Chapter Text
Zanka, ever since he could remember, had known this fatal truth: he was unequivocally, unchangeably ordinary.
Back in the academy, he used to like being thought of as a genius. The envious glances, the whispers behind his back, the constant reassurance that everyone saw him that way all felt like a warm coat draped over his shoulders on a cold evening. Yeah, he would think, with just the right amount of smugness tempered by carefully displayed humility, I am better.
The truth, however, was simpler and far less flattering.
Zanka just put in more effort than the rest of his classmates when it came to everything, and nothing—neither his strength, nor his grace in sparring, nor his meticulously kept grades—ever truly came to him naturally. He trained in secret, slipping into places where no eyes could catch him, all to keep up the façade of effortless brilliance. Every time, he felt like a fraud, and every time, he kept going.
That lasted until Hyo arrived, and his perfectly maintained lie crumbled beneath his fingers without anyone else ever noticing. The image Zanka had so carefully built of himself shattered anyway, forcing him to see the undeniable contrast between a real genius and whatever mediocre he had turned out to be.
It turned out that being born into a noble family and carrying a name like Nijiku meant nothing. It guaranteed nothing. Zanka learned, with a blow straight to his pride, that a name was just a name, and that was all.
To add salt to the wound he was still licking, soon after meeting Hyo and grasping the vast gap between their abilities, Zanka—contrary to everyone’s expectations, and quite painfully even his own—presented not as the alpha his family had wanted him to be, but as a beta. An utterly average, ordinary beta. Just another face lost in the masses, another regular face no one looked at twice, whose presence carried no sense of grandeur.
The news struck his pride again, tearing the wound wider and redder until he knew he couldn’t face his family anytime soon. Still, swallowing his pride and clinging to the often-preached good side of things, he accepted his second gender rather quickly. Beta, he decided, he could work with. It simply meant more time to train, to get stronger, without the disruption of ruts or heats or the sickening haze of pheromones clouding his judgement.
Then, as if the universe itself couldn’t stand Zanka being okay with his situation, the day came to choose his weapon. The moment he grabbed the long wooden stick, something twisted deep in his gut with the certainty that it had to be powerful, more powerful than any other weapon. But then, it happened again. The label of “mediocre” dropped onto him like a crushing weight, accompanied by worried murmurs from some, mocking giggles from others, and the judging stares of most.
Zanka knew three things so far: A name was just a name. Mediocre people were just mediocre people. And a wooden stick was just a wooden stick.
The truth grew too heavy to ignore.
It crushed him and dragged him all the way down to rock bottom, quite literally. It forced him to look in the mirror and loathe the failure staring back. It drove him to starve himself. And most importantly, it made him cling desperately to everything that marked him as mediocre and swear he would never let go: his name, his second gender, and his stick.
Not long after, after meeting Enjin that fateful day, Zanka chose to follow a path that carried neither his family’s expectations nor anyone else’s—only his own. He became a Cleaner, driven once again by his ambition to become the strongest there ever was through sheer hard work alone, and to shove it in the faces of every gifted genius who never had to struggle to achieve greatness. He would do it gladly, too, with the very same “stick” they had laughed at.
The work was exactly what he wanted, and Enjin was exactly the kind of person Zanka liked to soak praise from. Every word of approval, every pat on the back, felt like warm honey sliding over sore muscles after a fight with a Trash Beast or the necessary, bruising training against a fellow Cleaner. And the more time passed, the stronger and more in tune he grew with his Lovely Assistaff.
And, for the better, the more he realized that being a beta was far more of a privilege than he had ever first imagined.
For one thing, the Cleaners were strict about following heat and rut cycles through calendars to ensure no one became unexpectedly indisposed in the middle of a job. Alphas like Enjin, or omegas like Riyo—people Zanka spent time with daily—had to carefully track their cycles and follow rigid rules that confined them to their HQ rooms when the time came.
