Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most

Chapter 198: Why Can’t I Just Walk Away?

I stand on the hospital balcony, the night air wrapping around me like a second skin. It’s not cold, not warm—just there. Present. Comforting in its indifference, in the way it asks nothing and expects nothing in return.

The city sprawls below, a sea of lights flickering against the darkness, each window a story I’ll never know. Above, the sky stretches wide, scattered with stars like diamonds on black velvet—distant, indifferent, and beautiful.

But I’m not really seeing any of it.

Moon’s question still echoes in my mind, circling like a bird that can’t find a place to land, its wings beating against the inside of my skull.

What if you become an Omega?

My brow furrows. Why does he always do this? Why does he always ask questions that burrow under my skin, that find the soft places I try to keep hidden, forcing me to think deeper than I want to?

I cross my arms over my chest and take a slow, steady breath. The air fills my lungs, cool and clean. I hold it for a moment before letting it go.

Neon. Relax.

It’s not a big deal. No matter what I become, Deniz and I will be fine. Moon is always talking nonsense. He likes to stir things up, to watch me squirm.

There’s nothing wrong with becoming an Omega. It’s not like Omegas can’t be with Betas. It’s not like anything has to change. Deniz loves me. I love him.

The rest is just... details.

I let the thoughts settle, letting them smooth the restless edge of my mind, easing the small knot of fear I’ve been carrying since the doctor spoke.

I almost believe them.

Then I feel it.

Two hands sliding around my waist from behind. Warm. Solid. Familiar—but not in the way I want.

I push back from my thoughts, my eyes widening. My back touches a chest—warm, but not the warmth I know. Not the warmth I’ve memorized in the dark, warm with the scent of red roses and home, the kind that fits against my spine like it was made there.

This warmth is different.

It’s his.

I step forward quickly, pushing his hands away, and turn.

Moon stands behind me. His face is calm, almost serene, a faint smile playing on his lips—as if he hasn’t just invaded my space, as if this is perfectly normal.

"What are you doing?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended, a blade meant to cut.

His voice is calm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.

"You were standing here with your arms crossed. I thought you might be cold."

"I’m not cold." I look away, my jaw tight, my teeth pressed together. "I just wanted some fresh air."

He steps forward. His hand lifts, brushing the silver hair from my temple—and I flinch.

I hadn’t even noticed it falling out of place, my careful perfection as Zyren Kael slipping without me realizing, the mask I wear for the world coming undone in the privacy of this empty balcony.

"Moon."

I step back again—too fast, too careless. My heel catches on nothing—a shadow, maybe just my own clumsy fear—and I stumble, the world tilting—

His hand slides around my waist, catching me before I fall.

His eyes lock with mine, close enough that I can see the gold flecks still lingering in his irises, glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Are you okay?" His voice is soft, almost gentle.

I blink, my heart hammering. Then I straighten quickly, stepping out of his hold, putting distance between us.

"Stay away from me."

My face is warm. I hate that it’s warm. I hate that he can see it.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, a faint smile still playing on his lips—utterly unrepentant.

"Fine. I won’t touch you." He nods toward the door. "Let’s go inside. I’m sleepy."

I look at him, incredulous. "Then why did you come out here? Go back to bed."

"Weren’t you sleepy? Come with me."

"No. I booked a room at a nearby hotel. I’ll sleep there."

He stares at me, his expression shifting. "You’re leaving me here alone?"

My gaze runs over him, head to toe, assessing. He looks fine. Irritatingly fine. Annoyingly fine.

"I don’t think this patient needs anyone," I say flatly. "You’re perfectly capable of sleeping by yourself."

He sighs—dramatic, theatrical, the kind meant to be heard. "Don’t leave me here alone. Even my secretary isn’t here."

He pauses.

His voice drops, the performance slipping away.

"Aren’t you my family?"

I stare at him. "Moon, stop being dramatic. You’re not going to die. There are plenty of staff here—they’ll take care of you. You’re not alone."

I soften, just slightly. "I’ll come back in the morning."

His face changes. The playfulness fades, replaced by something quieter, something almost fragile.

"You’re really going?"

I nod.

"Because you’re angry at me." It’s not a question. It’s a statement—flat, certain.

I look at him. His eyes are downcast, fixed on the floor between us. His fists are clenched at his sides, tight, white-knuckled, the tendons standing out against his skin.

"I’m not angry," I say.

"You are." His voice is quiet, almost resigned. "Because I asked questions you didn’t want to answer."

I stay silent, my gaze dropping to my feet.

He’s right.

But I’m not angry. Not really. Not at him. The truth is heavier than anger, more complicated—and I don’t have the words for it.

"Moon, it’s not like—"

I look up—and stop.

His eyes are wet. Just barely, just at the edges, catching the light. Unmistakable.

"I’m sorry." His voice is barely audible, almost swallowed by the night. "I won’t do it again. I won’t ask questions you don’t want to answer... just don’t—"

He stops himself.

His throat tightens.

"Don’t leave."

My expression shifts. Something softens in my chest, something I didn’t realize I’d been holding so tightly.

My gaze drops to his hands—still clenched, still tight. The IV cannula has shifted. Blood seeps from the site, dark against his pale skin, trailing down his fingers, pooling in the creases of his knuckles.

"Moon." I step forward quickly, taking his hand, pressing gently around the cannula to stop the bleeding.

"You’re bleeding."

He looks down at his hand, then back at me, as if he hadn’t noticed. As if the blood belongs to someone else.

I open the balcony door and pull him inside. "Let’s go. We need to fix this."

He follows me in silence.

My face is tight with worry, my jaw clenched. Why is he always so careless? Why does he always hurt himself without noticing, without caring—like his body is something he’s only borrowing, something he doesn’t mind returning damaged?

And why can’t I just walk away?

Why does seeing him hurt feel like it’s hurting me too—like his pain is a thread that connects us, pulling tight every time he bleeds?

Why can’t I stand seeing him hurt?