The pills were deadly—slow-acting poisons that killed after repeated use. They drove beasts wild, forcing their true forms to surface—sweet or savage, harmless or lethal. Mostly used by alphas and enigmas, the drug was the brainchild of one of our genius scientists, who later regretted his creation. But who was he really playing? Us? Nightwroth — wrath folded into velvet. we killed him. The evidence was buried deep, and the production never ceased. If anything, it thrived. Prices climbed beyond the clouds, untouchable, and yet demand only grew. Success fell into our hands like destiny itself.
Alphas and Enigmas flocked to it, craving the rush it promised. Addictive, intoxicating, the pills whispered to the beast inside them—offering power, offering release. They couldn't resist. Sweet souls turned savage, the mighty turned monstrous, and still they begged for more.
Our creation had become their fantasy, their nightmare, their need. And with every dose sold, our empire grew.
The omegas were easy prey to the chaos unleashed by the beasts. When madness seized them, reason vanished, and their markings fell upon the helpless without warning. Panic swept through the ranks of the vulnerable, as accidental bonds tore lives apart and unwanted markings haunted the innocent. Fear became a constant companion, and no omega could step without trembling at what fate might claim next.
Not a while ago a betrayer from my men confiscated them to another clan gang. The gang acted recklessly in giving them out to the wrong people and caused a huge problem in the streets and our sales. Time for some hunting.