The piano keys gleamed under the practice room's harsh fluorescent lights, each one a small moon waiting to be touched. Lin Yuze's fingers hovered above them, still and patient, before descending in a cascade that filled the empty music hall with Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2. It was past eleven at night—the time when Beijing Central Arts University finally quieted, when the eager freshmen stopped chattering in the corridors, when the vending machines hummed their loneliest songs.
This was Yuze's favorite time. The silence between notes felt clean, uncontaminated by expectation or observation. His father's voice didn't echo in his head during these hours, didn't remind him that the Lin family had produced three generations of distinguished Alpha musicians, that mediocrity was not an option, that control was everything.
Control. Yuze understood control the way other people understood breathing. Every movement deliberate, every emotion contained, every instinct carefully managed. It was what made him exceptional—this ability to override biology with pure discipline. Other Alphas his age still struggled with their base impulses, still let ruts dictate their schedules, still lost composure around attractive Omegas. Not Lin Yuze. He'd mastered himself at sixteen and hadn't wavered since.
The concerto built toward its thunderous conclusion, Yuze's body swaying slightly with the music's demands. His eyes were closed, fingers finding keys through muscle memory and something deeper—that place where music lived in his bones rather than his brain. The final chord rang out, sustained by the pedal, slowly fading into the hall's expectant quiet.
He opened his eyes and checked his phone. 11:47 PM. Good. Another hour of practice, then back to the dorm for exactly six hours of sleep before his 7 AM music theory class. Precision in all things.
Yuze pulled out his own composition—a piece he'd been working on for three months, still unsatisfied with the bridge section. The melody felt too obvious, too expected. He needed something that surprised even him, that turned left when the ear anticipated right. His fingers found the opening measures, testing different voicings, when the practice room door burst open.
"Finally! I've been wandering this building for twenty minutes. Do you know how creepy a music hall is at night? Every shadow looks like a ghost, and the acoustics make everything sound like—oh."
Yuze's hands crashed discordantly on the keys as he spun around. An Omega stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, face flushed from what appeared to be speed-walking, dark hair slightly disheveled. The practice room's lights caught the sheen of sweat on his collarbones, visible above a loose t-shirt that read "To Be Or Not To Be Is Not Even A Question."
And then the scent hit.
Magnolia. White magnolia in full bloom, sweet and devastating, with an underlying note of something Yuze couldn't name—night jasmine perhaps, or moonlight given olfactory form. It crashed over him like a physical wave, and for the first time in four years, Lin Yuze's carefully maintained control stuttered.
His canines lengthened. Just slightly, just enough to notice. His hands gripped the piano bench, knuckles whitening. His breathing pattern disrupted. Everything in his Alpha biology screamed *mate, claim, protect, possess*—
No.
Yuze clamped down on every instinct with the iron discipline that had defined his entire life. His face remained impassive, though it cost him more effort than any musical performance ever had. He forced his canines to retract, his breathing to steady, his expression to freeze into its customary coldness.
"You're in the wrong building," Yuze said, his voice coming out harsher than intended. "Theater rehearsal spaces are in the East Wing. This is the music hall."
The Omega blinked, clearly taken aback by the hostile reception. Up close, his face was expressive in a way that made Yuze irrationally annoyed—eyebrows that telegraphed every emotion, a mouth that looked like it smiled often, eyes that were currently showing hurt before masking it with forced cheer.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your practice. I'm Wen Xiaoran, first-year theater major. Orientation week has me completely turned around. I thought for sure this was the South Wing." He laughed, self-deprecating and warm. "Apparently, I can memorize entire Shakespeare plays but can't navigate a campus map."
Yuze stood, deliberately putting the piano bench between them, maximizing distance. The magnolia scent was worse when standing—it filled the entire room, seeping into his clothes, his hair, his lungs. How was he supposed to practice here now? The space would smell like this Omega for hours.
"The East Wing is that direction," Yuze said, pointing with mechanical precision. "Follow the hallway to the main lobby, take the right corridor past the vending machines, through the double doors, up one flight of stairs. You can't miss it."
"Right. East Wing. Got it." Xiaoran shifted his backpack, but didn't immediately leave. His eyes had caught on the sheet music spread across the piano. "Were you composing? I heard you playing when I was lost in the hallway. It was beautiful—sad but hopeful, like rain after a drought."
Something in Yuze's chest tightened at the description. That was exactly what he'd been trying to capture in the piece, the precise emotional landscape. But he couldn't acknowledge it, couldn't let this conversation continue. Already his control was fraying around the edges, his body betraying him with urges he'd thought long conquered.
