Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega-Chapter 174: Outside

The tour had been brutal, and Adam was starting to understand why Damian paid so obscenely well.

It wasn’t just the shows.

It was the travel that never quite let you sleep, the security protocols that treated every venue like a battlefield, and the rehearsals that became mandatory even when your voice was raw and your legs felt like borrowed limbs. It was being "normal" on schedule - smiling for cameras, signing forms, passing through ether scans, and walking into crowds that loved you so hard it felt like pressure.

By the time they were back in the capital for the two-week gap - no concerts, only rehearsals - Adam felt hollowed out. Spent. The kind of tired that persisted even after a long nap, because it was deeper than muscles.

And on top of that, his heat had been circling him for months.

Adam had kept it at bay the same way he kept everything else at bay: with sheer discipline and chemistry. Suppressants, timed doses, careful hydration, and careful scent control. It wasn’t elegant, but it was effective... until it wasn’t.

Because the body eventually stopped negotiating.

It demanded.

On one of those mornings, Adam woke up already flushed and aching, arousal heavy and insistent in his bloodstream like a fever. His sheets were tangled around his legs, his hoodie from the night before stuck to his skin, and his breath came shallow as if the air itself were too warm. The room smelled faintly like him - clean soap from the night prior, but underneath it, something richer, sharper, and unmistakably omega.

Dominant omega.

A fact that, in the public imagination, didn’t exist.

Nobody knew.

Not the fans. Not the venues. Not the palace liaisons. Not even most of his band. The only person who knew was his manager, and she knew because she’d had to - because contracts and travel and safety plans always eventually bumped into biology, no matter how much you tried to pretend you were made of stage lights and willpower.

Adam lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched as his body tried to convince him that this was the only thing that mattered now.

Then he rolled over, grabbed his phone with shaky fingers, and called her.

She answered on the second ring, her voice instantly alert. "Adam?"

"I can’t," he said, and hated how raw the words sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again, slower. "I can’t do it today."

There was a beat of silence that meant she was already rearranging a schedule in her head and deciding who to call first.

"Heat?" she asked quietly.

Adam closed his eyes. "Yeah."

"Okay," she said immediately. No judgment, no panic, just swift competence. "Good. Good, thank you for telling me. We’re two weeks out from concerts. Rehearsals can be moved. You stay home."

Adam let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. "I’m sorry."

"Don’t," she said, firmly. "This is the sane decision. I’d rather cancel a rehearsal than have you collapse on a stage later." Her tone softened slightly. "Do you have blockers?"

"I have enough," Adam lied automatically, then corrected himself because she was the one person he couldn’t afford to lie to. "I have... some. But I can’t keep doing this."

"I know," she said, and the quiet understanding in her voice made his throat tighten. "I’ll handle it. No one needs details. I’ll say you’re sick. Exhaustion. Voice rest. Whatever. Stay off social media."

"Already planned," Adam muttered.

"Do you need anyone?" she asked. "A medic? A... security check?"

Adam’s jaw tightened. "No."

"Adam."

He exhaled sharply. "I need groceries," he admitted, because the humiliation had to go somewhere, and at least this was practical. "I don’t have anything in the apartment."

A pause, then: "Okay. I’ll send someone. Give me an hour."

"Thanks," he said, and meant it.

He ended the call and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, breathing hard while his body insisted, insisted, insisted.

It would have been easier if he could just call delivery and stay buried under blankets until it passed.

But the thought of a stranger at his door - someone lingering in the hallway, someone catching a scent leaking through the seam, someone noticing the way his hands shook - made his skin crawl.

So he made another decision.

A stupid one, probably, but it felt safer than being vulnerable in his own doorway.

He showered quickly with lukewarm water because hot water made everything worse. He scrubbed himself until his skin stung, then used scent-neutral soap twice. He took another suppressant, even though he knew it wouldn’t fix the root problem - it would only dull the edge.

Then he dressed.

Soft sweats. A black hoodie, oversized, hood pulled up like a shield. A mask, because the Capital had learned to accept masks after the rebellion, and nobody asked why anymore. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stood in the entryway for a second, breathing through the tightness in his chest like he was about to walk onto a stage.

Except this wasn’t a stage.

There were no lights to control the narrative.

Just streets. People. Chance.

He forced the door open and stepped into the corridor, keeping his head down and moving fast.

His body felt too warm inside the fabric, his breath thick and uneven, the subtle ache between his thighs reminding him with every step that his biology didn’t care about contracts or fame or timing.

He told himself: Just food. Just five minutes. In and out. Survive until she sends someone.

He made it to the street, winter air slapping him cold enough to almost sting. It didn’t help much.

He walked toward the nearest corner shop, shoulders hunched, hood low, breathing heavily through his mask like he’d run a mile.

Halfway there, the scent of someone’s cologne drifted past him - alpha, sharp, and clean - and Adam’s entire body reacted like it had been waiting for a trigger. Heat flared hot under his skin. His steps faltered for half a second.

He swallowed hard and kept moving.

Because he wasn’t going to fall apart in public.

He’d survived worse than a biological betrayal.

He reached the store entrance, grabbed the handle with fingers that didn’t feel entirely steady... And the moment the door opened and warm air spilled out, carrying the mingled scents of bread, coffee, and people, Adam realized too late that ’people’ was exactly the problem.

Inside, the morning crowd was small but present.

A cashier. A woman with a stroller. A man in a coat scrolling on a wrist screen.

And, near the back by the refrigerated section, an alpha presence was so distinct Adam felt it like pressure before he even fully saw him.

His stomach dropped as his body recognized danger.

And then, one heartbeat later, his brain caught up and supplied the part that made it worse.

Maximilian Thronwell.