Zanka, being an ordinary beta, had no such problem, and could take missions whenever and wherever he was needed, free of that constant disruption. It didn’t take long for Zanka to realize how much of an advantage that was. Less time dealing with irritating physiological urges meant more time devoted to training, meditating, and getting stronger.
There would be no distractions. There would be no push and pull of secondary instincts. There would be no one to ever tell him to take obligatory rest because he had suddenly gone into heat or rut. There would be no need to worry about suppressants, scent blockers, or any of that crap that, quite frankly, made him roll his eyes just thinking about it.
That was, until the scent reached him.
A sweet, fresh, and faintly fruity scent, lingering in the air. It was exactly the kind of scent Zanka really, really liked since it didn’t overwhelm his senses or make him wrinkle his nose in nausea the way Rudo’s sharp, bitter alpha scent or Tamsy’s overly saccharine omega scent often did.
Being a beta meant that, naturally, Zanka perceived scents differently than alphas or omegas. More often than not, it meant being almost blissfully oblivious to them. He could still smell, obviously—it wasn’t as if he lacked that sense—but subtle shifts, like an omega slipping into pre-heat and leaking potent, needy pheromones, tended to go straight over his head. That kind of thing only ever registered once someone like Eishia politely pointed out to Tamsy that his heat was approaching and he should take it easy. Only then, if Zanka truly focused, could he start picking apart the finer details he’d been missing of a scent.
So when this scent hit him, it did so in that same broad, general way. In the only way it mattered, really. It was sweet without being cloying, fresher than anything the headquarters usually smelled like, tinged with hints of fruit Zanka only vaguely remembered from his past. An omega—new, unfamiliar, and unmistakably out of place.
His eyes, along with everyone else’s, swept the room and snapped to the cafeteria entrance, where his boss, Arkha Corvus, walked in with a friendly hand resting on the shoulder of someone Zanka honestly didn’t recognize. Unlike Riyo, Rudo, and Enjin, who all straightened in open disbelief, Zanka only stared.
“This is Fu Orostor,” Corvus announced, encouraging him forward with a firm palm to his back. Fu, under the sudden weight of everyone’s attention, seemed to shrink in on himself despite the weak, shaky smile on his lips, his hands politely clasped together in front of him. “As some of you know, he’s an ex-raider. However, Fu willingly helped us and has expressed interest in joining. For now, he’ll be working with us on a trial basis so please take care of him. That’s all.”
With that, Corvus disappeared back through the door, leaving the ex-raider standing awkwardly near the entrance, smile still plastered on his face as he bowed nervously and introduced himself.
Zanka watched him for a moment before dropping his gaze back to his food. Corvus might have sounded welcoming, but “take care of him” translated easily enough to keep an eye on him.
“An ex-raider?” Zanka muttered, not really aiming the question at anyone, though his team’s attention immediately snapped to him. “What’s the boss thinking?”
Riyo laughed, propping her head on one hand as she watched Fu remain stranded in the middle of the room. “You weren’t there, but that guy’s hella tough.”
“Doubt it.”
“No, it’s true,” Enjin added, and that alone made Zanka actually listen. “Without Fu back there, we would’ve had a much harder time getting to Tori to catch the information broker.” Enjin’s gaze sharpened as it flicked back to Fu, assessing and serious. “Better to keep him close than leave him out there, even if he turns out to be a spy.”
Zanka found himself staring again.
The omega looked painfully out of place, smiling too politely and a little too stiffly, rooted to the spot like he didn’t quite know where to go. His hair was clearly freshly washed, his clothes ill-fitting, his posture growing smaller by the second, as though he was trying to take up as little space as possible. Zanka watched him fidget until Gris approached, placing a welcoming hand on his shoulder and guiding him toward a table where Follo, Tomme, and a few other Cleaners were eating.
Zanka wasn’t great at reading expressions, but Fu wore his emotions openly enough that the way his entire face brightened under Gris’s kindness was hard to miss.
