Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 190: Just Hurting Me Differently...

Moon’s POV🌸 —After Seeing Them Together:

The car pulls away from the hospital, gliding through the dark streets like a silver fish through deep water. The city lights blur past the windows—smears of gold and red and white, bleeding into one another, indistinguishable.

The engine hums low, a vibration that settles in the bones, a reminder that the world is still moving even when everything inside has stopped.

Inside, the silence is heavy—pressing against the windows, filling every space between them.

Moon sits in the back seat, leaning against the leather, his body sinking into it. His eyes are closed. His blue lashes are damp—just enough to catch the faint glow of passing streetlights.

He isn’t crying.

Not quite.

The wetness clings to his lashes—evidence of a storm held back by sheer, brutal will. His jaw is tight, the muscles working beneath the skin. His throat moves as he swallows, once, twice, pushing it down.

His hands rest on his lap, folding and unfolding in a restless rhythm. The knuckles pale, then ease, then pale again. A motion he can’t quite control.

His chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate breaths. Each one is measured. Controlled. Forced.

As if even breathing requires effort—like his body might forget if he lets go.

Don’t. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

Kaz sits in the passenger seat, his tablet resting on his lap, the screen casting a faint glow across his face. His fingers hover over the keyboard without typing.

His gaze flickers to the rearview mirror—then away, then back again.

Moon’s reflection is still. Too still. The kind of stillness that feels cold, like something frozen solid beneath the surface.

Kaz adjusts his glasses, a small, familiar habit. Something to do with his hands while he decides what to say.

Should I ask? Should I say something? Is it my place?

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"Sir..."

Moon doesn’t react. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even seem to hear.

Kaz’s eyes stay on him, studying the familiar lines of his face—the sharp jaw, the pale skin, the dark blue lashes fanned against his cheeks. And then he notices. The faint glisten on Moon’s lashes. The way his throat works as he swallows. The slight tremor in his clenched fists.

Is Mr. Moon crying?

The thought is impossible. Unthinkable.

Kaz has worked for him for six years—six years of boardrooms and backstage chaos, of demanding clients and impossible schedules, of tantrums and triumphs and everything in between. He’s seen Moon angry, seen him cold, seen him dismissive and demanding and impossible to please.

He’s seen him charm boardrooms and intimidate rivals and reduce grown men to silence with a single glance.

He’s never seen Moon cry. He’s barely seen him feel.

Moon Arden doesn’t show emotion. He wears indifference like armor, like a second skin, like something he was born wearing. He’s careless, reckless, untouchable. He floats through life like nothing can reach him, like nothing can hurt him, like he’s made of something harder than flesh and blood.

But tonight, in the dark of the car, with the hospital fading behind them, something has cracked.

Kaz’s voice is softer now, careful. 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

"Sir, should we head back to the hotel? You have a shoot tomorrow afternoon."

A pause. "You haven’t rested. You haven’t eaten. If you’d like, I can arrange something to eat—"

Moon’s voice cuts through like a blade. Cold. Sharp. Final.

"Kaz."

Kaz stops mid-sentence, his mouth still open. "Yes, sir."

Moon’s eyes are still closed. His jaw is tight, muscles working beneath the skin. "Reserve the club. The usual."

A pause, heavy with something Kaz can’t name. "I need something to calm myself down."

Kaz’s face changes. His fingers tighten on his knee, pressing hard enough to leave marks through his trousers.

"But sir..." He hesitates, choosing his next words with care, weighing each one before it leaves his mouth.

"With your health issues, you really shouldn’t drink alcohol. The doctor was very clear, and Mr. Kael—"

He opens his tablet quickly, scrolling through the endless schedules, the reminders, the carefully organized chaos of Moon’s life. The screen glows in the dark car, illuminating his face from below.

"Your rut cycle is approaching." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Drinking now could make it worse—"

Moon opens his eyes.

Kaz’s words die in his throat.

Moon’s lashes are still wet, just slightly, catching the light. But his eyes—his eyes are burning. Not with tears anymore. Something else. Something harder. Something that makes Kaz’s chest tighten with a fear he hasn’t felt in years.

"Didn’t you hear what I said?"

Moon’s voice is low, almost soft, but the edge beneath it could cut glass.

Kaz flinches—just a small movement, quickly masked, quickly controlled. He takes a slow breath, steadying himself, and looks down at the tablet in his hands.

"Sir, taking care of you is my duty." His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it—something that sounds like desperation, like pleading.

"Please understand." A pause. "And Mr. Kael strictly ordered me to keep alcohol away from you."

Moon stares at him.

A look—cold and flat, utterly without mercy. The kind of look that has made grown men weep and interns quit and rivals retreat.

"Who’s your boss?"

Kaz’s voice is weak now, barely audible, barely a whisper. "Mr. Moon."

"So." A pause, deliberate, heavy with meaning. "Should I repeat myself?"

Kaz shakes his head. "No, sir." He straightens, his professional mask sliding back into place, hiding whatever he’s feeling beneath layers of efficiency and duty.

"I’ll make the reservation. I’ll ensure everything is to your liking."

Moon leans back and closes his eyes again.

His fists clench on his lap, knuckles white, tendons straining. His jaw is tight, his throat working, his chest locked with something he can’t name—something he can’t release, no matter how hard he tries.

Why do you act like you care about me?

The thought circles in his mind, bitter and familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition.

Zyren...

You’re still the same.

Just hurting me differently.