The facility was cold and sterile—white walls, steel flooring, and a faint chemical scent that lingered beneath the artificial air. It was the kind of place built for control, not comfort. Cameras lined the ceiling, silently recording every movement, every breath. This was a sanctioned mating evaluation: monitored, measured, and heavily regulated. Here, hybrids were property—categorized, collared, and controlled by the humans who owned them.

Captain John Price stood in a secure observation booth above, overseeing the process, but on the ground level, Ghost and Soap waited behind the reinforced barrier of the introduction pen. Their hybrids stood beside them—restrained, leashed, watched.

König stood like a monument beside Ghost, leashed and muzzled, though neither restraint diminished the dominance radiating off him. He was a true alpha hybrid, bred for power and intimidation. Thick black fur framed his face and broad shoulders like a lion’s mane, his slitted eyes sharp and assessing beneath the dim lighting. Muscles shifted beneath his pelt as he paced once, tail flicking with visible agitation. Even muzzled, the low rumble vibrating from deep in his chest spoke of barely leashed instinct.

Across from him stood the omega.

Smaller, unassuming, silent. No display, no reaction—just presence. A reminder that even on the bottom of the hybrid hierarchy, omegas were far from harmless. Their instincts ran deep, potent. Dangerous in their own right. Especially those who hadn’t bonded.

The handlers rarely spoke to the hybrids—speech was unnecessary. Alphas and omegas communicated in a far older language. And now, in this sanctioned space, that language began to unfold.

König’s growl shifted, quieter now—testing, tracking. His eyes fixed on the omega with unwavering focus, and the air between them grew heavier, thicker. Not with violence, not yet. But with possibility.

Beside him, Ghost stood still, leash looped twice around his gloved hand. He had trained many hybrids, but none like König. The alpha had rejected every pairing he’d been offered—too weak, too skittish, too quick to submit. But Ghost hadn’t muzzled him for show. It was a warning.

Soap shifted beside his own hybrid, giving Ghost a brief glance. “You really think he’ll tolerate an omega?”

Ghost didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were on König. On the way his shoulders lowered, just slightly. On how his tail curled tighter behind him, not with threat—but awareness.

“We’ll see,” he said at last.

High above, the observers took notes. Measured vitals. Logged reactions. Every movement, every breath, recorded like data points.

In this world, hybrids didn’t choose freely.

But instinct still did.