Zanka stared a second longer, then looked away, finishing his food with the intention of heading back to his room to meditate.
After finishing Rudo’s training, Zanka found himself walking beside him when they came across Amo and Fu heading toward the infirmary, the very next day.
Rudo lit up the second he spotted Amo, and the two of them immediately fell into easy chatter about things Zanka couldn’t possibly care less about. Fu, however, instinctively hung back. A goofy, almost timid smile lingered on his face as he listened, deliberately avoiding inserting himself into the conversation.
Zanka took a subtle breath, just enough to catch that sweet, fresh, fruity scent again and file it away in his memory alongside the dozens of others he kept catalogued; like Enjin’s harsh, spicy tang, or Riyo’s earthy, metallic one. It was just something Zanka did—recognize, assess, and familiarize.
Except this time, Fu’s faint scent was almost entirely swallowed by Gris’s distinct lemony omega scent.
It caught Zanka off guard for half a second, until his gaze swept over Fu’s outfit and put the pieces together. The oversized hoodie nearly drowning his frame, sleeves covering his hands almost comically, and likely the t-shirt beneath it as well—they were all Gris’s.
Hmm.
A subtle irritation settled low in Zanka’s gut, and he shoved it down immediately, directing it toward what he considered Gris’s recklessness in offering that kind of intimate welcome to a complete stranger and potential enemy like Fu.
An ex-Raider who suddenly wanted to switch sides? Yeah, right. Something was off. No one simply decided to join their enemies out of nowhere, not without a reason. No matter how he looked at it, it was suspicious as hell. Gris had to be out of his mind to lend his own clothes like that, draped in his soothing citrus scent, most likely intentionally—a blatant sign of trust and reassurance, the kind omegas used to calm other omegas. The naivety was almost embarrassing.
Well, Corvus had said to take care of him, and the best way to make sure the little omega didn’t try anything funny was to do exactly that.
“You’re going to see Eishia?” Zanka asked, tone as casual as he could manage as he stepped forward to walk beside Fu.
Fu startled slightly at being addressed so suddenly, shoulders jerking before he looked up. His green eyes met Zanka’s blue ones. “Y-yeah. Miss Semiu ordered me to.”
That figured. It was standard procedure to monitor the secondary genders of new members, even if those members were only temporary. Fu and Amo, both omegas, needed to have their cycles tracked and their health evaluated, especially in a place as structured as the Cleaners’ headquarters.
Zanka said nothing else and simply followed along, because of course Rudo had decided to tag along for Amo’s sake. Zanka’s reasons were different. He was there to ensure Fu actually underwent the examination properly and didn’t attempt to lie his way through it.
Eishia received them with a gentle smile and began the routine questions for Amo with practiced diligence.
When she turned to Fu, however, his first answer had everyone lifting their heads.
“It-it’s true!” Fu blurted, both arms raised defensively, his voice thin with panic. “My last heat was years ago. I don’t even remember when, so… so I don’t think it’s necessary to check, right? I just don’t have them anymore.”
Eishia’s expression grew more concerned by the second. “And you haven’t been using suppressants during these past few years?”
“N-no. I haven’t.”
“Any hormonal injections? Experimental treatments? Anything meant to alter or dampen your cycle?”
Fu shook his head quickly. “I haven’t.”
“Have you formed a bond with an alpha? Even temporarily? Something that might have affected your heat pattern?”
With every question, Fu seemed to fold further into himself, hands clasped tightly over his knees where he sat perched on the edge of the examination bed. A flush crept up his neck, and he looked increasingly sheepish.
“N-no, I never… I haven’t.”
“Then, during your last heat—what you can remember of it—did you go through it alone?”
“Yes,” Fu answered, gaze dropping to the floor as a shadow passed over his already nervous expression. “I was always alone.”
Eishia glanced down at her notes, concern now unmistakable in the slight furrow of her brow. An omega going years without a heat, without suppressants, without medical intervention—biologically, that didn’t make sense. Even Zanka could grasp the seriousness of the situation, especially if Fu was telling the truth.
