Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega-Chapter 171: The backstage

Adam’s adrenaline spiked, and the sweat on his spine felt suddenly cold.

He kept the towel in his hand because it gave him something to do with his fingers. He kept his posture loose because performers learned early that looking rattled only fed the vultures.

"Show’s over," Adam said lightly, voice still rough from singing. "If you want an autograph, you’re late."

The man’s lips twitched as if Adam had said something amusing, but not enough to change his mood.

"I didn’t come for an autograph."

His voice was low, controlled, carrying through the corridor without needing volume. One that was oddly similar to that of people rising from the debts of the rebellion.

"Then why are you here?" Adam asked, his breathing still raw and sweat falling down his temples.

"The emperor is sending his congratulations for the beginning of normality." The man said and extended an envelope.

Adam looked at it, then raised his eyes at the man. "I don’t think the emperor has time to acknowledge or meet someone like me."

"He doesn’t."

The response was factual, delivered with the same quiet deference with which the man had clapped. There was no apology or insult, just the fact that the emperor had more urgent matters to attend to.

Adam’s mouth quirked anyway, because if he didn’t laugh, he might do something far less graceful. "Then I’m flattered the message found time to grow legs and walk backstage."

The green-eyed alpha didn’t react to the jab. He kept holding the envelope out, patient as a blade held at someone’s throat without pressing.

Up close, Adam could see the details: thick, expensive paper. A seal pressed into the flap with crimson wax with gold threaded through it and ether pulsing through it like a vein. Something official enough that even backstage chaos made room for it, on instinct, like the building knew who owned the city now.

The handler in black and gold shifted nearer, gaze fixed on the man’s hands.

Adam didn’t reach for the envelope yet. He let the moment stretch, just long enough to remind himself that he was still in control of his own hands, his own body, and his own choices.

"What’s your name?" Adam asked.

A pause. As if the man was weighing the importance of a singer knowing his name.

"Maximilian Thronwell." He said in the end with a charming smile.

The smile should have helped.

It didn’t.

It was the kind of charm that had been polished on marble floors and fed on rooms that wanted to please, the kind that came with an instinctive belief that the world would tilt a little just to keep him comfortable. Adam had met men like that before the rebellion - sons of houses that treated laughter like currency and kindness like a performance.

Maximilian Thronwell.

Even the name sounded expensive.

Adam’s eyes narrowed a fraction, not from recognition, but from the way every nerve in his body went, very quietly, "Oh."

The handler in black and gold made a sound that was halfway between a swallowed cough and a prayer.

Adam didn’t blink. He didn’t look away. He didn’t step back, because he refused to give any alpha - titled or untitled - the satisfaction of watching him retreat.

"Thronwell," Adam repeated, letting the word sit on his tongue like he was tasting it for poison. "Right."

Maximilian’s green eyes stayed on him, attentive in a way that would have felt flattering if it hadn’t been so sharp. "You know the name."

"I know a lot of names," Adam said pleasantly, wiping sweat off his temple with the towel as if this was a casual conversation and not a predator choosing his angle. "Some of them even belong to people I like."

Max’s smile widened, almost delighted, as if Adam had just handed him a toy that might bite.

"I’m not asking you to like me," he said.

"That’s good," Adam replied, tone still light. "Because we’ve known each other for three minutes and I already have notes."

The handler shifted again, clearly torn between protocol and panic. "My lord—"

Max lifted one hand without looking back, a small motion that silenced the handler instantly.

Adam’s grip tightened on the towel. His adrenaline did not subside; rather, it sharpened into irritation.

"So," Adam said, tilting his head, letting his damp hair stick wherever it wanted like a declaration. "The Emperor didn’t send you. You sent you."

Maximilian’s eyes flickered with something that might have been amusement or approval. "The Emperor knows I’m here," he said evenly, "and he did send me. I’m not stupid enough to borrow his name and authority without permission." His gaze didn’t move when the etherlights along the corridor pulsed faintly. "Ether has a way of finding out. And the ones who try..." he paused, still polite and dangerous, "don’t survive for long."

Adam stared at him for a beat, then let out a soft laugh that held no humor.

"Wow," he said. "That’s comforting. Congratulations on living in a world where honesty is enforced by ambient murder."

Max’s mouth twitched. "It’s enforced by consequences."

"It’s enforced by fear," Adam corrected, still smiling, because performers learned early that smiling kept people from noticing how hard your heart was beating. "Different packaging."

"Not when we’re still surrounded by people who would gladly sacrifice anyone for their greed," Max said.

He didn’t hand the envelope to Adam. He handed it to the handler instead, like he’d decided Adam didn’t deserve the burden of touching something official until he’d agreed to touch the situation itself. It was a clever move, polite on the surface but controlling underneath.

"That," Max continued, voice even, "is a letter of appreciation and a proposal for the next schedule. The next shows will be funded by the Emperor." His gaze stayed on Adam, green and steady. "His personal funds. The point is to ease tension in the public. Give them something that isn’t ration lines and memorial walls."

He paused, then added, almost casually, "If you’re willing to cooperate, of course."

Adam’s smile didn’t move, but his suspicion did.

"What are you not telling me?" he asked.

Max exhaled, and it sounded almost like patience had been pushed to its limits. "You’ll have to work with me through it," he said. "I’ll be the middleman. Believe me, I’m as enthusiastic as you are about this."

Adam let the towel drape around his neck like a loose noose and leaned his shoulder back against the wall, posture relaxed on purpose.

"That," he said, voice light, "was not an answer."

Max’s lips twitched. "It was an answer. Just not the one you want."

"I want the truth," Adam replied. "I don’t care if I like it."