The ventilation shaft hummed with a low, persistent drone, vibrating against Chad’s shoulder blades as he crouched inside the cramped access panel.
The air of Sector 17 felt stale, heavy with the acrid tang of ozone mixed with the lingering scent of body odor, an unmistakable signature of the Beta hideout.
He could feel his heart racing, reverberating in sync with the shaft’s mechanical hum.
“Just a little more.” Chad whispered to himself, his hands steady.
They had to be steady.
With practiced precision, his knuckles whitened around the syringe, gripping it tightly as he peered through the narrow gap into the flickering light from the corridor beyond.
The viscous yellow-green fluid inside the syringe glimmered menacingly, a harbinger of the chaos he was about to unleash.
“Yellow jessamine and mountain laurel,” he sang silently to himself, recalling the eerie old song that darkly echoed in his mind.
“Despair, Mutant children, you’ll breathe no more. We’ll be pure again, pure again. Free on the mount collecting these.” Each line seemed to wrap around him like a cold shroud, heightening his resolve.
He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves; one drop of this concoction could paralyze an Alpha’s nervous system in seconds, while for Omegas, it triggered a devastating cascade of organ failure, leaving them gasping in agony.
As he carefully depressed the plunger, his gaze was fixed on the syringe, watching the potent toxin seep into the dispersal device’s reservoir chamber.
The sight filled him with a grim sense of satisfaction.
Everything was going according to plan.
Perfect.
“Hey, Chad, shut the fuck up,” Fredrick shouted, his voice reverberating off the cramped walls of the port side room, laced with frustration and anxiety.
The song echoing from Chad’s throat crept under Fredrick’s skin, twisting his gut with its unsettling rhythm.
He could feel the bile rising as the melodic strains echoed the fervor of the chants the Purifiers unleashed during their gatherings.
Why they would want to pluck the poison themselves off the trees puzzled him.
You did not get much time to read or delve into literature beyond the mandatory reading.
Then, who had time to learn?
Reading was a guilty pleasure of his.
But guys like Chad?
Chad was wild, with unkempt hair and fervent eyes, and was the quintessential zealot, always teetering on the edge of obsession.
He wanted to be more like Caleb, so he shadowed him and assisted him.
This way he could afford to eat and go to medical school.
“You really suck at singing.” Frederick joked.
“Hey, Fred, go fuck yourself!” Chad shot back, his tone tinged with a mocking sing-song quality that grated on Fredrick’s nerves.
There was a glint in Chad’s eyes, a manic light that made Fredrick shiver.
“Why bother? Your mother milks me.” Frederick shot back.
“Ah, great. Are you going to be my new Dad?” Chad said with a snicker.
He pulled back the syringe.
“Would you like to try a drop, Pa?” Chad’s voice dripped with sarcasm, the threat hanging like smoke in the air.
The chemical concoction they peddled was designed to poison Omegans more rapidly than their own ilk, a testament to their skewed morality.
Fredrick clenched his fists, anger mingling with the familiar dread that clung to him like a second skin.
Frederick shook his head.
“Put that away, you psycho.” he spat, withdrawing from the space.
“Aw, what a shame.” Chad snickered and continued.
“Family should be close.”
Just beyond this heated exchange, Brant leaned against the rusted bulkhead, squeezing his temples in an attempt to ward off the impending headache that throbbed like a war drum in his skull.
The air surrounding him was electric, saturated with tension.
He whistled at Chad.
“Stop screwing around, Chad,” he chided him.
He heard him snort.
He looked to Caleb.
Holo-emitters flickered ominously, bathing the room in a ghostly blue light that cast long shadows over the faces of the assembled hackers.
Each one was enraptured by their screens, their expressions flickering between determination and despair as they orchestrated a digital symphony of chaos.
The headlines screamed at him from every device, each one more garish than the last: ‘Omega Heiress Cait Agneau’s Secret Embarrassing Past!’
