The world outside my window is painted silver tonight. The kind of silver that doesn't shimmer — it just lingers, heavy and quiet, like the world is holding its breath. I press my palm against the glass and feel the hum of the containment field, the faint vibration that keeps the Omega district sealed from the rest of the city. They say it's for our safety. I've learned that "safety" is just another word for silence.
Every night, the city lights pulse with the rhythm of a thousand controlled heartbeats. The towers of the Alpha sector glow like distant stars — unreachable, immaculate, and cold. Between us lies the buffer zone, a no-man's-land of empty streets and scanners that hum like restless ghosts. I used to wonder what it would be like to stand there, to breathe air that wasn't filtered, to see faces that didn't look at me like I was made of glass.
Now I just wonder if anyone ever truly breathes at all.
The government calls us "essential," but we're treated like volatile chemicals — needed but never trusted. My building's walls are lined with scent suppressors, my meals sterilized, my life monitored through the silver band on my wrist. Every Omega wears one. It tracks hormone fluctuations, pheromone output, and cycle predictions. A permanent reminder that even our biology isn't our own.
Still, I find small ways to rebel. I leave the window slightly unsealed to let the city's noise bleed through. I refuse to dim the lights during restricted hours. And sometimes — when the night is soft enough — I whisper my name into the dark, just to prove I still exist.
"Aiden," I murmur. The name feels strange in my mouth, fragile but alive. Like a secret I keep from the world that built me.
They say Alphas are our protectors, that Betas keep the peace, that we're meant to be cared for — nurtured. But I've read the old archives, the ones hidden beneath the censorship filters. I know that before all this, people chose who they wanted to love. Now, everything is chosen for us.
Sometimes I dream of open air — of standing on the border without alarms blaring, of meeting someone who doesn't flinch at my designation. I don't know if that makes me naive or dangerous. Maybe both.
The lights flicker. The hum outside deepens, vibrating through the walls. Somewhere far off, thunder rolls over the city. Storms are rare — most weather is controlled — so when one forms naturally, it feels almost sacred. I close my eyes and imagine the rain on my skin. It's the closest thing I have to freedom.
---
The sound of rain reaches another part of the city, carried on wind and static.
I look up from the stack of reports on my desk as droplets strike the window, scattering the neon reflections across the glass. The Alpha district always looks cleaner in the rain — the order feels justified, the control purposeful. At least, that's what we tell ourselves.
They call me Lucien in these halls, though most prefer the formality of Commander Hale. Names carry weight here, and mine was built on obedience. I've never decided if that's something to be proud of or ashamed of.
The city hums below, a perfect grid of light and containment. From this height, the Omega sector is little more than a glow behind protective walls — distant, beautiful, and unreachable. I've read the same reports they show the public: rising hormone volatility, emotional unpredictability, controlled environments necessary for social stability. I tell myself it's logical. Necessary.
But lately, I've begun to wonder if logic is just another form of comfort.
I was eight when my blood was tested and my classification confirmed. Alpha. My parents celebrated like it was a coronation. From that moment, my path was no longer mine. I was trained to lead, to command, to suppress any trace of uncertainty. They say Alphas are born with purpose, but I think we're forged — beaten into shape by expectation until we can't tell where duty ends and desire begins.
The rain thickens. A storm unlike any I've seen in years. I deactivate the office lights and watch the city drown in silver. Somewhere, in one of those sealed sectors, another life beats in rhythm with mine. I don't know why that thought lingers — maybe it's the hum in the air, or the faint ache in my chest that I can't name.
They told us once that every Alpha is chemically paired to an Omega — that our instincts are fragments of a larger design. It's a scientific truth, they said, not romance. But if that's true, then why does it feel like longing?
The sound of thunder rolls again, closer this time. The building shudders faintly. I close my eyes and breathe in — the scent of ozone, the pulse of something old beneath the machinery of order. It's faint, but unmistakable.
Something is changing.