Chapter 102: Enigmas Are cold... And Heartless....
—In the past—
The doctor’s office is a cathedral of silence.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with pale afternoon light, casting long ribbons of gold across polished marble floors. Dark walnut shelves line the walls, displaying medical journals, awards, and framed certificates collected over a lifetime of excellence.
Silom Stoneheart sits on the leather couch like a man carved from stone.
One elbow rests on the armrest—not relaxed, just... there. Fingers press against the side of his temple in a slow, rhythmic tapping.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Each beat a thought. A worry. A memory he can’t outrun.
His face is calm. Composed. The mask he’s worn for so long it’s become part of him.
But behind his closed eyes, his thoughts churn like dark water beneath ice.
Chen stands beside him. Hands clasped neatly in front of his body. Spine straight. Eyes forward.
The perfect shadow.
Present, but invisible.
He doesn’t shift his weight. Doesn’t clear his throat. Doesn’t make a sound. After years at Silom’s side, he has become part of the background itself.
From the corner of his eye, he watches his boss.
First time I’ve seen him think this deeply. Like he’s carrying something even he can’t solve.
The door opens.
Dr. Alan enters—Silom’s oldest friend, his most trusted physician, the only man alive who speaks to him without fear. A file rests beneath his arm, thick with papers, heavy with secrets.
Silom doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t stop the tapping of his fingers.
Alan pauses in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene. The closed eyes. The restless fingers. The stillness of a man lost somewhere far beyond this room.
He glances at Chen and tilts his head—a silent signal.
Chen understands immediately.
He nods once, barely a movement, then slips out of the room without a sound. The door closes behind him like a held breath.
Alan removes his white coat and drapes it over the back of a chair. Then he lowers himself onto the couch beside Silom. The leather shifts beneath his weight—a quiet protest, quickly silenced.
He takes a deep breath and sets the file aside.
"Where’s my best friend?" His voice is light, but careful—like someone approaching a wounded animal. "Lost so deeply that I can’t find him?"
Silom opens his eyes.
The golden light filtering through the blinds catches them—sharp, weary, ancient.
He doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t greet Alan. Doesn’t acknowledge his presence beyond the slow shift of his gaze.
Alan studies his friend’s profile. The hard line of his jaw. The shadows beneath his eyes. The weight of years carved into every angle of his face.
"It’s rare seeing Silom Stoneheart this distracted." A faint smile tugs at his lips. "Are you worried about your son?"
Silom’s gaze drifts toward the window. To the ribbons of light stretched across the floor. To the dust motes drifting through them like tiny ghosts.
"How is he?"
Alan’s expression shifts. The lightness fades, replaced by something more careful. More professional. He’s delivered difficult news before. He knows the weight they carry.
"I examined him thoroughly." He pauses for a moment. "I’ve never met a child quite like him."
His gaze drifts briefly to the file resting beside him.
"Most children react to something. Curiosity. Excitement. Fear." A small shake of his head. "He didn’t even respond when I offered him candy."
Silom’s voice is quiet. Almost tired.
"He’s always been like that. Since the day he was born."
Alan studies his friend—the way the tapping has stopped, the way his hand now rests motionless on the armrest.
"Silom..." He chooses his words carefully. "I’m not convinced your son is disabled."
Silom’s gaze shifts to him.
"After the examination, I found no physical reason he can’t speak. His body is healthy. His hearing is normal. Everything appears exactly as it should."
He lets the words settle.
"Maybe he simply doesn’t want to speak."
Silom doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
"Did this start after his mother died?"
Silom shakes his head. Slowly. Heavily. Like even that small movement costs him something.
"No." A pause. "He’s always been like this." His eyes lower. "No expressions. No voice." Another pause. "Not like other children."
Alan nods slowly. His fingers tap once against his knee—a nervous habit he’s never quite managed to break.
"I ran a few additional tests."
Silom says nothing.
Alan takes a breath.
"The results surprised me."
Silom’s gaze shifts to him. Sharp now. Alert. "What do you mean?"
Alan meets his eyes.
"Your son isn’t normal, Silom." He pauses briefly. "He’s rare."
