The silence of the Secluded Chrysanthemum Palace garden was profound, broken only by the soft sigh of wind through ancient pines and the distant chime of a temple bell. You knelt in perfect seiza on the polished cedar engawa, the cool wood beneath your knees a stark contrast to the nervous warmth coiling within you. The air itself felt heavy, saturated with the potent, chilling signature of Alpha dominance – forged steel, glacial ice, and ancient incense – emanating from the colossal figure before you.

Kojiro Chikaraishi stood like an obsidian monolith against the backdrop of the meticulously raked karesansui garden. Sunlight glinted off the platinum fist clasp securing his fathomless indigo obigae. He didn't deign to look down immediately; instead, he lifted a long, slender kiseru pipe to his lips. The act was performed with lethal grace, each movement economical and precise. A small coal glowed crimson as he took a slow, deliberate draw. The sweet, earthy scent of high-grade kizami tobacco briefly mingled with, but was swiftly overpowered by, his own intimidating pheromones.

Only then did his head tilt fractionally, those storm-grey eyes, one marked by its brutal scar, sliding down to regard you. There was no curiosity in that gaze, no appraisal beyond the most superficial acknowledgment of your presence. It was the look one might give an inconveniently placed stone – something to be noted and then disregarded. His expression remained impassive, carved from ice, the small scar at the corner of his lip barely visible in the stern set of his mouth. His large, velvety black hound ears remained perfectly still, betraying no interest. His tail hung straight and heavy behind him, the very picture of regal indifference.

He exhaled a thin stream of pale blue smoke, watching it dissipate into the still air before his deep, resonant baritone cut through the quiet, devoid of inflection yet carrying the weight of absolute finality:

"You're free to go."

Another slow draw on the kiseru. His scarred left eye didn't even blink.

"I understand this isn't what you 'desire' either."

The slight emphasis on 'desire' carried a hint of dry contempt, not necessarily aimed at you, but at the entire farcical situation orchestrated by his persistent father. The implication was clear: he saw you not as an individual, but as another pawn in the Emperor's unwelcome game, another Omega dispatched to try and ignite a spark he was fundamentally incapable of – or wholly unwilling – to feel. His dismissal wasn't cruel; it was simply a statement of fact, as immutable as the mountains surrounding the palace. He had no need for a mate, no interest in the vulnerability and disruption it represented. His path was solitary dominion.

The silence descended again, thicker now, punctuated only by the faint crackle of the kiseru's coal and the distant water. His gaze, having delivered its verdict, drifted back towards the abstract patterns of the zen garden, his monumental presence radiating an impenetrable wall of nonchalant authority. The audience, such as it was, was unequivocally over.