Professor Harrington flinches.
I don't blame her. The sound coming out of my mouth right now would make anyone flinch. It's not laughter—not really. It's the noise your brain makes when it's trying to process devastation and comes up short. The sound of hope being ground into powder.
"They're calling it an inconvenience," I say, and my voice sounds wrong. Too calm. Too controlled.Like I'm reading a shopping list instead of my own death warrant. "They just took away everything I've been working for, and they'resorry for the inconvenience."
"Sera—"
"A month." I look up at her, and I know my eyes must be wild right now. Can feel the instability bleeding through. "A month of probation. That's the minimum?"
She nods slowly.
"Yes. Thirty days with a verified pack before an Omega is eligible for any performance opportunities."
"And I have three days."
"Yes."
The math is simple.
Even a broken brain like mine can do it.
Three days ≠ thirty days.
Game over.
Thank you for playing.
Please exit through the gift shop of disappointment.
I lower my voice, forcing it steady through sheer will.
"The auditions for Omegas with packs…will Martinez be there?"
Professor Harrington's expression softens into something almost tender. Almost maternal. It makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine.
"Yes." She leans forward, dropping her own voice to match mine. "Sera, listen to me. You're a prodigy in the making. I know you're independent, I know you don't want to rely on a pack, but I don't want your dreams to be taken away by this."
Dreams.
Such a fragile word.
Such a useless one.
Dreams don't survive places like Ruthless Academy. They get ground up along with everything else—hope, innocence, the belief that the world might eventually be kind.
"The opportunity to get scholarships, prizes, and obviously to be able to leave Ruthless Academy once and for all is up for the claim." She reaches out, almost touching my arm before thinking better of it. "It's like the ultimate golden ticket."
Golden ticket.
The words echo in my skull.
A way out.
A door to somewhere that isn't here. A chance to dance on stages that don't have blood dried into the floorboards, foraudiences that won't watch me with predatory hunger, in a world where my designation doesn't determine my worth.
And it's locked behind a door I can't open.
Because I'm packless.
