Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 99: Just… Stay With Me

My head is heavy on the cool leather of the album. My eyes are closed, but I’m not sleeping.

I’m trapped in a gallery of ghosts.

Happy monts. The Kael family, frozen in ti. Smiling, holding each other, their eyes bright with a love that looks so real it hurts.

They loved him.

They loved Zyren so much it glows from the paper.

And then they just... stopped.

The mont they found out he was a D-Class Alpha, it was like a door slamd shut.

The love was revoked.

Erased.

The blank pages in the album after his thirteenth birthday scream the truth louder than any photo.

A sad, familiar smile twists my lips. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve read this story before. My own parents wrote the first draft for Neon.

The leaving.

The silent phone. The empty chair at a table that was once full. They abandoned , too, without ever telling why.

The ache in my chest is a confused, double-layered thing. It hurts for Zyren, for the boy who lost everything.

And it echoes with the old hurt of Neon, the boy who never had it to begin with.

My thoughts are a loud, mournful static in the quiet study.

"Zyren..."

A voice, soft as a prayer, cuts through the noise. I open my eyes slowly, pushing myself upright.

Angel stands in front of .

When did he co in?

His beautiful face is etched with pure worry.

"Are you okay?"

I paste on a soft smile. It feels thin, transparent.

"Yes. I’m alright."

"The doctor said you need rest," he chides gently, but his gaze drops to the album on the desk.

"And you’re working again."

I rub my eyes, the gesture weary. "No, Angel. It’s not work. It’s..."

I stop, following his look down to the leather-bound past.

Angel’s expression shifts. The worry lts into a deep, aching understanding.

He knows.

His voice is a whisper. "Zyren... do you miss them?"

I look up, caught. The question is a trap.

I’m not the real Zyren. The silver-haired boy in those pictures is a stranger.

The parents smiling down at him are characters in a novel.

But the sorrow sitting in my stomach is real. It’s not mory, but it’s grief.

A grieving for a love that was murdered by sothing as stupid as a Greek letter.

I look down again, my throat tight. Slowly, I nod.

"Yes. I’m..."

I don’t finish. What can I say?

I’m heartbroken for a life that wasn’t mine?

Angel doesn’t press. He doesn’t offer hollow comfort. He simply acts. He walks to , closes the distance, and takes my hand.

His skin is warm. His grip is sure. An anchor.

I look up, startled.

He offers a soft smile, one that holds all the winters he’s watched over .

"You promised you would rest." He gives my hand a gentle, insistent pull.

"Let’s go to your room."

Before I can protest, before I can fall back into the sadness, he’s pulling to my feet. I don’t resist.

I let him lead, a silent shadow following his light.

Maybe this is right, I think, my steps falling obediently behind his. For now, just follow.

Follow this beautiful, steadfast angel who never once looked at a blank page and decided the story was over.

A soft, genuine smile finally finds my lips. It’s not for the ghosts in the album.

It’s for the living angel leading away from them.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the soft mattress dipping under . Angel’s movents are a quiet ballet of care—pouring water, shaking out a pill, his touch light and sure as he passes them to .

I take the dicine, the water cool going down my dry throat.

"Now, rest," he says, his voice a low hum in the quiet room.

"It’s already late."

He watches as I slide down under the covers.

Then he does it. He leans over and gently tucks the blanket around my shoulders, his hands smoothing the duvet with a tenderness ant for a much younger child.

"Good night," he murmurs, offering a small, polite smile before he turns to leave.

I just stare at him, the words stuck in my throat.

He reaches the door, his hand on the knob.

"Angel."

He stops. Turns. Looks back at , his head tilted in question.

"Hmm?"

I stay silent, biting my lower lip. The emptiness of the big room yawns behind him.

The thought of being alone tonight, with only the ghosts from the album and the mory of Moon’s dangerous touch for company... it makes my skin crawl.

Should I ask?

It’s too much. Too needy.

His eyes soften as he watches my internal struggle.

"Zyren? Do you need anything?"

I shake my head slowly, a child’s denial.

He doesn’t buy it. He takes a step back toward , then another, until he’s standing beside the bed again. He leans down slightly.

"Zyren... are you alright?"

The dam cracks. The words co out in a quiet, broken rush.

"Angel... can you stay here with tonight? I..."

My vision blurs, the heat of unshed tears making everything swim.

"I don’t want to stay alone."

The first tear spills over, tracing a hot path down my temple into my hair. Angel’s eyes widen, his breath catching.

He’s seen angry, proud, stubborn—but not this. Not raw, quiet fear.

In an instant, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers, infinitely gentle, brush the damp trail from my skin.

"Zyren, shh... why are you crying?" His own voice is thick with concern.

"Just... stay with ," I whisper, the plea laid bare.

He nods, a quick, decisive movent. "Yes. Of course. I’m here with you."

His hand moves to my hair, smoothing it back from my forehead in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

"I’m not going anywhere. Just don’t cry." His face is a map of worry, his brows drawn together.

"Sleep. I’m right here. You’re not alone."

I let my eyes fall shut, the weight of the day—the fever, the nightmare, the album, Moon—crashing over .

But beneath it, a new sensation anchors : the solid warmth of his presence beside , the soft sound of his breathing, the faint, sweet strawberry scent of oga care that is uniquely his.

I am not alone.