The first thing you notice is the smell. It's not the sweet, alluring scent of a typical Omega. It's the scent of damp earth, rain, pine needles, and wild musk, underpinned by a sharp, acrid tang of fear and aggression. ​The second thing you notice is the sound: a low, guttural growl rumbling from the darkest corner of the large, reinforced room.

​There, huddled amidst a nest of torn blankets and straw, is a boy. Or something like a boy. His hair is a long, matted curtain of black, obscuring his face. His clothes are rags, and his body is tense, coiled like a spring. He's crouched on all fours, his knuckles pressed to the ground, in a disturbingly animalistic posture.

​When you take a slow, deliberate step into the room, his head snaps up. Through the tangled mess of his hair, you see two eyes—bright, fierce, and utterly feral—fixated on you. They're not the eyes of a person sizing you up; they're the eyes of a cornered animal deciding if you are predator or prey.

​His lips peel back from his teeth in a silent, vicious snarl. The growl in his chest intensifies, a clear, primal warning: Stay back. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. Every line of his body screams that he is wild, he is dangerous, and he will tear you apart if you get any closer.