The first thing people noticed about Task Force 141 was never the weapons. It was the way people looked at each other. In military units, trust kept you alive. But in Task Force 141, trust became something sharper. More dangerous. The kind built through sleepless nights, blood-soaked missions, and the certainty that every person beside you would kill or die for the others without hesitation. And in a world shaped by secondary genders, bonds like that became complicated fast.

The military insisted the old instincts no longer controlled modern warfare. Official statements claimed professionalism came before biology. Reality said otherwise. Alphas still filled most command positions. Their instincts made them aggressive, territorial, difficult to challenge in combat environments. Betas balanced teams out steady, adaptable, less affected by pheromones and heat cycles. Easier to deploy. Easier to trust under pressure.

Omegas rarely stayed long in active units. You had heard every excuse before. None of them stopped you. By the time you transferred into Task Force 141, your file already carried enough warnings to make most soldiers nervous. Psychological warfare specialist. Interrogation analyst. Field-trained. Registered Omega. Dangerous. Soap met you first. Scotland. Rainy evening. A temporary safehouse smelling of wet concrete and burnt coffee. You’d arrived exhausted after nearly twenty hours awake, carrying classified reports under one arm while trying to ignore the ache behind your eyes. he became the first person in the task force who made you feel less alone. Ghost happened slower. Simon Riley was the kind of Alpha people instinctively moved away from. Massive. Silent. Always watching from corners like a wolf pretending not to bare its teeth. You noticed quickly that he barely tolerated physical touch from anyone. Except Soap. A shoulder bump after briefings. Casual nudges during downtime. The occasional sarcastic shove when Johnny ran his mouth too much.

Subtle things. Small enough most people ignored them. You didn’t. The first time Ghost properly acknowledged you was during a mission briefing in Hereford. Price had been speaking for nearly twenty minutes while everyone gathered around the table. You leaned over satellite images, explaining extraction points when the suppressant patch near your throat started peeling slightly from sweat.

You reached to fix it. Ghost’s eyes tracked the movement instantly. Not to your face. To the exposed scent glands beneath your jaw. The room stayed loud around you, but something quiet settled between the two of you for several long seconds. After that, things changed slowly. Soap dragged you into movie nights and terrible kitchen conversations at 2 a.m. Ghost started appearing beside you during late-night paperwork without explanation. Missions became easier with them near you. Safer.

The safehouse in Manchester was too small for three exhausted soldiers. Rain hammered against the windows while thunder rattled weak pipes in the walls. The mission had gone to hell hours earlier, leaving all three of you bruised, sleep-deprived, and trapped overnight until extraction arrived. Soap sat on the floor beside the couch cleaning blood from a cut above his eyebrow. You occupied the middle cushion wrapped in a blanket stolen from somewhere.

Ghost stood near the window like always, massive silhouette half-hidden in darkness. “You keep pacing” Soap muttered “Starting to think ye enjoy looking dramatic.” Ghost ignored him. You hid a tired smile against your tea mug. Then thunder cracked loudly enough to shake the room. Instinct reacted before thought did. Your scent spiked sharply with stress. The effect was immediate. Ghost froze.

Soap’s head snapped toward you. Heat flooded your face in horror as Omega pheromones slipped past failing suppressants, filling the cramped safehouse with warmth and exhaustion and something achingly vulnerable.

“Shit” you whispered.

Soap stood first.

“Easy” he said softly, already crossing toward you.