Black leotard slashed across the ribs, revealing strips of pale skin decorated with bruises in various stages of healing—purple, green, yellow, a watercolor painting of violence. The tutu is tattered tulle in shades of crimson and midnight, each layer deliberately shredded to look like wings.
Or wounds.
Depending on how you look at it, I suppose both are the same thing.
My hair hangs loose, wild and dark, whipping around my face with each turn. No pins. No bun. No pristine ballerina perfection. That girl died three years ago when her parents' blood splattered across her face and the heir to the cartel empire smiled at her from the shadows.
Kai James Lawson.
Even thinking his name makes something violent coil in my chest.
Oh, for you I pray...
The reverb makes the prayer sound desperate, hollow, like screaming into a void that doesn't give a fuck about your suffering. I transition into an arabesque, my working leg extending behind me at an angle that makes my muscles scream. My back arches, spine curving into a bow, and I hold the position as the song bleeds into the next verse.
Sure you wanna share your last name with me? Baby, I'm sure I do...
The words hit different when you understand what they're really saying. When you know what it means to be promised forever—promised safety, protection, a pack that would die before letting harm touch you—only to have it all revealed as a lie written in your parents' blood.
I was supposed to bespecial.
An Omega destined for greatness, for Juilliard, for a pack that would cherish me like the rare thing I was supposed to be.
What a cosmic fucking joke.
I spin again, this time letting my head fall back, exposing the long line of my throat—a submissive gesture that's anything but. When I right myself, I'm grinning, that manic edge pulling at my lips that makes people either run or get stupid ideas about taming me.
Spoiler: no one tames a rabid animal. You just put it down.
With you, love doesn't hurt. Love is for better or worse, so I do...
Love doesn't hurt. What a beautiful lie that is. What a perfect piece of propaganda they feed to unmated Omegas, making us believe that true love will heal all wounds, that the right pack will make everything okay.
Lovedestroys.
It took my parents, my future, my entire identity and ground it into dust beneath boots that cost more than most people make in a year.
The song swells, that reverb effect making Summer Walker's voice echo like she's singing from the afterlife, and I move into the final sequence. Piqué turns carrying me in a diagonal line across the stage, each rotation timed perfectly with the stretched-out beats.
My spotted vision catches flashes of my art installation—those golden cages swaying gently, the bodies inside positioned like twisted marionettes. Students who thought they could claim me. Alphas who believed my Omega status made meweak. Betas who looked away when the monsters came calling.
Now they're all part of the performance.
Don't know what you see, but you take me and all I carry, so I do...
The scent of death mingles with my distress—sharp lavender with undertones of something acrid andwrong. Unmated Omega scent.BrokenOmega scent. The kind that makes Alphas either run or get greedy, thinking they can be the hero in my tragic story.
They're always wrong.
I transition into a penultimate arabesque, holding the position as the music begins its descent into that final, haunting repetition. My chest heaves with exertion, sweat dripping down my temples, disappearing into the torn fabric of my costume.
No one else can take it. Say I'm overcomplicated...
Overcomplicated. That's what the Lawson heir called me once, back when I was still stupid enough to believe in allies. Back when I thought maybe—maybe—there was a version of this story where I wasn't the villain.
But here's what I've learned in three years of surviving this nightmare: sometimes the villain is just the hero who got tired of bleeding.
I got too many issues I never solved...
