Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 123: Who Is This Omega?

The car door closes behind us, and the night wraps around us like a cold, living thing. Frost clings to the edges of the streetlights, making them haloed and soft.

Our breath clouds in the air, brief ghosts that vanish as quickly as they appear.

Deniz’s hand is still in mine. Warm. Solid. Fingers laced like they’ve found where they belong.

"Let’s go," he says softly, and tugs gently toward his apartnt building.

I follow. Silent. My cheeks burn despite the cold, my mind a tangled knot of guilt.

Why did I ask that stupid question? Why couldn’t I just let it go? He told he’s a Beta.

The doctors said so. Why do I keep picking at sothing I don’t understand?

The lobby is warm, a sharp contrast to the winter outside. It’s crowded—of course it is.

A cluster of residents gathers near the elevators, their conversations a low, indistinct murmur. Deniz leads us to the edge of the crowd, and we wait.

He glances at . His dark eyes are soft, searching my face for sothing. Worry, maybe. Understanding. Then he steps closer, his free hand lifting.

He brushes his thumb along my temple, pushing back the hair that had fallen forward.

"There was sothing," he murmurs. His touch lingers, a whisper against my skin, and a shiver runs through that has nothing to do with the cold.

I stare at him. My lips part.

The apology I’ve been carrying all evening rises to the surface—

"Hy! Deniz, son!"

The voice cuts through the lobby, bright and impossible to ignore.

Bright. Familiar. We both turn.

The neighbor granny is walking toward us, her face creased in a familiar, kindly smile.

The one who mistook for an Oga that first night.

She’s walking toward us, a soft smile on her wrinkled face. She stops right in front of us, her eyes crinkling with warmth.

Deniz straightens, his polite mask sliding into place.

"Hello, Granny. How are you tonight?"

"I’m fine, dear, fine." She waves a dismissive hand.

"And your father? Is he recovering well?"

Deniz nods. "Yes, much better now. Thank you for asking."

"Good, good."

Her gaze shifts to . She squints, her head tilting as recognition flickers behind her eyes. Then they light up.

"Ah! He’s your rich, beautiful Oga friend from the other night!"

Her words falter. Her eyes drop to our joined hands.

A beat of silence.

Then her face transforms. The confusion lts into sothing knowing, sothing warm and playful. A slow, delighted smile spreads across her wrinkled cheeks.

"So I was right that night," she says, pointing a crooked finger at our intertwined fingers.

"You naughty boy. ’Just friends,’ you said. ’Just friends.’"

She laughs, a light, musical sound. "And now look at you two."

Deniz’s face floods with color. He looks down, suddenly fascinated by the floor.

"Grandma, it’s not—he’s actually—"

"Ahh, son." She cuts him off with a gentle wave. "No need to be embarrassed. Why would you be? Love is love." Her eyes crinkle as she looks at .

"You’re a lucky one, you know. Your Oga is so beautiful."

Deniz’s head snaps up. "Granny, no, he’s actually an alp—"

"Thank you, Granny."

The words leave my mouth before I can think.

Smooth.

Calm.

I squeeze Deniz’s hand gently, a silent ssage: Let it go. It’s not worth explaining.

She beams at . "No need to thank , dear. You two should co visit soti. I’ll cook sothing special for you both. My kitchen is always open for young love."

I smile back, and this ti it’s real.

"We will."

She pats my arm, then rummages in her purse. "Oh! I almost forgot. Silly old woman." She pulls out a small, cream-colored card and holds it out to Deniz.

"There was a man standing outside your apartnt all day. From the look of him, I think he was an Oga. Very polite. Very... sad, maybe? When I asked, he said he needed to et you. Gave this to pass along."

She presses it into his palm. "Said to tell you to call him. That you’d understand."

Deniz takes the card. He looks down at it.

And everything changes.

His face goes still. The softness, the warmth, the gentle light in his eyes—it drains away like water from cracked glass.

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl around the card, not crushing it, but holding it like sothing fragile and dangerous.

He stares at it for a long, terrible mont. His breathing changes—shallow, uneven.

Granny gives us one last warm smile before turning and disappearing into the crowd, her soft steps swallowed by the hum of the lobby.

The silence she leaves behind is not empty. It’s thick.

Heavy.

Pressing against my ears.

I look at Deniz. At the card in his hand. At the expression on his face—frozen, distant, as if he’s seeing sothing I can’t.

As if he’s sowhere I can’t follow.

My chest tightens. A cold knot forms in my stomach.

Who is this Oga?

I don’t ask. I can’t.

The words stick in my throat, trapped behind the sudden, irrational fear that I don’t want to know the answer.

But I’m going to find out.

Deniz unlocks the door. The quiet click of the lock breaking open feels louder than it should.

His face is different now. The softness from monts ago—the shy smiles, the gentle touches—is gone.

I follow him in silence, my eyes on his back, my mind a storm.

Why did he go quiet?

Why did his face change like that?

The Oga.

That card.

Was it an ex?

Soone he used to love?

A crush he never forgot?

The questions swarm, vicious and relentless. Each one a small knife twisting in my chest.

I hate them. I hate that I’m thinking them. But I can’t stop.

The door closes behind with a soft click. The apartnt wraps around us—familiar, warm, usually safe. Tonight it feels different. Charged.

"Zyren."

His voice pulls from the spiral. I blink, realizing I’ve been standing frozen in the middle of the room, staring at nothing.

His hands cradle my face. Warm. Steady.

I flinch — just slightly.

He searches my eyes, his brow furrowed.

"Are you okay?"

I nod quickly. Too quickly.

"Yes. I’m fine."

He studies for a mont longer, then a small smile touches his lips. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. The warmth of it lingers.

"Go take a warm shower," he murmurs against my skin.

"I’ll make dinner."

I nod again, forcing a smile I don’t feel. I turn and walk toward the bathroom, my feet moving on autopilot.

But my mind doesn’t follow.

It stays stuck on one word.

One impossible, aching word.

Oga.