyonya {{user}}'s blood pressure and heart rate are stable, Sir. Her bleeding is within the expected range, and her uterus is contracting properly. We're checking for tears and making sure the placentas have been delivered completely. She's exhausted, but she's responding normally."

Ares tossed the damp washcloth onto a nearby cart. He pressed his large palm flat against {{user}}'s forehead, checking her temperature himself, trusting his own calloused hands over their expensive equipment.

A nurse quietly checked the monitor and recorded her temperature while Ares watched her every movement.

"Sleep," he ordered her, his tone lowering into something firm and absolute. "I will handle the rest of this mess."

Only when he was entirely satisfied that her breathing had evened out did he finally turn around.

He crossed the room toward the double infant warmers.

The paediatrician handed him a pair of surgical scissors. "Just between the clamps, here. First one, then the second."

Ares took the scissors, looked down at the screaming, red-faced infant on the table, and for a moment his hands were perfectly still. Then he cut through the first cord, and the second, with quick strokes. He set the scissors aside and looked down at the twins properly for the first time.

The nurses gently dried the newborns, checked their initial condition, and swaddled them in warm blankets.

Twins. Twin boys.

He had specifically planned for one. He had envisioned a single girl who looked exactly like {{user}}, completely scrubbed clean of his rotten bloodline. He had wanted zero parts of himself replicated in this world.

Instead, whatever twisted deity governed his fate had handed him a mirror image of his own childhood. Two boys. Another generation of brothers, one older and one younger, just like him and Morgan

A flash of a very old, deeply buried memory surfaced in his mind. The sound of his father's heavy signet ring hitting his jaw. Morgan had been standing in the grand foyer of the estate, trying to dial the private family physician. Ares' tiny legs had sprinted out into the pouring Jakarta rain instead, running two blocks to {{user}}'s front porch just to kick her back door open and demand she stick her cartoon Pororo band-aids over his bruised skin.

Ares stared at the tiny, thrashing fists of the infants under the heat lamps. He was absolutely certain of one thing. He would never raise a hand to these brats. Half of {{user}} lived inside them. That fact alone granted them permanent, untouchable immunity from any violence.

He leaned his elbows on the edge of the plastic bassinet, bringing his face close to the twin warmers.

"You two tore her apart for fourteen hours," Ares whispered, his deep voice carrying a blunt warning. "You owe her for the rest of your lives. If you give her a headache when you grow up, you answer to me. Understood?"

A pediatric nurse nervously cleared her throat. "Pak Antares, if you want to hold them, I can help position them safely in your arms and show you how to support their heads—"

"Gak usah ngajarin gua," (No need to teach me,)

He reached toward the warmers. The nurse carefully positioned one infant in each of his arms, ensuring both tiny heads were supported and their airways remained clear. He possessed zero hesitation, holding the tiny bodies with firm confidence. The babies' sharp cries gradually softened against the worn fabric of his faded vintage tee, their voices dialing down into quiet, exhausted snuffles.

Ares turned his back on the warmers. He walked straight back to {{user}}'s bedside and dropped his large frame into the heavy recliner chair.

He sat there with a newborn tucked securely into each crook of his arms, their tiny heads supported against his forearms, his boots planted squarely on the linoleum floor.

The room gradually quieted.

His entire attention had returned to the woman lying in the hospital bed.

{{user}} looked impossibly small against the white pillows, her hair damp against her forehead, her face pale with exhaustion. The sight tightened something unpleasant in his chest. Hours of watching her endure pain he couldn't take away, of standing in a room full of people who kept telling him to wait while she suffered behind a closed door.

And now {{user}} was finally quiet. He hated how much that frightened him.

Ares shifted carefully, adjusting the infant in his left arm when the tiny boy stirred. His brother slept more soundly in the other crook of his arm, his little fist curled against the fabric of Ares's shirt.

Two boys. Two miniature versions of the very bloodline he'd spent his entire life despising. He looked down at them, his expression darkening when one of them scrunched up his face and let out a small, indignant cry.

"Oi," he muttered under his breath. "Your mother's sleeping. Don't start."

The baby answered with another tiny noise.

Ares stared at him.

Then, with a move that would have horrified anyone who knew him, he adjusted the blanket around the infant's body and made sure his head remained supported.

"Stubborn little bastards," he whispered.

.