Silom’s brows draw together.
"Rare?"
Alan leans back slightly.
"I tested his secondary trait."
The air in the room seems to still.
Silom’s expression hardens. Anger flickers behind his eyes—not directed at Alan, but at the memory of the diagnosis that had followed his son for years.
Beta.
A simple word. Far too simple for a child Silom had never once understood.
"The doctors already declared him a Beta." His voice turns colder. "Why would you test him again?"
Alan doesn’t flinch.
"Because he’s not a Beta."
Silence. Heavy. Absolute.
Silom stares at him. Then—
"What is he?"
Alan holds his gaze.
"An Enigma."
The word hangs in the air between them.
Enigma.
Silom’s composure cracks. Just a little. A fracture in stone. "Enigma?"
Alan nods.
"His trait isn’t normal. That’s why his behavior is like this. The silence. The stillness. The way he watches the world without reacting to it."
He pauses. "He’s not broken, Silom. He’s just... different."
Silom looks away. For a long moment, he says nothing.
Alan’s voice softens."It’s not dangerous. Not yet." He pauses. "But you need to be careful. When his pheromones begin to emerge..."
The unfinished sentence hangs between them.
Silom’s jaw tightens.
"What then?"
Alan exhales slowly.
"From what little information exists, an Enigma’s pheromones aren’t like ours." He pauses. Choosing his words carefully. "They’re stronger. More volatile. Unpredictable."
A muscle jumps in Silom’s jaw.
"Then how can you say it’s not dangerous?"
Alan reaches over and pats his shoulder—a rare gesture between two men who rarely touched.
"Because we still have time." He pauses. "Alpha and Omega pheromones usually appear around twelve or thirteen. If Enigmas follow a similar pattern, we have years before we need to worry."
Another pause.
"Years to prepare."
Silom nods slowly. The tension in his shoulders doesn’t disappear, but it shifts—becoming something quieter. Something closer to acceptance.
"Alan..."
Alan waits.
"After Elm died..." Silom’s voice catches—just a fraction, barely noticeable. "Silas is the only thing left of him."
His gaze lowers.
"He looks exactly like him. His eyes. His hair. His face."
He closes his eyes.
"I don’t want to lose him too."
Alan’s hand remains on his shoulder.
"You won’t." His voice is firm now. Certain. "On the official report, I declared him a Beta. No one will know the truth except us."
Silom nods once.
The silence returns. Softer this time. Less heavy.
A knock comes at the door.
Three soft raps.
"Come in."
The door opens.
Chen steps inside. Beside him, holding his hand, is a small boy.
Silas Stoneheart.
Seven years old.
He stands quietly in the doorway, his small figure bathed in golden afternoon light. Brown-gold eyes look out from beneath soft brown hair that falls across his forehead in gentle waves.
Beautiful.
Beautiful in a way that makes people look twice without knowing why.
Exactly like Elm.
Silom rises to his feet. Alan follows a moment later, his gaze lingering on the child.
Chen gently places Silas’s small hand into his father’s larger one. The contrast is striking. A tiny hand wrapped in a much larger one.
Silom looks down at him.
"Let’s go."
Silas nods lightly. His face remains blank—but not empty. Still. Quiet. Like deep water with no visible surface movement.
Alan reaches out and pats Silas’s head. Lightly. His hand lingers for a moment, as though waiting for something.
A smile. A reaction. A word. Anything.
"See you at your next appointment, cutie." He gives a small wave. "Goodbye."
Silas doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t look back.
He simply turns, his small hand still resting in his father’s, and walks toward the door.
Alan’s smile tightens. Turns nervous. A little awkward. He watches the child leave—watches the way he moves, the way he doesn’t look back, the way the light seems to bend around him.
The door closes. Alan exhales. He murmurs to the empty room.
"So it’s true..."
A pause.
"Enigmas are cold." Another pause.
"And heartless."
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Author Note ♡
Before anyone asks: Yes, Elm is a male Omega. In this ABO world, male Omegas who give birth are commonly called Mom/Mother.
So yes, Elm is Silas’s father... and also his mom. Welcome to ABO logic. 🤭♡
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