My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 103: Ghost and regrets ( Emiliano’s POV )

Chapter 103: Ghost and regrets ( Emiliano’s POV )

"You know, I did this on a hunch, but I gotta say— this is working better than I expected."

"Please, sir, I want to see my kids again..."

"Yap, yap, yap. You agree to this and sign the papers. Be joyful! Your kids will go to college, your wife won’t have to work in a garden anymore."

I watched as the man in front of me bit his lips and shook his head in a defeated nod.

I watched from my chair, notebook open, pen resting against the margin. His vitals had been steady when the compound entered his system, but now they were spiking.

That was good data.

His skin began to distort almost immediately.

The surface lifted in small waves, rolling under the flesh like heat was trapped inside. I wrote that down. Temperature must have climbed rapidly—sweat would’ve made sense, but what formed on his skin wasn’t sweat. It was thick, oily, clinging to him like resin.

Every few seconds, a new bubble rose and collapsed, then came back larger.

I checked the timer.

Six minutes in. This one is taking his time, huh?

The other four before him collapsed in just one minute. Finally, some progress.

On time as well. Luther’s blood is about to be finished soon.

His breathing had shifted too—shorter, faster, a sound like paper tearing at the edges.

Still, he stayed upright, which was impressive. Most subjects dropped by now.

The reaction escalated.

Blisters formed where the skin stretched the most—shoulders, arms, neck.

Some ruptured cleanly, releasing pale fluid that trailed down his torso and pooled at his feet. The floor smelled chemical and sweet, almost metallic.

I noted it without looking away.

He didn’t speak.

That was fine.

Words weren’t necessary for results. His body was the report, every movement an answer.

When his knees finally bent and he went down slow, I marked the time and waited for the next stage.

He broke the silence just to toss around some meaningless last words.

"Thank you— sir."

The swelling started small, barely noticeable at first.

His mouth opened wider than before, as if he was trying to pull in more air, and then I saw it—his tongue thickening, pushing against his teeth.

It kept expanding, slow at first, then faster, until it strained the corners of his lips. He tried to close his mouth, but the mass wouldn’t let him.

It pressed forward, slick and heavy, curling upward like it wanted out.

I wrote it down.

Unexpected.

None of the previous trials had shown this.

The pressure must have been extreme because the next second, the tongue tore free.

It snapped loose at the base with a wet sound and dropped to the floor.

A thin arc of blood followed it, bright against the sterile white tiles.

He choked on the space it left behind, his throat working in jerks, nothing to swallow now but air and fluid.

His eyes reacted almost immediately after.

The veins inside them swelled, bulging like threads about to split.

Then the orbs pushed forward, too fast to be natural.

They popped out with sharp bursts, hitting his cheeks before rolling off.

Blood spilled down his face in twin streams, quick and steady, pooling at his jawline before dripping to the ground.

He was on his knees by then, both hands clawing at nothing.

There was no fight in him, just reflex.

His breath gurgled, broken by the blood flooding his throat.

Every inhale sounded like it scraped his insides raw.

I kept writing.

My pen moved as fast as I could manage.

The bleeding didn’t stop.

It poured from his mouth, his empty sockets, the burst vessels along his skin.

His body shook once, hard, then sagged forward until his head struck the floor with a dull thud.

The sound echoed in the room longer than it should have.

I glanced at the clock.

Twelve minutes, forty-one seconds. I circled the time twice.

Then I set the pen down and looked at him one last time.

How pathetic. He didn’t leave any words for his kids or his wife.

Just a pathetic gratitude for his killer.

But that was none of my business anyways. I had bigger problems on my mind.

Luther’s blood sample was nearly done and I have found next to nothing.

Two omegas dead

Four alphas that just exploded like balloons out of nowhere.

For half a milliliter of blood.

Which is strange since I had opened wounds that brushed against Luther and much more intake of his blood—

I had had nothing.

I stepped around him carefully, my shoes sliding a little on the blood that had spread farther than expected.

The body was still twitching in small, pointless bursts, but the trial was over. I didn’t bother looking down again.

The clipboard stayed in my hand as I crossed the room.

The lab was quiet except for the faint hum of the ventilation system and the soft tap of liquid dripping from the table to the floor.

The smell clung everywhere—iron, burnt protein, something sweet underneath.

I’d gotten used to it a long time ago.

The coffee pot sat in the corner, away from the workstations.

I set the clipboard on the counter and reached for a clean mug.

The handle was warm when I picked it up. Steam curled from the spout as I poured, the dark stream cutting through the sterile white of the counter.

The sound was sharp in the silence, louder than it should have been.

I took a sip before it cooled, ignoring the bitterness.

It burned my tongue a little, but that was fine. The heat felt grounding, pulling me back from the mess behind me.

I leaned against the counter for a moment, cup in hand, and glanced at the clock.

Plenty of time before the next dose trial.

Cleanup would take longer than the reaction itself, but that wasn’t my problem.

I’d already logged the numbers, the times, the failures. Everything else was just procedure.

I drank again, slower this time, and let the hum of the machines fill the room.

Outside the observation glass, the body lay still, blood spreading in lazy arcs. I didn’t look away from my coffee.

"This is all so pointless."

If only Luther were here—

Too late for regrets.

Think, Emiliano, think.

Me and Claus were the only survivors of Luther’s.

Why?

I was an omega turned alpha and Claus was a beta.

What could possibly be the correlation between us?

I set the cup down for a moment to mark the final observation.

When I turned back, Luther was there.

Hand on the mug, fingers curved like it belonged to him.

He lifted it slowly, his grip steady, his mouth pulling into that same crooked smile that used to pull me apart without trying.

I was hallucinating.

My throat tightened, but I didn’t speak.

I just watched as he brought the rim to his lips, took a small sip, and lowered it like he’d been doing it every morning for the last months.

He leaned on the counter with one elbow, looking at me the whole time, eyes sharp and calm, like this was real.

Oh, how I miss the mornings with my wife.

He closed the space between us in two steps. I didn’t move.

His hand came up, brushing against my cheek before trailing under my eye.

Fingers pressed softly against the line carved deep into my skin, tracing the edge of exhaustion like he was studying it.

The contact wasn’t there—I knew that—but the sensation crawled through me anyway, burning in its accuracy.

"You look like sh-t!", he chuckled.

"Our little break-up really messed me up, puppy. I can’t sleep or eat or think... I am so desperate I am talking with my own hallucination—"

"Why did you stab me with the syringe then? You could have got your sample anytime after."

"Puppy..."

Another touch, slower this time.

His thumb slid along the curve of my cheekbone, pausing near my mouth. My

jaw tensed against nothing. His other hand reached out, brushing the fabric on my shoulder, fingertips catching for an instant before moving down to my wrist.

Every nerve screamed for more weight, more pressure, more proof.

He tilted his head, smile widening just enough to feel like a challenge.

His breath ghosted against my face, though I knew there was no air.

Still, I let it sink in, let myself lean forward just enough to feel like I was giving something away.

The cup was still in his hand, warm against his skin, steam twisting up in thin strands.

A drop spilled over the rim, splashing the counter, then sliding down.

I followed its path with my eyes, desperate for anything solid.

When I looked back, he was closer—so close I could almost feel his mouth near mine, waiting.

I didn’t move. I just let it happen, because this was all I had left.

But even my own mind blamed me for my actions—

Punishing,

Depriving me of a moment of relief.

Just a moment. Just an excruciating pain of touch from him. Even if it was imagined.

After days of seeing nothing, but bodies breaking, I broke too.

Just like them.

Because of Luther.