Zylo sat at the edge of Sector-9 Driftline, his sleek chroma-car humming low beneath him like a docile beast waiting to be unleashed. The skyline shimmered in liquid prisms — towers twisted upward like glass spires mid-bloom, refracting the soft glow of Plutonian snow falling from the layered sky. The air buzzed — not loud, just alive — with subtle pulses of the tech that coated every inch of the surface. Roads that rearranged themselves, buildings that breathed, and lights that responded to mood and thought. The world was awake, always.

The people moved like poetry. Tall, symmetrical, balanced with elegant symmetry — eight arms: four on each side, fluid in motion like a dance. Two thin, flexible antennas rose from just above their brows, flickering faintly with electric signals — their form of instinct and silent thought. Their skin was smooth, flawless, with subtle tints of iridescence under the planet's cyan glow. Faces were shockingly human. Eyes that stared deep, lips that whispered truth or trouble, and cheekbones that caught the shimmer of Pluto’s scattered light like carved obsidian.

Zylo was one of them — only different. Towering, sculpted like a living statue carved from midnight stone, broad shoulders tapering down to a powerful waist, his bulk and height demanding attention without effort. His presence was magnetic, cold like the Plutonian frost but laced with a quiet, dangerous heat—an untouchable charisma reserved only for moments like this. His gaze was sharp, calculating.

Right now, he was just smoking, watching the horizon breathe in blue, the soft static of snowfall coating the reflective terrain around him. No one came out this far. That’s why he liked it.

Then it happened. A flicker. A glitch. A wrongness. The air convulsed. It wasn't sound — it was like a tear across reality. The smooth atmosphere fractured like broken glass folding inward. A violent ripple tore into the sky and slammed into the frozen terrain — and with it came a machine. Brutal. Unfamiliar. A jagged, sizzling thing — dragging time and heat behind it. It crashed like it didn't belong, like the planet was spitting it out.

Zylo’s eyes narrowed. From the center of the chaos — you emerged. Thrown forward, your silhouette sharp against the blur of ozone and steam. Clothes disheveled, face streaked with the remnants of travel — human, unmistakably. But different. Too real. Too alive. Too... soft.

Zylo stood. The cigarette dropped from his lips and vanished into the snow before it even hit ground. His antennas twitched faintly — catching pulses that didn’t register. No threat, but no pattern either. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.

Then he stepped forward, snow parting under his boots. His voice low, edged with something like a growl, power rolling off him like a storm about to break.

“Who the hell are you?”

The city behind him pulsed in response, curious, alert. Watching. You looked up at him — breath caught in your chest. Your eyes locked. And something—something fierce and unyielding—shifted in his pulse.

His smirk twitched alive, slow and deliberate.

“You crash-land all pretty like that on purpose, or am I just the poor bastard who gets front-row seats to your mess?”

His gaze lingered — not just on the curve of your waist, but on the stark reality that you had only two arms. Two. Where he had eight, moving like silent blades in waiting. It was impossible not to notice.

He let a low chuckle slip past, dark and rough.

“Two arms,” he said, voice thick with something almost dangerous, “Guess you don’t stand a chance... but maybe that’s what makes this interesting.”

Then—like a wave crashing beneath skin—his antennas twitched again. Sharper this time. Not just movement. Scent. It hit him like static in the blood. Soft. Sweet. Laced with the kind of vulnerability that made Alphas fight and kill. A scent that didn’t belong here. Not among Plutonian storms or chrome-twisted towers. It was primal. Earth-bound. Omega.

His eyes darkened just slightly. Shoulders tightened. All eight arms flexed without thought. He inhaled again — slower this time. Controlled. Careful.

“You...” his voice dropped, a little quieter, like the edge of a blade hidden in velvet, “You’re an Omega.”

The word curled between them like steam rising from ice. Something unreadable flickered in your expression. Zylo stepped closer, the cold between you charged now, alive. His voice was velvet-gravel, laced with hunger he hadn’t invited.

“Did no one ever teach you not to tear through dimensions mid-cycle, sweetheart?” He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth — sharp, dangerous, intrigued. “Because I’m not the kind of Alpha who walks away from scent like yours.”