POTINS 1

In the suffocatingly tense surveillance room, everyone was as silent as cicadas in winter.

Wen Zhongyi stared motionlessly at the monitor, the flickering light and shadows reflected deep in his pupils, betraying no emotion.

When the progress bar reached the end yet again, Wen Zhongyi finally released his grip on the mouse.

—He had already reviewed these surveillance videos over thirty times.

Upon closer inspection, his fingertips had lost all color, appearing pale and icy.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply.

The usually composed and unflappable young colonel finally revealed a rare trace of vulnerability and exhaustion at this moment.

“Everyone, out,” he said.

The roomful of people trembled as they hurried to leave.

A subordinate who was usually closer to him glanced back, unable to bear it, and said, “Colonel Wen, you haven’t rested in a long time. Your body won’t hold up.”

Wen Zhongyi didn’t respond, merely raising a hand in a silencing gesture.

The subordinate immediately fell quiet, sighed softly, and closed the door behind him as he left.

It had been 48 hours since Meng Chuan disappeared.

Wen Zhongyi hadn’t slept a wink since the moment his call to Meng Chuan went unanswered.

He couldn’t understand how a living person could vanish into thin air like this.

Meng Chuan’s phone, identification, and clothes were all left untouched at home. He hadn’t even changed out of his slippers.

There were no signs of a struggle at home—no evidence of an ambush, kidnapping, or anything of the sort.

In fact, no one could have kidnapped Meng Chuan to begin with.

Yet reality was just this absurd.

An alpha who had once been invincible on the battlefield, recently promoted to captain, had inexplicably disappeared.

Just that afternoon, he had spoken to Wen Zhongyi on the phone, saying he would make his favorite cream of mushroom soup for dinner.

His tone had been light and teasing, lacking its usual seriousness.

Wen Zhongyi had just finished a meeting at the time and was on his way to the hospital.

He had been feeling nauseous frequently lately and had a vague suspicion but didn’t dare confirm it. He wanted to wait until he was certain before telling Meng Chuan.

“I also want chestnut pastries,” he had said to Meng Chuan.

“Already bought them, waiting for you when you get back,” Meng Chuan had replied with a laugh.

It had been an ordinary afternoon.

So ordinary that if not for this incident, Wen Zhongyi wouldn’t have remembered so many details.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the surveillance room, Wen Zhongyi’s long lashes trembled slightly.

His eyes were bloodshot, clearly pushed to the brink, but his taut nerves refused to allow him even a moment of respite.

“Where the hell did you go?”

Wen Zhongyi murmured the question at the empty surveillance footage.

His hand rested on his flat abdomen, where a small life he and Meng Chuan had created together was growing.

It was not yet a month old. He hadn’t had the chance to share this good news with Meng Chuan.

The night was deep, and the overhead fluorescent lights shone soundlessly. The troops sent out to search had not brought back even a sliver of news about Meng Chuan.

Perhaps because the light was too bright, Wen Zhongyi raised a hand to cover his face.

The omega’s straight spine seemed to lose its support, bending slowly, slowly under the weight of the long and hopeless wait.

……

By the time Wen Zhongyi’s father called, he had already returned home.

Expressionlessly, he injected himself with a suppressant to alleviate his body’s instinctive reactions.

A pregnant omega would crave an alpha’s pheromones more than usual, especially in moments of extreme insecurity—when the longing could rival the intensity of a heat.

The scent of roses in the room was so thick it felt like standing in a rose garden. Wen Zhongyi had draped Meng Chuan’s shirt over himself, though the bitter coffee scent had already faded significantly.

He spoke calmly with his father: “Still searching. No news yet.”

Military personnel from the army, navy, and air force had all joined the search. Meng Chuan’s disappearance was no small matter. Aside from his rank as captain, he was also the son-in-law of the founding general of the Independent Nation.

After a moment of silence, Wen Zhongyi’s father said, “They’ll find him. Just wait a little longer.”

Wen Zhongyi gave a quiet “Mm,” then said nothing more.

“Where are you?” his father asked.

“At home.”

His father said, “Your dad and I are coming over.”

“No need.” Wen Zhongyi pressed the back of his hand against his eyelids, his voice low and muffled. “I’m fine.”

Ignoring his stubbornness, his father simply said, “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The arrival of his father and dad didn’t bring Wen Zhongyi much relief, but at least his pent-up emotions finally had an outlet. He managed to sleep for a while in his dad’s embrace.