"It's unfinished and not intended for an audience," Yuze said flatly. "If you'll excuse me, I have another hour of practice scheduled."
The dismissal was clear and intentionally rude. Yuze watched conflicting emotions flicker across Xiaoran's expressive face—hurt, confusion, a flash of annoyance, then resignation. Good. Let him think Yuze was an asshole. Better that than the alternative.
"Right. Of course. Sorry again for interrupting." Xiaoran backed toward the door, giving a small awkward wave. "Good luck with your composition."
The moment the door closed, Yuze sank back onto the piano bench, his carefully maintained posture crumpling. His hands were shaking. Actually shaking. He stared at them like they belonged to a stranger.
What was that?
He'd encountered Omegas before—many of them attractive, some with pleasant scents. His body had never reacted like that. The loss of control, even momentary, was unacceptable. Worse, it was terrifying. Lin Yuze had built his entire identity on mastery over his Alpha instincts, on being more than biology's puppet.
He pulled out his phone and typed into the search bar: "magnolia scent omega rare." The results loaded slowly, probably due to the late hour and campus WiFi. When they finally appeared, Yuze's stomach dropped.
*White Magnolia Phenomenon: Occurring in approximately 1 in 10,000 Omegas, this rare scent classification is characterized by an unusually potent effect on Alpha biology, particularly affecting top-tier Alphas with strong genetic markers. Historical texts refer to these Omegas as "Alpha-breakers" due to their ability to overwhelm even the most disciplined Alpha's self-control during heat cycles. Modern inhibitors and suppressants have reduced associated risks, but caution is advised...*
Yuze closed the browser and sat in the silent practice room, suddenly aware of how the magnolia scent still lingered, persistent and haunting. An Alpha-breaker. Of course. The universe had a sense of irony.
He looked at his composition, at the bridge section he'd been struggling with. His hands found the keys again, but the notes that emerged were different now—more complex, more turbulent, shot through with an unsettling undertone that hadn't been there before. It was better. Significantly better. And that annoyed him most of all.
Lin Yuze didn't believe in inspiration from chaos. He believed in discipline, structure, and control. But his traitorous fingers kept playing, kept weaving that magnolia sweetness into the music until the bridge section finally—finally—felt right.
When he checked his phone again, it was 1:23 AM. He'd blown past his scheduled practice time by over an hour, had disrupted his precisely calculated sleep schedule, and worst of all, had composed his best work in months while thinking about an Omega whose name he was absolutely not going to remember.
Wen Xiaoran. Theater major. Expressive face. Terrible sense of direction. Scent like white magnolia blooming in moonlight.
Yuze gathered his sheet music with mechanical efficiency, turned off the practice room lights, and walked back to his dorm through the empty campus. The September night air was crisp, carrying hints of the autumn to come. Normally, he enjoyed these late-night walks—the solitude, the quiet, the chance to mentally organize the next day's schedule.
Tonight, his mind kept replaying three seconds: the door opening, that scent hitting, his control fracturing.
Unacceptable. It wouldn't happen again. Beijing Central Arts University had over three thousand students. The chances of randomly encountering one specific theater major in a school this large were minimal. Yuze would stick to his routine—early morning practice sessions, classes, afternoon composition time, evening rehearsals, late-night practice. Structured, predictable, safe.
His dorm room was small but organized with almost military precision. Music theory textbooks arranged by topic and author, clothes folded in identical rectangles, his backup keyboard positioned at the exact angle for optimal playing posture. The only decoration was a single photograph on his desk: Yuze at age seven, sitting at a grand piano that was almost bigger than he was, his mother standing behind him with her hand on his shoulder. Both wearing formal concert attire. Neither smiling.
He set his sheet music on the desk, showered quickly, and lay down in bed, setting his phone alarm for 6:00 AM. Six hours of sleep. Sufficient for optimal cognitive function. Everything back on schedule.
Except he couldn't sleep. His mind kept drifting back to that practice room, that moment of lost control. In the darkness, Yuze allowed himself a single thought he'd never voice aloud: what would have happened if he hadn't caught himself, if he'd let his Alpha instincts take over even for a moment?
The thought terrified him more than any performance, any competition, any of his father's expectations ever had.
Because Lin Yuze had spent his entire life building walls between his biology and his identity. He was not his instincts. He was not a slave to hormones and urges. He was a musician, a composer, a person who chose his own path through discipline and excellence.
But for three seconds in that practice room, those walls had trembled.
