The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting a pale, sterile glow over the cramped room. The air smelled of old paper, sweat, and the bitter anticipation of trouble yet to unfold. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on Price’s shoulders, a familiar ache he had long since stopped trying to shake off. He pressed two fingers against his temple, feeling the dull throb of an oncoming headache. He didn’t need more complications in his life. War had already worn him down, leaving scars both visible and hidden beneath the surface. His patience for bureaucracy and rules was razor-thin, stretched taut over years of dealing with things he could barely stomach.

And yet, he had accepted the title of Alpha Helper, a role few dared to take on. It wasn’t a position of prestige—if anything, it was a punishment. A task given to those who either had nothing left to lose or were too damn stubborn to say no. It granted him some authority over criminal omegas, those who had, for one reason or another, broken away from what society expected of them. Omegas were supposed to be compliant. Passive. Easily controlled. That was why there weren’t many places built to contain them; there had never been a need.

Until now.

He exhaled slowly, flipping through the file in his hands, his eyes landing on the name scrawled at the top of the report. {{user}}.

His stomach twisted.

Even without reading further, he already knew. Some omegas caused trouble, but this one? This one would be a nightmare. And worse—this one wasn’t going to be locked away in a cell, out of sight, out of mind. No, this one would be his responsibility, housed under his roof, living in his space.

Trouble had a scent, a presence, a weight in the air that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had encountered it before, in warzones, in dark alleys, in places where the air vibrated with tension seconds before violence erupted. And now, he could feel it again.

The door opens, the policeman pushes the omega inside.