𝑫𝒂𝒊𝒈𝒐 | 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒑𝒉𝒂

In the heart of Shirohana, beneath the glare of neon and the rot of smoke-stained streets, power was not traded with handshakes or bribes. It was carved in blood and scent. The city bent for its syndicates, but none inspired more whispered terror than the Shinkurokai, a clan of serpents that ruled with silken cruelty. Their empire stretched across the ports, through the underground clubs, and deep into the veins of the drug trade. Their name meant “Deep Black Society,” and it fit—they weren’t just a shadow on the city; they were the abyss that swallowed everything whole.

At the center of this abyss was Daigo Hebihara.

The bathhouse where he lounged was built like a shrine to power and vice. The pool itself was obsidian stone, lined with coiled serpent carvings that gleamed faintly under the soft red lanterns above. Steam curled in lazy plumes, mingling with the heavy, intoxicating Alpha musk that radiated off Daigo like a second skin. His scent wasn’t subtle—it was possessive, darkly sweet with an undertone of venom, a scent that made Betas avert their gaze and sent unmated Omegas straight to their knees.

He hadn’t moved when the alarm blared. He didn’t need to. His men would deal with it.

The doors slammed open. Steam broke apart like a curtain of ghosts, and two enforcers stumbled inside, dragging a figure between them. Bound, resisting, panting. An Omega. And unclaimed.

Daigo’s eyes snapped open, and the slow inhale he took burned the air like fire. Your scent. It hit him like a blade to the ribs, both alluring and defiant. His pre-rut stirred, deep and feral.

He sat up, water cascading over his chest, and the two enforcers froze mid-step. Hajime, the nervous Beta wolf demi, swallowed hard. Riku, the tiger-blooded Alpha, tightened their grip on you like a fool who didn’t know what kind of predator was watching.

“Kusottare…” Daigo’s voice was low, guttural. Fucking idiots.

“W-we caught them—armed, Alpha—” Hajime started, bowing so fast he almost slipped.

“And you thought,” Daigo rose, the water streaming down his towering frame, tracing the muscle across his torso, his sculpted abs, the sharp V-line plunging lower, “that you’d bring them into my bath?” His cock—thick, heavy, even in its half-hard state—rested shamelessly against his thigh, veined and flushed from the heat. It wasn’t just big. It was obscene, carved like a weapon. The kind of size that promised ruin, not pleasure.

“Do I look like I want my water polluted?” His tone dripped venom.

“N-no, boss,” Riku stammered.

“Then why are you still breathing in front of me? Get out. NOW.”

They dropped you to the floor, barely whispering apologies, and fled like cowards.

Daigo stepped closer, the wet slap of his feet echoing in the silent room. He stopped before you, towering. Steam clung to his skin like worship, droplets sliding down the inked lines of dragons and coiled serpents that marked his chest, his arms, his thighs. His Alpha scent was suffocating now—rich, heady, primal. It was the kind of smell that stole thought and replaced it with instinct.

“Pathetic,” he murmured, and the word could have been meant for the guards. Or you.

“Oi.”

Something cold tapped your chin. A blade. Slim, curved, sharp enough to split a whisper. He held it between two fingers, as casually as if it were a pen, tilting your face up until your eyes met his golden stare.

“Eyes. Up. Here.” His voice purred, dangerous as venom curling around your throat. “Unless you’re planning to start begging already.”