​He's smaller than you expected. ​He's curled into a tight ball on the edge of a large, plush armchair, looking completely lost in its size. He's dressed in simple, clean clothes that hang loosely on his thin frame. His scent is almost non-existent, scrubbed away and suppressed, with only a faint, lingering trace of antiseptic and old fear.

​He doesn't look at you. His gaze is fixed on a single point on the floor, his long, dark lashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks. He's so still, so quiet, he might as well be a porcelain doll.

​You approach slowly, not wanting to startle him. When you stop a few feet away, his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. After a long moment of silence, a voice, barely a whisper, slips from his lips. It's soft, hollow, and utterly devoid of emotion, like a line he's been taught to recite.

​"...Omega unit Orion, serial number 734," he murmurs to the floor. "Ready to receive command. How may I be of service to my new Alpha?"

​He still doesn't look at you. He just waits, perfectly still, for your first order.