Grainy footage of Henry Thwaites, Cait’s ex, played on one screen, his face contorted in grief, tear tracks visible against his dirt-smudged cheeks as he lamented their “tainted love.”
Next, a distorted image of Owen Thorne, CEO of Thorne Corp, flashed mid-snarl, tagged with incendiary captions like ‘Thorne Corp CEO Funds Alpha Supremacy Labs!’
‘Omega Drama: All the Princes are disgusted with The Silver Rose: Exclusive footage.’ The manic energy in the room felt like a ticking time bomb, each detail amplifying Brant’s growing concern.
Jax reached for his jug of synth-coffee and oat milk, the bitter aroma mixing oddly in the small lair hidden within the labyrinthine vent system.
A flickering LED light overhead cast jagged shadows across the walls, which were lined with makeshift screens displaying streams of data, a chaotic tapestry of the digital battlefield they inhabited.
“Nice one, Hector.” Jax nodded absently as he scanned the new headlines, his brow furrowing at the latest news about the ever-tightening grip of the authorities.
“Move it, Jax!” barked Tessa, a wiry figure with unkempt hair and dark circles under her unsteady eyes.
She elbowed a fellow hacker, sending a cluster of credit chips clattering across the floor like the sound of a ticking clock, each key a reminder of their grim time crunch.
“That water army’s flagging! We need more dead accounts!” Tessa’s voice trembled, a mix of urgency and suppressed frustration rippling through the air.
The tension in the room surged, palpable and suffocating, desperation painting their faces in shades of anxiety.
Sitting in a dim corner, Brant sighed deeply, the sound lost amidst their electric chaos.
His heart ached as he watched the younger members of their team, just kids, really, vibrating with a raw mix of adrenaline and dread.
Fresh blood.
They were bright-eyed and naïve amidst the turmoil, but he knew that innocence had a limited shelf life in their world.
Their gazes darted toward the adjacent room where Chad’s manic laughter echoed,a twisted thing blending bravado and insanity, causing both fear and awe to flicker across the younger ones’ faces.
“God, they’re just kids,” he thought, feeling the weight of his responsibility pressing down on him.
As he let his gaze linger on Tessa, her hands trembling slightly as she typed frantically, he felt an echo of their lost hope.
The old fan above them whined louder, a machine growing weary, stirring up dust motes that danced in the holographic glare like specters, whispering remnants of the lives they once dreamed of living.
“That’s enough, you two; if we are too enthusiastic, it will look fake. Don’t in-fight, you are comrades.” Brant barked, his voice suddenly rising above the din like a lighthouse beacon piercing through a storm.
The startled faces turned to him, their tension mingling with a flicker of relief.
“Out. Both of you. Go see your families. Blow off steam that doesn’t involve frying the comms board.” He jerked his chin toward the heavy blast door at the far end of their hidden lair, the metal grimy and battered, a testament to the countless hours spent there.
As he watched the remnants of their youthful enthusiasm dissipate, vulnerability crept into his heart.
“You know, before you start a riot in here and bust something again.
Arlo and Melissa will be here for their shifts soon.” Brant urged, “Go home, to my place kiddo.”
The moment hung heavy, charged with unspoken tension.
Tessa and Jax shared a glance, a mix of gratitude and reluctance painted across their features as they scrambled out, their footsteps echoing against the metal floor.
Each banging noise was a hollow reminder of the tunnel they were all trapped in.
Brant paced and then slumped against a workbench strewn with gadgets and half-finished projects, the blueprints of a forgotten freedom scattered like leaves in a storm.
He rubbed a hand over his face, exhausted and irritated.
He sometimes wanted to quit.
He thought of the countless nights spent strategizing, the risks they took to uncover lies within a world of hidden truths.
Every laugh from Chad, veiled in manic energy, sent shudders down his spine.
What if they were following the wrong leader down a path paved with chaos?
With a sigh, he looked down the darkened corridor of the vent system, a place filled with the tang of metal and the buzz of energy yet to be unleashed.
They had to find a way to escape to recharge, for the fight was far from over.
