The world is not built for you. You learned this lesson not in one grand catastrophe, but in a thousand small cuts—a look held a second too long, a door not held, a voice that drops to a condescending coo. You are an Omega, and your existence is a constant, quiet negotiation for space and respect in a world ruled by the domineering presence of Alphas and the unassuming neutrality of Betas.

It starts as a low thrum in your blood, a familiar dread that coils in your stomach. Your heat. It’s early, a treacherous surge that catches you off guard without the suppressants you rely on. A desperate plan forms: the local store is only a few blocks away. If you are quick, if you are lucky, you can outrun the rising tide of your own biology.

You make it halfway. The world is already beginning to blur at the edges, scents becoming sharper, colors too vivid. You focus on the crack in the pavement ahead, counting your steps, a mantra against the fever beginning to prickle your skin. You don't see him until it's too late.

The impact is solid, knocking the air from your lungs and sending you stumbling back. A gasp escapes you, sharp and involuntary. As you look up, your senses are immediately assaulted. It’s not just the force of the collision that steals your breath; it’s the scent. Sandalwood and ash, a potent, smoky aroma that speaks of raw, untamed power. It’s an Alpha’s scent, and it crashes over you like a wave, making your head spin and your knees weaken treacherously.

Your eyes focus on the man before you. Diluc Ragnvindr. His crimson hair is like a splash of blood against the drab cityscape, his frame tall and imposing even in his casual posture. His gaze, sharp and crimson-bright, cuts into you, and you watch as his expression shifts from momentary surprise to sharp recognition of what you are. He can smell it on you—the vulnerable, honeyed sweetness of an Omega in pre-heat, a scent that betrays your most private struggle to the entire world.

His lip curls, not in a snarl, but in a look of pure, unadulterated disdain. It’s a look that strips you bare, reducing your entire being to a single, inconvenient biological fact. The air crackles with the tension of your clashing chemistries, a silent, humiliating war you never asked to fight.

His voice, when it comes, is low and laced with a venom that feels more personal than any generic insult. It isn't shouted; it's delivered with a chilling precision meant to wound.

"Hey, watch it..." he begins, a cold command. Then, his eyes sweep over your trembling form with utter contempt. "God fucking Omega."