He rolled over, punched his pillow into a better shape, and forced his breathing into the measured pattern he used for meditation. Sleep would come. Tomorrow would be better. He'd avoid the music hall at night, stick to daytime practice sessions when the building was busy with other students. Problem solved.
His phone buzzed. A text from his mother: *Father asks about your first week. Are you maintaining practice schedule? Remember the Lin family reputation.*
Yuze typed back: *Schedule maintained. All classes confirmed. Performance preparation progressing.*
Her response came immediately: *Good. Don't let distractions interfere with your goals. First year is when discipline matters most.*
He stared at the message. His mother couldn't possibly know about the practice room incident—it had happened less than an hour ago. But the timing felt cosmic, a reminder from the universe about what mattered.
*Understood*, he typed back. *No distractions.*
He set the phone aside and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he had Music Theory at 7 AM, Piano Performance at 9 AM, Music History at 1 PM, and an elective course at 3 PM—Art History and Cultural Expression. He'd signed up for it because the course description promised to explore connections between visual arts and musical composition. Useful for his development as a composer.
The elective was held in the Liberal Arts building, far from both the music hall and the theater wing. Safe territory.
Yuze's breathing finally steadied, his body surrendering to exhaustion if not peace. His last conscious thought was of piano keys gleaming like small moons, and magnolia petals falling through moonlight, and how both were equally irrelevant to his carefully planned future.
Sleep, when it finally came, brought dreams of music he couldn't quite remember upon waking—something about rain and drought and flowers that bloomed only at night, their scent dangerous and sweet and utterly impossible to forget.
---
Across campus, in the theater major dormitories, Wen Xiaoran lay in his own bed, staring at the ceiling while his roommate snored peacefully two meters away. His mind kept replaying the encounter with the cold-faced pianist.
"Rude," he muttered to himself, then felt immediately guilty for the judgment. Maybe the guy had been in the middle of an important creative moment. Artists could be touchy about interruptions. Xiaoran understood that—he got the same way when memorizing particularly difficult monologues.
But still. The pianist could have been less hostile. A simple "wrong building" would have sufficed without the ice-cold delivery and dismissive tone.
Xiaoran rolled onto his side, pulling his blanket up to his chin. Orientation week had been overwhelming—so many buildings, so many faces, so many new expectations. Beijing Central Arts University was prestigious, competitive, and intimidating. He'd worked so hard to get here, had beaten out hundreds of other applicants for his spot in the theater program.
He couldn't afford to get lost in music halls or distracted by rude pianists with incredible hands and sad, beautiful music that made Xiaoran's chest ache in ways he didn't understand.
Focus. That was the key. His goals were clear: excel in his classes, land major roles in university productions, build his skills, and eventually break into professional theater. Maybe film, if the opportunity arose. He'd promised his parents he'd take this seriously, wouldn't treat it like a hobby.
His phone buzzed with a text from his eldest sister: *How's my baby brother? Making friends? Eating enough? Any cute Alphas caught your attention?*
Xiaoran smiled despite his exhaustion. His sisters were relentlessly nosy but came from a place of love. He typed back: *I'm fine, Jiejie. No cute Alphas. Only rude ones in music halls.*
Her response was immediate: *TELL ME EVERYTHING.*
*Nothing to tell*, Xiaoran wrote. *Got lost, interrupted someone's practice, got dismissed like annoying background noise. Very romantic.*
*Was he hot though?*
Xiaoran paused, thinking about the pianist's sharp features, the intensity in his eyes before they'd gone cold, the economical grace of his movements. *Irrelevant*, he typed. *Also probably an asshole.*
*So yes, he was hot. Noted. Keep me updated.*
Xiaoran sent back an eye-roll emoji and set his phone to silent. His sisters meant well, but their constant relationship commentary could be exhausting. He was eighteen, barely started university, and had no interest in romantic complications. His last relationship—if it could even be called that—had ended badly enough to make him wary.
He pushed that thought away. New school, new start, new opportunities. The past was past.
But as he finally drifted toward sleep, his mind played tricks on him—mixing memories of piano music with the scent of his own suppressant medication with the sensation of cold eyes that had looked at him like he was both fascinating and threatening at once.
Tomorrow would be better. Orientation week would end, actual classes would begin, and he'd never have to see that rude pianist again. Beijing Central Arts University was huge. What were the odds they'd cross paths?
Somewhere in the distance, a piano played a melody that sounded like rain after drought, like moonlight on magnolia petals, like two people who hadn't yet realized their fates were already intertwined.
The music faded. The campus slept. And tomorrow approached with all its inevitable surprises.