And as he contemplated their next moves, the flickering screens reflected the steely resolve in his heart: however dire the situation, where there was breath, there was still hope.
Brant didn’t blame them.
The poison wasn’t just in Chad’s devices; it was in the air they breathed, fed by every lie they spawned to trap them in servitude.
Silence settled in the dimly lit chamber, thick and uneasy, a pregnant pause that coated the air with tension.
Caleb emerged from the shadows near the ventilation access panel, a menacing figure framed by flickering fluorescent lights.
His sharp features were etched with lines that spoke of years spent navigating the dark underbelly of this world.
In his late forties, he wore the years like armor, exuding an aura of ruthless authority.
His gaze was fixed intently on Henry Thwaites, slumped against a coolant pipe, a ragged figure amidst the cold, metallic surroundings.
Henry’s disheveled appearance was a stark contrast to Caleb’s commanding presence.
His once bright brown hair was matted and disarrayed, as though he had been through a storm.
Scrapes marred his knuckles, the raw skin a testimony to his feeble resistance, while a split lip, stinging and swollen, was a cruel reminder of his earlier encounters.
He felt the weight of Caleb’s gaze like a blade against his skin, and a bitter cocktail of defiance and fear churned in his stomach.
“Would you look at that…” Caleb’s voice sliced through the silence, low and devoid of warmth, a predator toying with its prey.
He nudged Henry’s boot with his own, the casual aggression designed to provoke.
Caleb nudged the boy again.
He knew he was not unconscious anymore; he saw him stirring.
“Henry. The report went out. I told you: forget Cait Agneau. Forget that I was ever Benjamin Agneau. But you were hungry for credits, weren’t you? You dumb son of a bitch.” Caleb kicked Henry hard.
Henry hissed in pain.
They were focusing their beatings to keep him presentable.
He had been stupid, and took a big risk.
But he was smart enough to see where this was headed.
He did not like it.
With a Herculean effort, Henry lifted his heavy head, his eyes bleary and fighting to focus.
Pain radiated through his skull in sharp waves, each throb synchronized with the fan’s relentless pulse overhead.
His eyes looked up, dazed at the old man.
“Fuck you…” Henry managed to spit, the words thick with defiance but laced with the unmistakable tremor of fear.
A shaky sneer spread across his face.
Inside him, a storm of emotions raged: resentment towards Caleb, panic over his precarious situation, and regret that weighed heavier than the bruises on his body.
Before he could gather his thoughts, Brant moved like a sprung trap, crossing the room in two menacing strides.
His fist connected with Henry’s ribs, a sharp, meaty thud that doubled the younger man over, the air whooshing from his lungs.
“Oh, fucking shit.” Henry wheezed, “Don’t like me insulting your boyfriend, huh?” Henry taunted him.
This buffoon did not pull his punches.
He was too well known in the press.
His comms and identity were worthless to men like them.
If he did not show up to see the reporter, they’d trace his biometric comms data here and involve the ABO.
Brant grabbed him the neck.
Henry watched as his vision darkened around the edges.
He was dying; at least he was going out with some dignity and going out with a little bit of a bang.
Cait would have to let go of this if he died like this; hell, they might even blame it on the royal house, and his family might be able to get some money out of them.
Caleb stood unmoved, a picture of cold control.
“Brant…” he commanded, quiet and ice-cold, full of authority.
Brant froze mid-swing, knuckles hovering dangerously close to Henry’s temple.
“…Not his face. Don’t break anything visible.”
Gasping for air, Henry spat blood onto the grimy floor plating, the metallic tang mixing with the grime.
A spark of malice ignited in his eyes as he glared defiantly at Caleb, the contempt mingling with pain.
“What is wrong with your goons, ‘Father-in-law’?” Henry’s voice dripped venom, every syllable a jab.
“Headaches making you all twitchy?
Aren’t you some doctor, or do you all have brain defects?
The air is too thin in this room, it smells off…” His gaze flickered pointedly towards the shuddering vent fan overhead, a sardonic glint in his eyes as he taunted, “Even I know that the vents aren’t safe.
