The air smelled of the same—bleach, polished wood, something floral that never quite masked the rot underneath.
The building loomed ahead, tall and indifferent. I hadn’t spent much time inside it. It wasn’t where clients waited. It was where decisions were made. Where people like me were sorted, assigned, forgotten when they were brought here to become what I am now.
The Beta didn’t touch me. No one needed to. I knew the pathway to where I was to go as though I had never left this place.
I walked beside him, steps quiet, head down. The doors opened with a soft hiss, and the silence inside swallowed everything.
No voices. No movement. Just the echo of my own footsteps and the weight of being back. Back where I was a no body.
A schedule.
A service.
And no matter how long I’d been gone, Lockswell hadn’t changed. It never did.
“Ah, welcome back, Omega. Go to room number three to get you resettled in.”
I dipped my chin, not bothering to answer. The voice was just another person paid to do a job. A job to keep us Omegas in line, no matter where we went or where we came from.
The Beta beside me stepped aside, but I felt his eyes on my back as I found the room. I wanted to wrap my arms around my middle. I wanted to cry; wanted to fall to my knees and beg for mercy.
I knew better than to act out here.
No pacing. No fidgeting. No signs of discomfort.
So I walked the way they taught us to. Head high, shoulders loose, arms at my sides, hands relaxed. It took more effort than it ever had before. Every step felt like a betrayal.
The door opened with a soft creak, metal hinges groaning just enough to remind me I was entering a placethat didn’t care if I came willingly. I shut it behind me gently, the click echoing through the stillness like a warning.
The room was empty. But I didn’t drop the posture. Someone was always watching. Whether through a camera, a vent, or a mirrored panel—I didn’t know.
But I knew better than to let them see how much I hated being back.
I’d only been in this room once before. Or one like it. That was enough.
I sat on the edge of the metal bed, careful and deliberate. My legs wanted to move, wanted to kick against the frame, to make noise, to feel something.
But I didn’t.
I’d heard what happened to those who did. And I wasn’t going to give them a reason. Not yet.
The door opened without warning minutes later. There was no knock. Just the soft groan of metal hinges and the sharp click of polished shoes against tile.
I didn’t look up. Didn’t move. I barely breathed, keeping my posture straight, hands resting lightly on my thighs, eyes fixed on the far wall.
The doctor stepped in, white coat, clipboard, the usual scent of antiseptic trailing behind him like a shadow.
He didn’t speak right away. Just observed. Like I was something to be measured instead of greeted. His gaze was heavy on me, like I had done something wrong, even though I hadn’t.
“Charles,” he said finally, voice clipped and professional.
I gave a small nod.
He glanced at the monitor on the wall, then scribbled something on his clipboard. “Routine check,” he said. “Vitals, compliance, emotional state.”
I didn’t respond. He didn’t expect me to.
He moved closer, setting the clipboard down and pulling on gloves with practiced ease.
