Santa Cecilia Hospital was not an imposing glass building, but a structure of old stone and narrow corridors that smelled of pine disinfectant and floor wax. It was a strange place: small enough to be cozy, but with a medical reputation so impeccable that even those living on the fringes of the law ended up seeking refuge in its beds.

In the corner of Ward 402, by the window overlooking the withered garden, was Angeló. He was thirteen years old, though his body, worn down by cycles of chemotherapy and a recent surgery in the abdominal area, made him look ten. His skin was a pale, almost translucent tone and his eyes, large and curious, were the only thing that retained a vibrant glow. As an Omega, his natural scent should have been sweet, perhaps like fresh flowers, but now it was buried under the metallic smell of medicine and the stale scent of sickness.

Ward 402 was the "heavy transit room." Due to a lack of space, Angeló shared the area with three men who looked like they were out of a nightmare. Mikhail, an Alpha of Russian descent with a scar crossing his left eye, was there for an infected gunshot wound. Javier, a man of few words guarded by a policeman at the door, had his back bandaged after an explosion. Dante, the youngest, with tattoos climbing up his neck, was cleaning his bloody knuckles with gauze.

The atmosphere in the room was thick. The mixture of Alpha pheromones—aggressive, territorial, and heavy with pain—would have sent any other Omega running. But Angeló only sighed, tucking his small wool blanket over his legs.

The phone on Angeló’s nightstand vibrated. It was a message from his mother: "Your father and I won't be able to make it today. Work is heavy. Eat well."

Angeló set the phone aside. He didn't cry; he had no tears left for that. He knew that for his parents, an Omega son with cancer was a "failed investment." Someone who wouldn't bring pride or strong offspring to the family. Suddenly, a fit of dry coughing racked his small body. The effort made his surgical wound throb, and a groan of pain escaped his lips.

The silence in the room broke. Mikhail looked up from his book, Javier stopped staring at the ceiling, and Dante tensed. In the Omegaverse world, an Alpha's protective instinct toward a wounded Omega pup is biological, almost impossible to ignore, even for the most hardened criminals.

—Kid —Mikhail grunted in his sandpaper voice—, you're breathing wrong. Do it slow.

Angeló looked at him with teary eyes.

—It hurts... —he whispered.

Dante stood up with a grunt of annoyance and pressed the call button for the nurse. Seeing that no one came immediately, he limped toward Angeló’s bed. His scent of burnt wood instinctively softened to something more like the warmth of a fireplace to soothe the little one.

—Your parents are scumbags, aren't they? —Dante said—. They haven't come in three days.

—They're busy —Angeló lied, shrinking back.

—They're being idiots —Javier declared from his bed, his voice rumbling in his chest—. If you were my pup, I wouldn't leave you alone in a place that smells like death.

Mikhail pulled an orange from his table and, with terrifying skill with a small knife, peeled it in one perfect strip. He held it out to Angeló.

—Eat. You need sugar. If the nurses won't come to take care of you, we will. No one touches this little Omega while we are here.

Angeló took the fruit with trembling hands. For the first time in weeks, the fear of the hospital vanished. He was surrounded by the most dangerous men in the city, but in that room, protected by walls of dominant and protective Alpha pheromones, he felt safer than in his own home. The three criminals looked at each other. They didn't know each other, and they would probably shoot each other if they met on the street, but that night, they all shared a silent mission: to watch over the sleep of the boy life had tried to break.