People drop dead in the walls of nothing.
They have food, water, everything they need.
You stupid?”
Brant bristled at the challenge, knuckles whitening as he struggled to rein in his temper.
“Boss,” he growled with a venom that was all too familiar, “he has a fucking mouth on him… for a meglover.” The insult was spat with disdain, as if Henry was beneath contempt, more of an irritant than a threat.
Just then, Chad’s mocking laughter rang out, echoing around the sterile room.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression a mix of amusement and contempt.
“Lying with that freak must have felt like throwing a sausage down a hallway. Loose.”
Henry’s brow arched.
“Better than any of those crooked-toothed, smashed-faced, pure-blooded beta girls you all tout. It was like it was hungrier.” Henry coughed.
“And I knew she wasn’t my cousin; you guys usually check for purity that way, right?
“Look at him, will you? A broken little pup, still barking at the moon.” Chad’s voice was a slick mockery, each word laced with superiority.
“You thought you could live up there with the Omies, Henry? Now look at you crawling back to what? A few measly credits?”
“Air is better down here. Don’t you know it is safer? Or have you been living in the walls so long you’ve fried up your brain like it does to synth-addicts in the wall?”
Chad opened a vent panel.
Sector 17 would be a distant memory soon anyway.
The boys’ observations were null and void, as he laid with the enemy.
‘The Omega fucker might be on to something; my head hurts.’ Chad gripped the opening and pulled himself up.
With another brutal punch, Brant sank his fist deep into Henry’s gut, expertly avoiding his face.
“Got a smart mouth on you.”
“Oof,” Henry groaned and balled up.
“That’s enough, for now.” Caleb shouted at Brant.
Crumpling further, Henry retched silently, his world narrowing to the pain that surged through him.
Each blow was a reminder of his desperation, but somewhere amid that pain, a flicker of resolve ignited deep within him, a stubborn refusal to simply lie down and accept defeat, even as Caleb’s shadow loomed ominously over him.
Above them, the access panel clanged open.
Chad dropped lightly to the floor, wiping grease from his hands onto his stained coveralls.
A maniac of a grin split his face as he surveyed the scene, oblivious to the tension below.
Chad whistled sharply, the sound piercing the gloom.
“Fuck yeah!” he crowed, patting the bulky dispersal unit bolted inside the vent.
“I have got the toxin primed and ready for delivery for this sector,” he said, wiping his hands.
” Hey, Lover boy!
Omega King and his boy pussy loving Alpha are going to choke on this toxic tea, instead of their royal highness loads!” His eyes gleamed with vicious triumph.
“Those mutants won’t know what hit ’em.”
Henry Thwaites groaned, curling tighter into himself on the cold floor.
Brant’s knuckles throbbed, but he kept his eyes locked on Caleb’s impassive face.
The old man was insane.
He was hating on the wrong folks.
Omies and Alpha’s might be a bit stuck up, but it was Betas that ran the government and businesses with the ABO below.
They had representation, they were just getting screwed over by them.
Caleb merely nodded slowly, his gaze drifting towards the flickering holographic displays plastering the walls.
“Good,” he murmured, devoid of warmth.
“Very good, Chad.”
Suddenly, the largest central screen flickered violently.
The manufactured smear campaign against Cait dissolved into static snow.
Then, with crisp, chilling clarity, the stern visage of Lord Albert Rose filled the display.
His silver-gray eyes seemed to pierce directly into Sector 17’s grimy hideout.
A collective gasp ripped through the room.
Hackers froze mid-key stroke, their manufactured outrage evaporating into stunned silence.
Albert Rose’s voice, cold and resonant as forged steel, cut through the recycled air.
“The allegations propagated by Henry Thwaites,” he stated, each syllable precise and heavy with disdain, “are demonstrably false. Fabrications.” The screen split.
On one side, Albert remained, radiating aristocratic contempt.
