Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 111: This Is Payback...

Moon lies in the hospital bed, the stark white sheets pulled up to his chest. The harsh, restless tension is finally gone from his body, smoothed away by medication and exhaustion.

He sleeps, his breathing deep and even, looking younger, almost innocent.

I sit on the stiff vinyl couch, not really seeing him. My mind is a tangle of conflicting images.

The furious, possessive Alpha dragging me through hallways. The burning, silent man who collapsed into my arms. His constant, accusing refrain:

Why are you ignoring me?

Did he really hate being ignored that much?

But he’s the one who acts so impossibly, infuriatingly weird. Ignoring him felt like my only defense against his chaotic energy.

But maybe... maybe that was wrong.

The memory of the album flickers—two little boys, one silver-haired, one dark, laughing in a pool, sharing ice cream, sleeping tangled together. Best friends. Close cousins.

What shattered that?

What turned that sunshine into the bitter, obsessive coldness Moon carries now?

My curiosity is a live wire.

I need to understand.

A soft click at the door pulls me from the spiral. A nurse steps in, her smile gentle but professional.

"Mr. Kael? The doctor would like to speak with you."

I blink, the real world snapping back into focus. I stand, my legs stiff from sitting too long. She holds the door open.

"This way, please."

I nod and follow her out, the quiet of the room replaced by the sterile hum of the hallway.

I sit in the doctor’s office, a sterile, quiet space that smells of antiseptic and anxiety. The doctor sits across from me, a man with kind eyes and a serious mouth. He’s studying a report, his brow furrowed.

My own face must be a mask of confused worry.

Is it serious?

Is he really ill?

The doctor sets the papers down and removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks at me, his expression grave.

"Mr. Kael," he begins, his voice measured.

"Mr. Arden’s fever... it wasn’t a typical presentation."

I blink. "What do you mean?"

"After some initial tests," he continues, choosing his words with care, "we’ve found the root cause. Mr. Arden’s pheromone levels are dangerously unstable. This was induced by a combination of alcohol consumption during his most recent rut cycle..."

He pauses, letting the weight of that sink in.

"...and the use of a very heavy dose of suppressants."

My breath catches. The shock is a cold splash.

Alcohol during a rut?

Heavy suppressants?

The pieces click into a horrifying picture. It’s not just eccentric or arrogant behavior. It’s... self-destructive.

Why?

Why would he do that to himself?

The doctor sees my expression.

"We’ve stabilized him with treatment. But the path forward is strict. For the next three months, he must avoid alcohol completely. Not a single drop. It would be extremely dangerous for him in his current state. We’ll keep him for 24 hours for observation, then he can be discharged."

I nod slowly, the motion automatic. My mind is reeling, stuck on those two facts, echoing like a warning siren.

Alcohol during rut.

Heavy suppressants.

The arrogant, untouchable Moon Arden isn’t just difficult.

He’s in trouble.

The door sighs shut behind me, sealing me back into the room’s quiet. Moon hasn’t moved. He sleeps on, a portrait of stolen peace against the sterile white. My steps are silent on the linoleum as I approach the bed.

The doctor’s words are a cold, clinical loop in my head.

Alcohol during rut.

Heavy suppressants.

Dangerously unstable.

I look down at him. His face, stripped of its usual arrogance or calculated intensity, is simply... beautiful.

The contradiction aches.

He loves himself so much—his image, his control, his perfect, untouchable aura. Then why?

Why wage this secret, violent war on his own body?

A strand of his blue hair has fallen across his closed eyelid. It must be uncomfortable. Without thinking, I lean down. My movement is slow, my touch feather-light.

I don’t want to wake him. My fingers brush the stray lock back, tucking it gently behind his ear.

My hand lingers. I stare, transfixed by the details up close—the sweep of his lashes against his cheek, the relaxed line of his mouth.

He’s beautiful. Handsome in a way that feels raw and unguarded, a stark contrast to the polished superstar.

I stare without blinking, my mind a whirl of confusion and a strange, unwelcome pity.

Then, his eyes open.

They are not hazy with sleep. They are clear, sharp, and instantly focused—directly on me.

My eyes fly wide. I try to jerk my hand back, to straighten up and put professional, cousin-ly distance between us.

I’m not fast enough.

His hand snaps up, catching my wrist in a firm, warm grip. The sudden motion throws me off balance.

I gasp, stumbling forward, and land against him with a soft thud.

Our chests meet. The heat of his fever, now lessened but still present, radiates through the thin hospital gown.

Our faces are suddenly, dangerously close. His breath fans across my lips.

And he smiles. It’s not the cold smirk or the predatory grin. It’s a sleepy, knowing, utterly captivating curve of his mouth.

"Are you admiring me," he murmurs, his voice still sleep-rough but laced with pure amusement, "while I was sleeping?"

My face flames. "I’m not!" I snap, flustered. "I was just... helping. Your hair was in your face."

He blinks, the picture of wounded innocence. "Helping?" His smile widens, turning predatory.

"Really?"

I try to push myself up, to put space between us, but his other arm moves. It slides around my waist, his hand splaying against the small of my back.

He doesn’t just hold me—he pulls me closer, eliminating the last shred of distance. My body is now fully pressed against his side on the narrow bed.

My nervousness skyrockets. My cheeks are on fire.

"What are you doing? Let me go."

His hold tightens, just a fraction.

"Stay with me here tonight."

I glance desperately at the tiny, rigid visitor’s couch in the corner.

"I can’t. There’s no space. That thing is a torture device."

"You can sleep here," he says, as if it’s the most logical solution in the world. He pats the empty space on the bed beside him with his free hand.

"It’s big enough. And I’m a patient. I don’t want to be alone." He lets his lower lip jut out in a perfect, dramatic pout.

"You’re my cousin. You should take responsibility."

I stare at him, a strange sense of déjà vu twisting in my gut. The exaggerated pout, the wheedling tone, the manipulation wrapped in a pretty package... it’s a mirror.

A distorted, frustratingly familiar reflection.

"You’re not a good actor, Moon," I say coldly.

He just blinks more innocently, doubling down on the performance.

I try again to lever myself up. His arm is an immovable band of steel.

"Let. Me. Go."

"Promise me first," he whispers, his breath a warm brush against my cheek.

"Promise you’ll stay."

I let out a long, defeated sigh and look away, toward the dark window.

A wry, helpless realization hits me.

This is payback.

Poetic, karmic, perfectly crafted payback.

This is exactly what I do to Deniz.