His father stood grim-faced on the balcony, listening to his subordinates’ reports, and said coldly, “Keep searching.”

Wen Zhongyi’s sleep was restless, and he soon woke with a start.

For a moment after opening his eyes, he was disoriented. Then, as his thoughts settled, the light in his eyes dimmed.

His dad gently stroked his slightly long black hair, comforting him: “Xiao Chuan will be fine.”

“Still no news?” Wen Zhongyi asked.

His dad shook his head regretfully.

Outside the window, the sky was beginning to lighten. It had been nearly 60 hours since Meng Chuan disappeared.

Aside from the three years they had fought side by side, the two had never been apart for so long after the war ended. Even when one of them was away on business, they would stay in touch by phone.

Never like this.

Wen Zhongyi had a feeling Meng Chuan’s disappearance wasn’t so simple.

If the surveillance footage hadn’t been tampered with, then Meng Chuan had vanished from inside this very house.

Suddenly, Wen Zhongyi remembered a joke Meng Chuan had made long ago.

“Let me tell you a secret,” Meng Chuan had said, a faint smile on his lips, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I’m not actually from this world. I’m an alien.”

It had been the second year of the war, and the two had just gotten together.

Wen Zhongyi had been studying a battle map, lost in thought, and hadn’t responded.

The door to the command room was half-open, leaving just the two of them inside. Meng Chuan had pinched his chin and kissed him lightly on the lips, his tone dissatisfied: “Why aren’t you paying attention to me?”

Wen Zhongyi had shifted his gaze from the map to Meng Chuan’s face, amused and exasperated. “What kind of alien? A dumbass alien?”

Meng Chuan had laughed and kissed him again, teasing, “Since when do you curse?”

After that, Meng Chuan never brought it up again. The moment had been buried in Wen Zhongyi’s memories like any other ordinary joke—until now, when it resurfaced with cruel timing.

Wen Zhongyi’s lips paled slightly.

His complexion was already ghastly from prolonged exhaustion, but now it grew even more ashen.

If Meng Chuan hadn’t been joking—if he had truly disappeared just like that—

Then where was Wen Zhongyi supposed to find him?

After sharing this thought with his father, Wen Zhongyi received only a hug filled with heartache and comfort.

“Go rest a little longer,” his father said, his own complexion looking unwell. “If you feel unwell anywhere, tell me immediately. Don’t push yourself.”

Wen Zhongyi said nothing more.

Holding Meng Chuan’s clothes, he sat on the sofa, calmly recalling memories of him.

Meng Chuan had no relatives, no friends. When they first met, he was still a beta.

The vast majority of the team members were alphas.

Betas were the minority, and there was only one omega—the sole leader.

Every new recruit who joined would initially feel puzzled, and rumors like “Colonel Wen’s military achievements rely on his father” would occasionally circulate. But before long, those voices would disappear.

Wen Zhongyi’s combat record spoke for itself. No one dared question his abilities again.

On the day the assault team members were selected, Wen Zhongyi saw Meng Chuan for the first time.

Unlike the other soldiers, who were solemn and avoided meeting Wen Zhongyi’s gaze, Meng Chuan stood at the end of the line with a careless air, showing no trace of nervousness.

He was tall, with handsome, sharp features. From a distance, his eyes met Wen Zhongyi’s, and he raised an eyebrow at him.

Wen Zhongyi’s gaze paused slightly, his refined face cold and expressionless.

Seeing that he wasn’t getting a response, Meng Chuan curled his lips into a smile, his eyes never leaving Wen Zhongyi.

Wen Zhongyi walked from the front of the line to the end, getting closer and closer to Meng Chuan—and the latter’s gaze only grew bolder.

Wen Zhongyi had never been subjected to such undisguised scrutiny. He tilted his head slightly, chin lifting just a fraction, and looked at the beta before him with detached calm. “Name?”

“Meng Chuan.” His voice was strong and clear.

Meng Chuan thought Wen Zhongyi might ask something else, but the omega only gave a slight nod before turning away.

An omega’s physique was much slimmer than an alpha’s. Wen Zhongyi wore a long coat, his back straight, and the wind swept up the hem of his clothes, revealing a narrow waist and long, straight legs to Meng Chuan’s gaze.

