The Remote Alpha Aid interface is clean and dark. It looks more like a high-end medical portal than a cam site. I create an anonymous account, using a burner email and a random string of numbers for a handle.
I scroll through the profiles. They are all masked. Some wear tactical half-masks that cover the nose and jaw. Others wear full-face masks. Their bodies are diverse but powerful, with broad shoulders, thick necks, and the physical presence that usually makes my skin crawl when I encounter it on the street.
Four profiles stand out. They use days of the week for names. Tuesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.
I click on Sunday. The preview video shows a man sitting in a dimly lit room. He wears a gray mask that obscures everything. Not being able to see their faces might be nice; the masks are easier to remember. Though I’m not sure it matters.
Part of me wants to schedule a live session with him, but I’m also so tired and the whole day has been surreal. I close the browser and drop the phone onto the velvet.
The name Reid echoes in my head. I close my eyes and try to picture Mr. Harris. Nothing but a blurrymess of features that don’t make sense, like a jigsaw puzzle that I can’t make fit together. And the small scar cutting through his left eyebrow, that’s all I have to hang on to.
I knew a Reid from my childhood, but I didn’t know his last name. The boys from the shelter are a blur, I wouldn’t be able to recognize them. God, I wish I could. I’ve always thought of them and wanted to know what happened to them after that night. I never saw them again. Could one of them be the one calling me Sunflower on the livestream?
Reaching for the remote, I turn off the lights and find a button that slides the blackout curtains over the windows. The room ispitch-black. I pull a weighted blanket over my legs. The pressure helps, but it doesn’t stop the shaking.
I just need to calm down, and then I’ll be okay.
Themedicalsuite’saback-corner cavern of cool, blue-tinted shadows, illuminated only by the soft glow of the wall-mounted monitors. I’ve dimmed the overheads to save my eyes, but the light from the screens still reflects against my wire-frame glasses.
One display shows the vitals for the ten residents who’ve rented from us; Zora’s the only sponsored tenant, while the others are settling into their afternoon routines. It’s still early, the summer sun hasn’t even begun its slow descent, but the atmosphere in the building’s already shifting into the quiet of the late day.
The center screen’s dedicated to unit 1301. Next to the scrolling blue line of her heart rate, the secret high-definition camera feed provides a clear view of the nesting room. We’ve put cameras throughout her place so we can always keep an eye on her; it’s a layer of protection she doesn’t know exists.
I lean back in my chair, my fingers tracing the ridge of my undercut. On the screen, Zora’s nothing but a small, restless shape beneath a heavy, weighted blanket. She’s trying todisappear, but I can see the tension in the way her feet are tucked tight and the rhythmic, shallow rise, and fall of her chest. She isn’t sleeping. The biometric band on her wrist confirms it.
I still can’t believe this is happening.We finally have you back with us.
I glance at the Polaroid tucked behind my desk lamp. Five boys, one girl, and a world that wanted to swallow us whole. We’re the Harris pack, named for Reid since he’s the eldest and the one who led us through the mess of the foster system. We’ve been together since birth, a pack of five who grew up in the yard of the Cross-Sterling Home for Displaced Children. We only knew her for a brief time before the fire tore everything apart, but those few months were enough to cement her as the center of our world.
To the city, I’m Urie Oliver, the medical specialist who tracks cycles and checks pulses. It’s a mask that fits well enough, even if the suppressants I have to take to dull my Alpha scent make my joints ache by the end of a long shift. Being this close and still having to be a stranger’s a unique kind of torture, but it’s the only way we can keep her safe.
Suddenly, she kicks back the heavy blanket and sits up. I watch her on the feed as she stands and walks out of the nesting room, her bare feet silent on the stone floors. I track her movement as the camera hand-off switches to the living room feed. She heads straight for one of the cardboard boxes near the window, the ones filled with the personal items she moved in with earlier this afternoon. She kneels on the floor, her movements hurried as she flips the flaps open.
First, she lifts out a slim silver laptop and sets it on the floor. Then, she reaches deeper into the packing paper. She pulls out a small, palm-sized object made of soft red silicone. From this angle, I’m not entirely sure what it is until she turns it in her hand, the light catching the distinct petal-like shape of the tip.
It’s a rose toy.
I arch an eyebrow, a slow heat creeping up the back of my neck. Her cortisol levels are peaking, and it’s clear she’s looking for a way to ground herself through a physical release. It’s a common enough coping mechanism for Omegas under high stress, but seeing her hold it makes the Alpha in me stir. She tucks the toy into the crook of her arm, picks up her laptop, and heads back toward the nesting room.
I watch her on the feed as she crawls back onto the bed, pulling the weighted blanket over her lap. She sets the laptop down and opens it, the glow of the screen reflecting in her eyes. Only once she’s settled and the browser is open does the internal comms channel on my desk pulse with a soft amber light. Theo, the man Zora knows as Ethan Emerson, is at his station in the security hub. I tap the interface to open the line.
“I’m still reading through the archived stream comments.” Theo’s voice is low, his usual boyish energy replaced by a heavy, focused rasp. “There’s a lot of garbage to go through, Micah. Thousands of hearts, fire emojis, and Alphas being typical Alphaholes. I haven’t found a specific trigger yet, but something definitely knocked her sideways right before she ended the stream. Wait, check the site. She just opened the portal on her laptop.”
I already knew she was heading there, but I keep my tone professional. “I see it. She’s navigating the browse page now.”
I watch the pings as she clicks on Sunday’s profile. Reid’s stoic introduction is likely what she sees first, but his intensity isn’t what she needs when her heart rate is already hitting ninety and she’s got that toy sitting right next to her. She needs someone to pull her back down to earth and help her work through that tension, not someone who’s going to stand there like an immovable wall.
“She’s looking at Sunday.” I tap a few commands into the site’s backend. “I’m toggling the other profiles to busy. Theo, tell Damen and Reid to stay off the system for the next hour. I’m going to take this session. She needs a release to calm down, and I’m the one who’s going to guide her through it.”
Theo hums. “Good call. You’re the only one who can talk her through a panic response without making it worse. I’ll make sure the others stay clear.”
I close the comms line and watch the monitor for one more second. Zora’s fingers are hovering over the keyboard. I wait until I see her cursor move toward my Tuesday profile before I stand up. I don’t leave my post until I’m certain she’s looking for the release I promised in my video.
I walk out of the medical suite and take the stairs to the second-floor units and the private apartment we’ve set up for these sessions. It’s a neutral space, styled like a comfortable study. I enter the unit and the lock clicks into place behind me. This is the only place in the building where I can let out my Alpha.
I strip off the white doctor’s coat and hang it up. Underneath, my black t-shirt’s tight across my shoulders, a reminder of the Alpha I spend all day trying to minimize. I look at my reflection in a dark monitor. My frame’s too broad, my neck’s too thick; I’m a predator in a healer’s suit. It’s no wonder she’s always been wary of Alphas.
I pull the charcoal mask over my head. The fabric’s cool and snug, narrowing my world down to what I can see through the eye-slits. I sit in the high-backed chair and log into the portal, stepping into the role of the Tuesday specialist. Sitting forward, I turn on the second monitor and bring up the secret feed. It shows she’s sitting in bed, the laptop glowing in front of her. She’s playing my introduction video. I don’t have the biometric graphs here; I have to rely on what I can see and hear.