It usually meant the body was under such extreme stress that it shut the cycle down entirely, didn’t it?
It seemed he and Eishia had reached the same silent conclusion, but before either of them could voice it, Amo spoke up.
“Fu shouldn’t worry. Amo didn’t experience her heat for the longest time either.” She smiled gently, her warm gaze settling on Fu. “But then when Amo received her boots, it finally came. Maybe some of us are just late bloomers?”
Eishia looked at her for a second too long before offering a soft smile in return, though the tightness in it didn’t escape Zanka’s notice.
“Yeah,” she replied quietly, eyes lowering back to her notes. “Maybe…”
The checkup wrapped up soon after. Zanka remained where he stood with Rudo, arms loosely crossed, watching as Amo and Fu walked back down the corridor toward their rooms, Fu still swallowed in Gris’s oversized hoodie and Amo chatting beside him as if nothing at all were wrong.
It was only a few days later when Zanka stumbled upon him again.
If Zanka were being honest, the faint, sweet scent lingering in the hallway had already warned him Fu would be around the corner when Semiu summoned him for the next job.
Zanka’s eyes narrowed as he approached the front desk, where Fu stood dutifully with his back to him, wearing yet another oversized hoodie that clearly belonged to Gris or perhaps had been borrowed from August’s endless wardrobe. At this point, Zanka couldn’t tell anymore, because by the time he stopped beside him and drew in a slow breath, Fu’s natural scent had already seeped into the fabric, soft and fresh and unmistakably his.
Two Supporters Zanka had worked with before stood nearby, offering him cautious smiles. The whole thing smelled fishy as hell.
“What’s the meaning of this, Semiu?” Zanka asked, tearing his scrutinizing gaze from the ex-Raider to fix it on her instead.
“Boss’s orders,” she replied flatly, not even bothering to look up from one of her erotic magazines. “You’re taking Fu with you on this mission. Show him how the job works. Maybe teach him a thing or two.”
Zanka felt his brow twitch. “Huh? I’m already in charge of Rudo, and now they want me to babysit another one? An ex-Raider, at that?”
Fu flinched at the sharp edge in his tone, then visibly deflated under Zanka’s assessing stare, green eyes blinking rapidly as if afraid to hold eye contact for too long.
Good. He should be scared. There was no way in hell Zanka would ever, in a million years, willingly work alongside a suspicious, potentially dangerous former Rai—
“Enjin recommended you.”
“…Let’s go, then.”
The ride out of the city was quiet.
Zanka and Fu sat in the back of the car while one of the Supporters drove them toward the next city responding to the call.
From the corner of his eye, Zanka could see Fu sitting stiffly, hands clasped over his knees once again, shoulders drawn up as if trying to fold into himself. He looked nervous despite the tentative smile lingering on his lips. It was probably because today’s Supporters weren’t Gris, and Gris’s soothing presence, as well as his steady citrus calm which usually lingered around Fu, were nowhere to be found in the cramped vehicle.
The Supporters’ wary glances through the rearview mirror did nothing to ease the omega’s anxiety either. Not that Zanka blamed them. No one bought the ex-Raider story. Especially not after that stunt with the Trash Beast at the border, where Fu had been involved—and where Zanka had lost to Jabber for the second time.
The memory flared sharp and hot, unwelcome.
Zanka clicked his tongue and snapped his gaze away from Fu to stare out the window, a scowl carving across his face as a surge of anger rose in his chest. He would vent it out on whatever Trash Beast they found on this job. He tried to steady himself by focusing on the promise of a fight, but even he could tell his scent had soured, thickening with unmistakable irritation the more the memory replayed in his head. Jabber’s mocking laughter echoed in it, taunting him about holding back, about never using his full potential, when Zanka had been pushing himself to the limit from the very beginning. God, Zanka really hated geniuses.
