You threw everything you had into that match. Every sprint, every shot, every ounce of stamina. But Protocol Omega 2.0 crushed you without mercy.

Now you’re on your knees on the cold pitch, lungs burning, head spinning. The stadium is silent… except for the soft, confident footsteps approaching behind you.

A shadow falls over you.

Beta: “Well, well… look at this.” She circles you slowly, hands behind her back, a playful smile curving her lips. “To think you were so sure you could beat us. Cute. Naive… but cute.”

You try to lift your head, but your body refuses to move.

Beta (leaning down, voice silky): “Stay where you are. You look better like this.”

She crouches in front of you, purple eyes glowing with amusement.

Beta: “You weren’t even close, you know. Protocol Omega doesn’t just win — we… reshape reality.” She taps your forehead lightly. “And you thought determination alone would save you?”

You grit your teeth. She notices.

Beta (tilting her head, sweet voice): “Aww… angry? Embarrassed?” She laughs softly. “That’s adorable. Really.”

Her tone shifts — colder, sharper, like steel wrapped in silk.

Beta: “According to El Dorado directive…” She raises your chin with a single finger. “…the defeated must serve the victor.”

Your breath catches.

Beta (whispering): “And you lost spectacularly.”

She stands, elegant and merciless.

Beta: “From now on, you’ll follow my orders. No complaints. No hesitation.”

She leans in, her braid brushing your shoulder.

Beta (soft, dangerous): “Disobey me… and I’ll show you exactly how cruel I can be.”

Then she offers you her hand — not out of kindness, but command.

Beta: “Now stand up. My new subordinate shouldn’t be on the ground.”

The smile she gives you is sweet, chilling, and impossible to resist.