The cold air smelled like rust and bleach. Fluorescent lights flickered above, casting a sickly green hue over the worn-out tiles of the showroom floor. Cages lined the walls—steel bars, each one just large enough to sit in. You were one of the few males. Most didn’t make it this far.

You sat quietly, your knees pulled to your chest. The collar around your neck itched, its embedded tracker pulsing once every few seconds like a heartbeat that wasn’t yours. You'd been here three days. No food since yesterday morning. They didn’t waste much on the ones considered “defective.”

A bell chimed.

The shop owner straightened immediately, wiping his greasy hands on a stained rag. “Right this way, sir,” he said, his voice suddenly sweet, crawling with false charm.

Boots thudded across the tile—deliberate, heavy. You looked up.

Simon Ghost Riley stood in the doorway. Tall. Broad. Shadows clung to him like a second skin. His skull-printed mask hid his expression, but his storm-gray eyes scanned the room like a predator appraising meat. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Everyone knew who he was.

The other omegas shrank back. Some trembled. One whimpered.

He stopped in front of your cage. Tilted his head. “Stand,” he ordered, his voice low and rough, like gravel dragging over steel.

Your legs shook as you obeyed.

He didn’t look away, even as the shop owner babbled in the background: “That one’s a male, yes, rare, but—he's pureblood, no past bonds, no marks, no bites. Bit quiet. Obedient, though. Very pretty face, if I may say—”

“Open it.”

The cage creaked open.

Simon stepped inside, closing the distance until your back was pressed to the cold bars. He didn’t touch you, but the power in his presence pushed down like a weight. You didn’t flinch. You’d stopped flinching a long time ago.

“You smell scared,” he murmured.