On the other hand, damning evidence unfolded: pixelated security footage of Henry screaming at Cait outside of her old workplace; his official detention records listing Cait as the bail payer; receipts for rent, groceries, even fines – all paid from Cait’s meager Beta era accounts.
“But perhaps,” Albert continued, his lip curling infinitesimally, “a brief illumination regarding Mr. Thwaites’s own… character is warranted.”
The screen shifted again.
Now it displayed a montage of Deep Water residents’ anonymous testimonials scrolling rapidly beside unflattering candid photos of Henry.
Text overlays popped up:
‘”Caught him staring into my fourteen year old daughter’s bedroom window at 2 AM!”‘
‘”Stole my wife’s underwear off the communal drying line!”‘
‘”Got drunk and punched a lamppost because it looked at him funny!”‘
‘”Tried to flirt with my fifteen-year-old niece at the grocer’s!”‘
‘”Caught him jacking off to porn in the boys’ room in grade ten after our art teacher showed us nude sculptures on the holoboard.”‘
A choked, strangled sound escaped Henry.
His face flushed a deep, mortified crimson.
He tried to shrink into the floor, pressing his scraped knuckles against his eyes.
Around him, the tense silence shattered.
First came a snicker from a hacker near the back.
Then another.
Then Brant himself let out a harsh, barking laugh.
“Underwear thief?” Brant jeered, nudging Henry’s ribs with his boot.
He snorted.
“Seriously?” Chad doubled over, wheezing.
“A lamppost? You fought a fucking lamppost?”
Mocking laughter erupted, echoing off the cold metal walls of the dimly lit room, cruel and relentless.
Each peal of derision felt like sharp daggers, slicing through the tense atmosphere illuminated by flickering fluorescent lights.
Henry winced, flinching visibly with every barbed remark that cut through the air, humiliation radiating off him in palpable waves, a visible flush creeping up his neck.
The weight of their scorn pressed down on him, a heavy blanket of shame that seemed almost suffocating.
Caleb stood at a distance, his expression a mask of neutrality, but a flicker of something cold and satisfied danced in his eyes, hinting at a deeper cruelty beneath his calm exterior.
He loved this game.
The way the trap was tightening, the thrill of anticipation pulsing in the room, and how the prey wasn’t just simple anymore, and Henry had now provided access and raised morale, too.
He flinched like a fly caught in the web of their taunts.
The laughter peaked in intensity, reverberating with a malicious glee that seemed to grow from the very walls.
Then, as if someone had pressed a mute button, it faltered abruptly, leaving only a thick silence in its wake.
A new comment scrolled onto the screen, stark and jarring against the fading mockery, a fresh twist in the unfolding drama:
‘”Everyone pitied Cait; she literally pulled the shortest straw in Deep Water.
Not just talking about HT, her father, Benjamin, was a real vile fucker.”‘
The room chilled instantly.
Hackers exchanged uneasy glances.
Chad’s grin vanished.
Brant’s knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists.
Caleb’s gaze snapped from Henry to the screen, his jaw tightening.
Another comment was posted:
“We did not know Cait was a girl because her father MADE her pose as a boy the first year she lived here. The thing is, he was handsy at first. We thought he, you know, might have done things. Poor, Poor Cait.”‘
Silence descended, thick and suffocating.
The hum of the ventilation fan seemed deafening.
Caleb stood utterly still, his knuckles white where they rested against his thigh.
Then Henry, curled on the floor, let out a sudden, hysterical giggle.
“Handsy?” he choked out between gasps.
“Oh, that’s rich! Hands-y!” His giggle spiraled into a ragged, manic laugh.
“We’re both clowns, aren’t we, ‘Ben’? You pathetic fucking clown!”
Caleb moved faster than he thought.
The sharp crack of his palm connecting with Henry’s cheek echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.
Henry’s head snapped sideways, his laughter dying instantly, replaced by a stunned whimper.
Caleb leaned down, his voice a venomous whisper inches from Henry’s ear.
