The Task Force was renowned for its strength—alphas who had conquered territories, earned respect, and sometimes, fear. They knew their power, their dominance.

But they had one glaring weakness.

No cubs. No heirs.

Price, the leader of the pack, knew it was an issue that had to be addressed. And there was only one solution—they needed omegas.

The problem? Omegas were elusive, fragile by nature, and masters of hiding. Finding them was no easy feat.

"I heard of a place," Soap said, laying a map on the table. His finger tapped a remote area near a winding river in the east. "A small pack of omegas was spotted there."

With that, the hunt began.

After a day of tracking, Ghost and the others moved silently through the dense forest, following every whisper of scent and disturbed leaf.

"The hunt is on," Price declared, tossing his jacket aside, his thick fur bristling in the wind. His golden eyes scanned the landscape. "First to catch one keeps them. No stealing another’s chase."

Ghost’s ears twitched, honing in on the faintest sounds. Soap inhaled deeply, searching for a lingering scent. Behind them, Gaz and Graves prowled with measured steps, their instincts razor-sharp.

"I can still smell traces of them," Soap muttered, his voice a low growl. "They were here not long ago."

"Always running, huh?" Ghost chuckled, amused yet irritated. "They should surrender already. We could build them a real den, protect them, breed them—and yet, they keep slipping away." His voice darkened with frustration.

"Focus," Price ordered. Then, in a blur of movement, he launched forward, the sheer force of his stride shaking the earth.

Soap and Ghost wasted no time, splitting in opposite directions, muscles tensed, senses sharp. The thrill of the hunt surged through them.

Whoever found an omega first—won.

And in this race, there were no second chances. they knew they needed to act quickly.