Chapter 3: Architect of Ashes

The blue light from Asher's phone screen cut through the suffocating darkness of the room like a cold blade.

A secret poll on the university intranet was going viral—"How many days will the Beta dog last?"

Over three thousand votes were cast within hours. Below the thread, the comments section was a feeding frenzy of sadistic excitement. Someone had taken photos of Asher's expensive, worn law textbooks and posted them online, edited with a crude, blood-red sketch of an iron collar and a heavy chain wrapped around his neck.

Walking down the campus corridors earlier that evening had felt like moving through a gauntlet of silent executioners. Nobody dared to come within three feet of him. Students parted ways in the hallways, throwing cold, mocking glances his way—the sick, perverse thrill of an audience waiting for a hunted animal to bleed out in the arena.

Now, it was 2:00 AM.

Asher sat at the furthest, most secluded corner table on the basement floor of the central library. The air down here was heavy with the smell of old paper, cold concrete, and bitter exhaustion. His eyes were shot through with thick red veins, and the pulse in his temples throbbed so hard it felt like a hammer striking his skull.

Scattered across the wide mahogany table were blue-grid drafting papers, rusted compasses, precision rulers, and three massive structural design manuals that felt heavier than lead.

His right hand was bound in a crude, tight wrap of white gauze—the permanent receipt he had paid for shattering his knuckles against Killian Cross's nose in the courtyard. Every time Asher tried to squeeze his fingers around the graphite drafting pencil, a lightning bolt of agony shot straight up his forearm, causing fresh, dark spots of blood to seep through the white bandage.

The lines on his paper weren't straight. The three-dimensional spatial calculations were turning into a blurry mess of gibberish. Law was simple—present logic, cite precedents, dismantle the opponent's argument, win the case. But Architecture was a completely different beast. It required spatial vision, mathematical precision, and an artistic soul. He was a blind man trying to navigate a minefield in total darkness.

His hand trembled violently, sending a splatter of lead dust across the page.

"Three weeks left..." Asher whispered, his voice dry and rasping in the dead silence. "Just three fucking weeks..."

Suddenly, without warning, the heavy fluorescent overhead lights above the library stacks flickered twice, buzzed violently, and died.

The entire basement hall was instantly plunged into a thick, suffocating darkness. Only a single, weak yellow bulb hanging directly above Asher's study desk remained faintly lit, casting long, eerie shadows across his scattered papers.

The sudden shift in the air wasn't just physical. In a terrifying split second, a heavy, smothering aroma flooded the room—the suffocating scent of burnt cedar and sub-zero mint.

Killian's Alpha pheromones.

It hit the small corner of the library like a tidal wave of pure toxic pressure. The sheer concentration of command aura was so suffocating that the air in Asher's lungs evaporated instantly. His throat constricted, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird as his body instinctively tried to force him onto his knees.

Then came the sound.

From the dark abyss beyond the rows of bookshelves, two heavy boot heels clicked in a slow, rhythmic, terrifying cadence on the hardwood floor.

Killian Cross stepped into the pool of dim yellow light.

He wasn't in his usual gold-trimmed designer coat. Instead, he wore a bespoke, metallic-grey three-piece suit that clung perfectly to his broad, imposing Alpha frame. Except for a tiny, flesh-colored bandage resting across the bridge of his nose, his face showed no trace of the humiliation he had suffered days ago.

His features were carved out of cold marble, but his eyes—Killian's amber irises glowed like a lethal predator's in the shadows, dark and utterly void of humanity.

Behind him stood two massive, stone-faced Alpha bodyguards, their shoulders blocking the exit corridor like gargoyles.

Killian stopped right in front of Asher's desk. He didn't utter a word at first. He simply stood there, towering over the sitting Beta, his gaze drifting down to the scattered drafts.

Slowly, Killian reached down. He laid his long, manicured fingers on the corner of the master blueprint—the single, semi-decent floor plan Asher had spent six grueling, excruciating hours drafting.

Then, with terrifying calm and in absolute, agonizing silence, Killian gripped both sides of the thick paper and ripped it straight down the middle.

The violent sound of tearing paper echoed through the empty library like a bone snapping in half.

