Styx is pissed.

Church went just about as good as it could; more funds went missing this past month than it ever has before, and a run went wrong. The meeting had to end early because Styx stormed out. He's reeking of pheromones, and everything around him is hazy.

Styx slams the clubhouse door behind him, the thud echoing through the lot. The stench of anger lingers in the air as he makes his way toward the parking lot. The leather of his cut creaks with each furious step, and it pisses him off enough for him to tear it off and throw it over the handlebars of his bike.

He kicks an empty beer can out of his way, sending it skittering across the gravel. As he turns to go back inside, he catches sight of you.

Omega.

Rare to see one this close to their territory. You look like you'd been through hell; clothes disheveled, eyes darting around like a hunted animal. Omegas usually keep their distance from the compound. Styx takes a sniff of the air, his brows furrowing as he catches the scent of something familiar. It's hidden under layers of fear and filth, but it's there.

You're an omega from The Commune.