He only stopped spiraling when the sweet scent he had begun to associate with Fu shifted; the light, fresh notes gradually mingling with something rotten.
The change made Zanka pause mid-breath. He turned his head toward the omega, brows knitting slightly in confusion.
Fu was staring down at his lap, clutching a worn doll in both hands—the same ragged thing Zanka had seen him carry everywhere, which had to be his Vital Instrument given the care and resolve with which he guarded it. Fu’s thumb stroked absentmindedly over the doll’s head, his eyes half-lidded, the hesitant smile gone as if it had slipped off without him noticing. He looked lost in thought, perhaps not even aware that his unease was leaking into the air, staining his once-fresh scent with anxiety.
Zanka realized, with a small twinge, that it was probably his fault; he’d released too many agitated pheromones, and Fu was likely reacting to them.
Dammit!
Drawing in a steadying breath to brace himself against the inevitable embarrassment, Zanka now consciously let his scent unfurl in subtle, soothing waves.
As a beta, his pheromones were naturally mild and unassuming, plain and, like everything else about him, painfully average, but he let them drift toward the omega anyway, hoping the quiet reassurance would be enough to signal that he wasn’t angry—if that had even been the cause of Fu’s distress to begin with.
The effect was immediate.
Fu’s shoulders straightened, then, a heartbeat later, relaxed completely, his whole frame sagging against the seat as the tension visibly drained from his body. The bitter edge faded from his scent, returning to that soft, fresh sweetness Zanka had already memorized.
Zanka relaxed as well, though heat crept up his cheeks when he caught the Supporters’ eyes watching through the rearview mirror. None of them said a word, but their looks were pointed.
Okay, and so what? An omega had clearly been growing distressed, his scent souring the limited air in the car, and rolling down the windows wasn’t an option. Basic courtesy was calming the poor guy down, wasn’t it? Sue him! Any alpha would’ve done the same.
Any alpha.
The thought settled strangely in Zanka’s chest, but before he could examine it, his gaze dropped again to the doll resting in Fu’s lap.
The grip around it had loosened, and that distant, unfocused glaze in Fu’s eyes had vanished from his face as if it had never been there. Now, his cheeks dusted with a subtle pink as his fresh scent stabilized. And that—that was a win for Zanka.
“That your Vital Instrument?” Zanka asked, breaking the lingering silence more to dispel his own awkwardness than anything else.
Fu startled—something Zanka was starting to notice happened a lot—then turned toward him with a shy smile.
“Yeah. This is Hii.”
Zanka had already heard about Hii from Riyo, who had described him as some sort of hella strong guy that managed to take down Jabber and several Trash Beasts in mere seconds. Now, the first time Zanka heard this story he really doubted it for two reasons: first, because Riyo occasionally liked feeding him outrageous lies just to watch him fall for them, and second, because according to her description, Hii was essentially Fu himself, and Fu wasn’t exactly the type of guy who inspired immediate thoughts of overwhelming strength, alright?
‘But… it was as if Fu himself turned into his Vital Instrument, in a way,’ she’d said.
Zanka exhaled through his nose and leaned back more comfortably in his seat. “They told me you beat Jabber back then, right?”
“Y-yeah…” Fu scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “But that was all Hii.”
Zanka didn’t know whether to feel jealous that this scrawny, soft-spoken omega with his nervous habits and gentle smile had managed to defeat Jabber in seconds while he himself had struggled and lost twice. The thought should have burned.
Yet, as he watched Fu lift the doll closer to his face, smiling at it with closed eyes as if it were something precious, Zanka found he couldn’t summon even a shred of resentment.
If anything, he felt satisfaction.
Jabber getting knocked flat by the hands of no other than one of his former allies must have stung like hell. Zanka sincerely hoped it had.
A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Tell me,” he said, leaning slightly forward, interest sharpening his tone. “What did he look like? What did he say? How much he bled? I want every detail.”
