He Hates Me, He Loves Me Not

A warm breeze kisses Lucy's skin.

This place bears through no winter, no chill, except for the iciness from its residents. Forever summer, the sun looks down upon those whose hearts are frozen because of grief.

A specialty hospital, the sign outside the airport says, for those who have lost their mate and their loved ones.

The sign is big and welcoming, promises of a tropical vacation instead of treatment and therapy. The amount of money management put into that sign is understandable since it's the sole reason this isolated island is being developed.

Lucy hails a cab and makes her way without a moment to spare. Windows down, she allows her hair to billow around her. The smell of the ocean is unfamiliar to her, growing up near urban jungles all her life, but it calms her down more than she thought it would.

It feels freeing.. It's as if her spirit is made of air. Not even an hour has passed since she landed yet she feels lighter already.

The road on the way to the hospital is empty, almost desolated, so the ride is smooth. Outside the window, she catches a glimpse of beaches and boats. Imagining old couples on a stroll and families on a picnic brings a small smile to her face. The first—hopefully—of many.

She is still not okay, not with all the bombs after bombs she had to endure, but she'll get there. After all, she has no time to be sad.

She has work to do.

--

Damon leans back in his chair as Dr. Medina frowns in front of his computer.

The harsh light is unkind to the doctor's face, emphasizing the wrinkle between his browns and the harsh curve of his downturned lips. He's been unnaturally silent for fifteen minutes now, and Damon's patience wears thin with every ticking of the clock.

Still, he can't afford to rush the doctor when he's at fault. He knows he should've come sooner, months ago, and not when the vomiting started.

Dr. Medina hums deep, a contemplative sound, bringing a hand to rub his chin. There's a beat of silence, and then the doctor finally says, "This is odd."

"Correct me if I'm mistaken," the doctor begins saying, a frown still etched on his face, "but your symptoms include chest pains, insomnia, muscle pain, and nausea?"

"Yes." Damon's expression is impassive, but through his strained arms, he's struggling not to rub the ache away from his chest.

Dr. Medina looks at him then. "And you say you have been feeling fatigued as well? When Damon nods, the doctor asks, "For how long?"

"The fatigue and insomnia started roughly two months ago while the rest came only a month later," he answers truthfully. Fatigue and insomnia are no stranger to him, nothing a pill or two won't fix, so he didn't mind it at first—that is, until not even stronger medicine can keep them at bay.

Dr. Medina stares at him with narrow eyes, not bothering to hide his suspicions. "Well… your tests came back normal. Hormones and pheromone levels are balanced too." He picks up a paper on one side and hands it to Damon.

Now, it's Damon's turn to narrow his eyes. He accepts the paper with only half a mind. The other half is wondering what Dr. Medina has been looking at when his results are on this paper.

Still, it's about his health, so he carefully reads over the results. True to the doctor's words, everything seems normal. His pheromone deficiency is cured, none of the red he saw for the past few years. "So what's wrong?" The question is out loud before Damon finishes his train of thought.

Without answering, Dr. Medina shuts his phone down. He also turns off the computer. He even goes as far as to unplug it from the wall socket, closing the blinds while he's at it.

When he's done, he asks Damon to do the same, requesting the utmost privacy between them. Seeing Dr. Medina's serious look, Damon hesitates but only for a second. He sends a quick text to Head Secretary Adam about how to contact him in case of an emergency before turning off his phone.

The tense atmosphere rests heavy in the dim room. Dr. Medina sits back down on his chair, elbows on the table and chin on his intertwined fingers. After a deep sigh, he says, "I'm not telling you this as a doctor. Take it as a nonsense rumor from a friend."

Damon listens without saying a word. Whatever he's about to hear, he knows it's not good news.

"The higher-ups told us to keep this hush-hush, but I've seen patients with the same symptoms as you. Some better, some worse." Then, he adds, "We suspect the cause is a new drug that has been circulating in the black market recently."

A drug? Does that mean he was poisoned?

"Synthetic pheromones. Groundbreaking science." Dr. Medina waves a hand in the air, dismissing this news as unimportant. He can break down the drug's component to Damon some other day, but the Alpha needs to hear the drug's effects now. His voice becomes quieter as he says, "It 'tames' alphas, inhibiting their instincts and muddling their minds. In short, it makes them susceptible to brainwashing."

"That's not right," Damon quickly says. "I would know if I was drugged." He'll be stupid not to.

"It's untraceable," Dr. Medina replies without hesitation. "It's why your test results are normal and why the police are having a hard time. The symptoms are somewhat the same too. Chest pain, muscle pain, and nausea can mean a lot of things, not just withdrawal symptoms, but that's not what stands out."

Damon frowns, confused. If he's not experiencing withdrawals, then how is Dr. Medina so sure that he's been drugged?

Then, to answer his silent question, the doctor says, "There is one thing in common among them. Have you not noticed that your scent is missing?"

His scent?

Damon's frown becomes deeper, facial muscles pulling downwards. Of course, he doesn't notice. He's not the type to pay attention to his scent.

"You're not wearing scent patches yet there's not a single pheromone of yours leaking out. Even those with perfect control are not as odorless as you." Dr. Medina makes a show of sniffing the air, proving his point.

Damon pumps out his pheromones then, expecting the usual heady scent of honey and ginger spice. What comes out, however, smells /off/. It's weird in ways he can't point out but he knows his pheromones are not like these.

"Watered down," Dr. Medina says, knowing what the crinkle in Damon's nose means. "Your pheromones are not as strong as before. Thankfully, it seems that it hasn't been that long since the effects materialized. We need to do further tests, but I estimate it's been about a year or so. Any longer on the drug and you'll smell like a beta instead of an alpha."

How is a year not long, Damon thinks, huh? He retracts his scent but it lingers in the air, a reminder of the truth he can't deny.

"Longer than that," the doctor adds, "and you'll die."

The Alpha doesn't need further explanation on that. A beast without its fangs won't last long in the wild. A person who can't feel pain can't tell when he or she is seriously injured. An alpha with his secondary gender subdued is breathing through only one lung.

Now, the question is, who in the world is brave enough to drug Damon Lin?