Asher's blood boiled instantly. A surge of blind, unadulterated rage overrode his fear. He jerked up to stand, his chair scraping violently against the floor—"You son of a—"

He didn't even get the chance to lift his arms.

The massive bodyguard standing to Killian's right moved with blinding Alpha speed. His heavy, leather-gloved hand shot out, grabbed the back of Asher's neck, and slammed his face brutally down onto the mahogany desk!

Asher's cheek smashed violently against the hard wood. Blinding white stars exploded across his vision, and his split lip burst open again, smearing fresh, metallic-tasting blood across the ruined blueprint. The grip on his neck was merciless, crushing his windpipe, pinning him like an insect under a heavy boot.

Killian remained completely unfazed. He didn't even blink.

He slowly walked around the edge of the desk, his polished shoes stepping over the torn shreds of paper on the floor, until he was standing inches away from Asher's pinned body.

Killian reached down, grabbed Asher's bloody, bandaged right wrist, and pulled his injured hand onto the table. From his suit pocket, Killian casually slipped out a sleek, polished steel flash drive.

Without a single second of hesitation, Killian drove the razor-sharp corner of the metal drive straight into the open, raw wound beneath Asher's bloody bandage!

"AAAGHH—!"

A strangled, agonizing scream tore at Asher's throat, but the heavy hand crushing his windpipe suffocated the sound into a wet, desperate gasp. Tears of pure agony and helpless rage welled up in the corners of his eyes as the metal edge ground directly against his broken knuckles.

Killian leaned down, his ice-cold breath washing over Asher's ear, his voice dropping into a dark, toxic whisper.

"This drive holds the complete three-dimensional blueprint of my showcase project," Killian murmured, his tone laced with absolute, undisputed dominance. "My family spent two million dollars on the top architects in the country to design it. Look at it all you want, Valentine. It won't change the fact that a filthy, street-dwelling insect like you can never comprehend it."

With one final, brutal press, Killian forcefully crammed the metal drive into Asher's bleeding, mangled fist, squeezing his fingers closed around it until the metal bit deeper into the meat.

"One week has already slipped away, Valentine," Killian whispered slowly, his amber eyes burning into Asher's sideways gaze. "That heart monitor ticking beside your sick mother's bed at the hospital... the one keeping her alive while you play hero... its power switch is under my father's thumb. If you don't show up at the Showcase to kneel before me, her breathing stops before sunrise tomorrow."

Killian casually released his grip and straightened his dark suit jacket, brushing a speck of dust off his cuff.

As the bodyguard released the crushing grip on his neck, Asher collapsed off the table and hit the cold library floor, gasping frantically for air, his chest heaving as oxygen flooded his burning lungs.

The heavy, deliberate sound of Killian's boot heels gradually receded into the darkness of the library, fading until total, heavy silence returned to the room.

Asher lay sprawled on the freezing concrete floor beneath the weak yellow light. Blood dripped steadily from his mangled right hand, pooling on the floorboards. The bitter, metallic taste of copper coated his tongue, and an agonizing throbbing radiated through his ribs and neck. But deeper than the physical pain, Killian's lethal threat screamed inside his head like an unending siren.

His mother... his life... his future... all held in a golden cage.

Just then—a soft, rasping sound echoed from the dark, shadowy corner behind the ancient history archives.

A tiny flicker of a match flame burst alive in the darkness. The small yellow light illuminated a pair of sharp, piercing blue eyes and a half-burnt, unlit cigarette pressed between cracked, dry lips.

The shadowed figure slowly stepped out from the darkness, his boots making no sound at all. He wore a long, scuffed suede coat that looked years old, and his dark hair was messy and unkempt.

Exhaling a thin, elegant trail of grey smoke into the cold air, the man looked down at the bloody steel flash drive still clutched in Asher's shaking palm. A cold, dark, incredibly sharp smirk curled his lips.

"Killian Cross... still as arrogant and blind as the day they kicked me out," the man said, his voice raspy, deep, and rough like sandpaper.

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, stopping just at the edge of the light.

"So, Beta..." the stranger murmured, his blue eyes gleaming with an unholy, vengeful fire. "Are you going to lie there on the floor and die in this dark corner like a dog... or are you ready to team up with me and burn that Alpha's goddamn empire to fucking ashes?"

Asher slowly raised his head, staring back through bloodshot, tear-stained eyes.