Fu blinked at the sudden enthusiasm, clearly caught off guard, but little by little he began recounting the fight as best as he could remember, his voice gaining faint steadiness as he spoke.
“Serves him right,” Zanka muttered when Fu finished, gazing distractedly out the window.
Fu stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable behind the dark mask, but there was clearly something he wanted to say. Zanka side-eyed him, then crossed his arms over his chest.
“What?”
“N-nothing!”
“What is it?” Zanka insisted, raising a brow. “Speak up.”
“Yes, sir!” Fu immediately sat up straight, voice rising—only to quickly shrink back, glancing down at his doll. “I was just thinking… Jabber used to talk about this Cleaner he fought with. Called him Mr. Bad Attitude. Said he was insanely strong. And I thought… anyone who can hold Jabber’s interest like that must be super scary, you know? So at first, I was scared of talking to you…”
Zanka listened carefully, ignoring the flicker of irritation at the stupid nickname. Then Fu turned fully toward Zanka, their eyes meeting, Zanka’s sharp gaze locking with Fu’s shy one.
“But even though you actually are insanely strong, you’re not scary at all,” Fu continued, voice softening. “Your pheromones feel gentle… So I’m really glad I finally met you, Mr. Zanka.”
Zanka’s eyes widened at the admission.
This was the first time anyone had ever said something like that to him. Gentle, but undeserved. Meaningless, coming from a total stranger. Yet for some reason, the words made his heart feel lighter and strangely warm, his pulse kicking up just a little faster.
Silence stretched as he said nothing.
Until Fu’s eyes suddenly widened and he scooted back, pressing himself against the car door, utterly mortified, his gaze darting nervously between Zanka and the Supporters in the front seats, who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange.
“I-I mean—I’m glad to be here! To be of service to the Cleaners! T-that I can learn from this job and, and—”
Zanka leaned back against the seat and propped his cheek in his hand, looking out the window as he cut off Fu’s rambling with a quiet mutter. “…Just Zanka is fine.”
Fu stilled. “Eh?”
“My name. Just Zanka. No need for ‘Mister.’ We’re the same age, aren’t we?”
Fu lowered his hands to his knees. Copying Zanka, he turned to look out his own window.
“Right… Zanka.”
Silence fell once again.
The only sounds were their breathing, the car’s engine, and the tires sliding through sand.
Zanka’s heart still thudded unevenly, caught somewhere between slowing down and racing all over again. He couldn’t understand why. But something about the way Fu had said his name—just Zanka, soft and tentative—made his pheromones flare involuntarily, something warm and startled slipping free before he could clamp down on it.
He kept his gaze fixed on the passing landscape, afraid that if he looked over, Fu might catch the shift in his scent and realize just how much those simple words had shaken him, and Zanka absolutely couldn’t have that.
Still, after a few tense seconds spent wrestling his scent back under control, Zanka dared a glance toward the former Raider—and his breath hitched.
There was Fu, staring out at the horizon with bright eyes, cheeks flushed, the silliest smile curving his lips, his scent spilling freely in happy little bursts, sweet and unguarded, as if he didn’t care at all about reining in his pheromones the way Zanka instinctively did.
Cute, Zanka thought absently. Cute, cute, so—
A Supporter cleared her throat before his thoughts could spiral into something he’d need to seriously examine.
“Um. We’re here.”
Just like that, the bubble burst.
Zanka’s heart steadied. He grabbed Lovely Assistaff from his lap with practiced calm, eyes closing briefly as he pushed the door open and stepped out, already slipping into the lethal focus of a fight.
“Alright, Fu!” he called. “This is what us Cleaners do! Don’t screw anything up and just watch!”
“Sir, yessir!”
“…Just Zanka.”
“Y-yes, Zanka!”
Zanka sighed, but there was no real irritation in it. If anything, the warmth lingering in his chest softened the sound more than he intended. He quickly turned away before Fu—or worse, the Supporters—could notice.