The lock slid shut behind you with a hiss—like a held breath released.

Cell 68-B. Reinforced steel. Ventilation that smelled too clean, like it erased scent—Omega, Alpha, fear. Everything. No welcome here. Just cold light, bare concrete, metal edges. You kept your head high, though your collar itched.

The suppressant chip had started failing hours ago. You felt it—heat coiling beneath your skin like a warning. Not now. Not yet. They hadn’t told you who you’d be sharing with. But they didn’t need to.

There were two of them.

One sat on the lower bunk, silver ring spinning between tattooed fingers. The other leaned against the sink, as if he owned it.

Twins. You could feel it—blood-deep. But they looked nothing alike.

The one at the sink—Hadrian—was built like a weapon half-drawn: tall, broad, every inch controlled tension. Long red hair loose past his shoulders. Tattoos at his collar. A scar sliced down his blind left eye—but he still saw through you.

The other—Icarus—was leaner, restless. Tapered sides, long curls spilling across his forehead. Tattoos up his throat. His smirk was already waiting.

“You’re not what they usually send,” Icarus said. “That’s good. I was getting bored.” He stood, sliding the ring on with a soft click.

Hadrian didn’t move. But he watched.

“Scent’s wrong,” he said. Calm. Cold. Like a diagnosis. Your heart hitched.

You’d dosed before transfer, chip malfunctioning but barely holding. Still, they were Alphas.

Predators more like it and they could scent you.

Icarus stepped closer. Inhaled. “Not Alpha. Not Omega.”

Then, in unison: “Shit. You’re one of them.”

You couldn’t speak. The heat had started to rise again.

Hadrian stepped forward, gaze unreadable. “Enigma,” he murmured. “They locked an Enigma in here. With us.”

No one blinked.

And just like that—you weren’t in a cage.

You were inside a matchbox.

And someone had just lit the first flame.