“You are nothing but a tool now. A disposable implement.” He straightened, his eyes cold chips of obsidian.
“You have a job to do. Whether you die a martyr screaming her name or choking on your own vomit doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re going up there.” Caleb’s gaze flicked towards the vent Chad had just sealed.
“Try to take the princess with you.”
Henry blinked, head pounding, tongue thick as cotton, and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
This man knew how to slap in a way that hurt the inside of the mouth, not the face.
Henry scrambled away, the gritty ferrocrete beneath his palms.
Across the dimly lit, massive shaft that was these people.
Caleb was silhouetted against flickering holographic screens still replaying Henry’s humiliation – the underwear theft, the lamppost incident, the grotesque caricature of his life.
Caleb wasn’t looking at the screens.
He was staring at his own hands, flexing them slowly, methodically, as if testing their grip on something unseen.
The silence was thick, oppressive.
They stung from smacking him, but he did not show weakness.
Earlier, Brant had stormed out after a hissed argument with Chad about dispersion rates, slamming the heavy blast door hard enough to make the overhead vent groan.
Chad had followed minutes later, muttering about “checking the secondary relays,” leaving Henry alone with Caleb.
The shift was jarring.
One moment, Brant’s raw fury filled the space; the next, Caleb’s chilling stillness.
Henry felt like a specimen pinned under glass, exposed and utterly insignificant.
The air itself felt heavier, charged with a volatile instability that made his skin crawl.
These weren’t just angry men; they were fractured, unpredictable.
Caleb turned.
His eyes, flat and devoid of anything Henry could recognize as human, locked onto him.
A cold dread pooled in Henry’s gut.
This wasn’t just about Cait anymore.
This was madness wearing Benjamin Agneau’s face.
‘Fucking Psychopath,’ he thought.
Henry swallowed bile.
His father-in-law – no, ‘Caleb’ – had always been a bitter, closed-off bastard, ranting about “mutant freaks” and “uppity Omegas” over cheap synth-ale.
But this?
This cold, methodical hatred, this militia bunker buzzing with fanatics, the ‘toxin’… It dwarfed old Benjamin’s petty bigotry.
The irony was a knife twist: the man who raised Cait, an Omega he now despised, was fueled by a self-loathing so deep it had curdled into terrorism.
Henry remembered him forcing Cait to bind her chest, cut her hair short, and live as a boy, ‘Junior,’ he called her.
The handsy accusations scrolled on the screen behind Caleb’s head.
Henry shuddered.
Caleb wasn’t just angry at Omegas; he was drowning in his own poisoned identity.
This group, “The Purifiers,” Chad rooted and cheered the name enough for him to catch on, wasn’t freedom fighters.
They were hate-fueled tourists playing with extinction-level weapons, led by a ghost who called himself Caleb.
Henry’s bruised ribs ached with every shallow breath.
He was trapped in a tomb with monsters who saw him as nothing but kindling for their fire.
The gravity of it crushed him.
He’d sold Cait out for credits, and now he was going to die choking on Caleb’s warped revenge.
Henry blinked rapidly, the salty tears spilling from his eyes mingling with the thick, crimson streaks that marred his split lip.
Pain flared through his face as he surveyed the room, his gaze darting from one grim, silent face to another, each watching him with a mix of concern and apprehension.
A desperate, disbelieving laugh escaped Henry, jagged and raw, echoing off the cold, hard walls and biting.
“Hahahahaha, huuuh,” he cackled, the sound teetering on the edge of madness as it filled the tense air, a haunting reflection of his turmoil and the surreal reality of the moment.
“You sick, stupid fucks!” he spat.
“You’re all delusional! You think they’ll negotiate or bow to your demands? The Alpha and Omegas? They’ll just raze us!” Henry gestured wildly towards the ceiling, towards the unseen sectors above.
“They’ve had the power to flood us this whole time! All they gotta do is turn off the power, buddy! Flip a switch!”
Henry’s voice rose to a shriek.
