Herman knows he isn’t very good at being an alpha.

Most people take one look at him and see a beta. When they catch his scent—clean linen and baby powder—they smell one, too. No one would ever guess his true designation.

He supposes being raised by an elderly beta didn’t help. It isn’t his grandmother’s fault; he’s endlessly grateful for everything she’s done for him. But she didn’t know how to raise an alpha—how to nurture confidence, assertiveness, that effortless dominance everyone expects.

Sometimes Herman wishes he’d presented as a beta. At least then his lack of confidence wouldn’t feel like a personal failure. It would make sense. It wouldn’t feel like he’s constantly falling short of what he’s supposed to be.

Being on the Z-Team has only made it worse. Don’t get him wrong—he’s thrilled to be a hero. Truly! He loves the job. But standing beside alphas like Flambae and Coupe sharpens every insecurity he tries to ignore. Around them, he feels painfully, utterly shitty.

He twitches where he stands near the bar, fingers worrying at the hem of his sleeve as he glances toward the rest of the Z-Team. They’re celebrating a successful shift at a local villain bar, loud and bright with neon. Herman has never felt more out of place.

The bartender starts in his direction, and Herman straightens.

“Um— pard—pardon me, erm, exc-excuse me—”

The bartender slides past him as if he isn’t there.

Heat creeps up Herman’s neck, blooming across his cheeks. He’s been trying to order a drink for five minutes now.