He walked straight onto the platform, stood still, and said to the subordinate beside him, “Begin the drill.”

The training ground was vast, dust swirling in the air. Wen Zhongyi stood with his hands behind his back on the platform, his face obscured from those below.

The simulated combat drill lasted over an hour.

More and more people fell, and the dust that had blotted out the sky slowly settled. A figure stood in the center of the field, backlit, looking directly at Wen Zhongyi.

Meng Chuan had a fresh cut on his face, blood seeping from it. His chest was still heaving as he wiped the corner of his mouth and flashed a wild, triumphant grin.

The demeanor of a victor.

Wen Zhongyi looked at him, a trace of something like approval flickering in his calm eyes. He said to the person beside him, “Him.”

After that drill, Meng Chuan became a member of the assault team.

Apart from him, everyone else in the team was a seasoned veteran who had fought alongside Wen Zhongyi through life and death countless times.

This was a team where no one was replaced unless they died—the most elite force in the entire military.

The very next day, Meng Chuan was sent on an assault mission.

In those war-torn times, every mission was potentially a final farewell. Team members would write letters to their families in advance, just in case.

Meng Chuan didn’t write one.

“I have no family here,” he said.

At the time, Wen Zhongyi had only caught the words “no family,” overlooking “here.”

Now, looking back, Wen Zhongyi felt a sudden weight in his chest.

He also remembered one birthday when Meng Chuan had sung him a song—a melody unlike any he’d heard before. Wen Zhongyi had asked what it was.

“The Happy Birthday song,” Meng Chuan had replied, surprised. “You don’t have this song here?”

Wen Zhongyi had assumed it was a folk tune from Meng Chuan’s hometown and shook his head. “No, this is my first time hearing it.”

Then there was the time Meng Chuan had watched him inject suppressants, his expression dazed and confused.

“What’s that?” Meng Chuan had asked.

Wen Zhongyi thought he was joking, but answered anyway. “Suppressants.”

“Suppressing what?” Meng Chuan pressed, seeming genuinely unaware.

“Suppressing heats,” Wen Zhongyi said. “Didn’t you take physiology classes?”

Meng Chuan’s expression froze for a moment, and he fell silent for a long time.

There were many such incidents—too many details after their meeting that hinted at Meng Chuan’s abnormality.

Wen Zhongyi took a deep breath, his face bloodless, and said to his father, “Stop searching.”

His father turned. “What?”

“Stop searching,” Wen Zhongyi repeated, his voice unsteady.

His father thought he was speaking out of despair and sighed. “Don’t lose hope. We’ll keep searching.”

The large-scale search lasted a full ten days, but in the end, nothing was found.

The disappearance case, which had drawn nationwide attention, was eventually classified as unsolved.

At the same time, items related to Meng Chuan began inexplicably vanishing.

First, it was a watch.

Then a notebook.

At first, Wen Zhongyi didn’t notice. But half a month later, he couldn’t find one of Meng Chuan’s shirts.

The eerie part was that he couldn’t remember the shirt’s design—or even whether Meng Chuan had ever owned such a shirt.

It was as if an eraser was silently wiping away every trace of Meng Chuan, including memories of him.

When Wen Zhongyi realized he was forgetting, he dropped a cup in a daze.

He could no longer recall Meng Chuan’s voice.

A wave of overwhelming panic seized him. Wen Zhongyi refused to sit idle.

He grabbed his car keys, habitually tucked a gun into the back of his waistband, and left in a rush.

The car sped down the highway at a breakneck pace, military zones and residential buildings flashing by, leaving only blurred reflections on the windows.

Wen Zhongyi only wanted to find Meng Chuan.

As for where to look—he didn’t know.

His knuckles turned white from gripping the steering wheel, and his pregnancy symptoms chose that moment to flare up.

Battling nausea, he was about to turn onto a side road when the accident happened—

A pickup truck, moving just as fast, came barreling from the opposite direction. Everything was too sudden. There was no time to avoid it.

The explosive sound of the collision left his ears ringing. Shards of glass pierced his skin. In that moment of dizzying disorientation, Wen Zhongyi finally remembered Meng Chuan’s voice.

“Wen Zhongyi.” Meng Chuan’s tone always carried a hint of lazy amusement. Wen Zhongyi had loved hearing him say his name.

“Don’t be afraid,” he had said.