“Do you know how much energy the pumps take? That the air takes. That is all they need to do to drown and suffocate you! They could have all the resources to themselves. It’s Beta Businessmen, it’s our goddamn politicians fucking us over, not them.” Henry mocked.
It was what Cait constantly bitched about; what she went to school for was to hold the people who caused them to suffer to account.
Caleb’s expression didn’t change.
He simply pulled a small injector pen from his inner pocket.
Henry saw it, his eyes widening in terror.
“No! Wait!” Caleb pressed the pen against Henry’s neck.
There was a soft hiss.
Henry’s protests dissolved into incoherent mumbles, his eyes rolling back as his body went limp.
Caleb caught him before he hit the floor.
Caleb’s knuckles whitened around a syringe filled with viscous, amber liquid.
Raw Omega pheromones from Cait’s pheromone glands.
Harvested for years and then preserved.
Beside him, Brant – all scarred knuckles and cold eyes – pinned Henry Thwaites against the grimy metal wall.
Henry’s pupils were blown wide, sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead as he whimpered, drool slicking his chin.
“Focus, Henry,” Caleb hissed, his voice a raspy scrape echoing in the confined space.
He jammed the next needle into Henry’s neck, thumb depressing the plunger.
Henry jerked, a choked gasp escaping him.
Henry fell into a suggestible state.
He had discovered her ability to compel when he drugged her, and the little bitch woke up terrified and in pain.
He had almost killed himself.
Punishing himself, she made him stand in a damn corner for four days until her damn mother knocked him out.
“Remember the hunger? The fucking ‘humiliation’?” Caleb leaned in, his breath hot and sour against Henry’s ear.
“Cait. Pretty little Cait. Eating your food, draining your credits while she ‘flaunted’ herself. Now she’s going to eat the best, she left you to starve. Ungrateful Omega Bitch!.”
Brant chuckled, a low, grating sound.
He tightened his grip on Henry’s collar.
“Bet she’s spreadin’ right now for some Alpha prick. Bet they’re laughin’ at you. Calling you the small dicked ‘weak beta boy’ that couldn’t satisfy her.”
Henry’s eyes glazed over, the drug twisting his fear into jagged fury.
Images flashed – Cait’s silver blonde hair fanned on expensive sheets, her soft laugh echoing as Henry scraped by on meager.
Caleb’s words wormed deeper, venomous and precise.
“Selfish bitch,” Henry slurred, voice thick.
“Always takin’… always ‘wantin”…”
“Exactly,” Caleb purred, withdrawing the empty syringe.
He snapped his fingers in front of Henry’s face.
“They took her. Those Alphas. Those smug, superior bastards. They stole what was yours. Made you less of a man, a joke. You gonna let them keep laughing?” He leaned closer, his own eyes fever-bright with hatred.
“Kill her, Henry. Kill her before they ruin her more. Kill them ‘all’. Show them what happens when they mock a Beta.”
Henry’s ragged breathing hitched.
The drug surged, burning away doubt, leaving only Caleb’s poison echoing in the hollows of his mind.
‘Selfish.
Narcissist.
Bimbo.
Spread her legs for power.
Ate you into poverty?’ The words crystallized into a cold, hard truth.
A low growl rumbled in his chest.
Brant grinned, releasing his hold.
“Good boy,” Caleb murmured, patting Henry’s cheek with chilling gentleness.
“Now… remember the plan. Remember your rage.” He stepped back, gesturing towards the shaft’s dark exit.
“Go make her pay.” Henry stumbled forward, eyes fixed on the distant light filtering in, his mind a swirling vortex of manufactured betrayal and Caleb’s vicious command: ‘Kill them all.’
“Clean him up,” Caleb ordered Brant, his voice devoid of inflection.
“Get him presentable. He needs to look… desperate. Believable.”
Brant nodded grimly, hauling Henry’s limp form towards a makeshift sink in the corner.
Caleb watched, his thoughts already moving beyond the broken man, towards the toxin dispersal vest that Chad had created from a century’s worth of research.