My brain files that away with the calm efficiency of something that has made peace with being prey and then decided to become a different category of problem. My grin widens.
"Wow," I say, "you brought friends today."
None of them laughs. Tough crowd. The overnight sedation must have hit the humor centers of this whole facility because nobody's been particularly receptive to my material this morning.
The one in the center steps forward first. Broad shoulders. Dark tactical uniform pressed into precise creases. His helmet gleams under the fluorescent lighting, giving off a menacing aura.
His posture is steady in that very controlled way soldiers get after they've spent too long expecting someone to try to kill them. It’s weight-balanced, nothing wasted, everything ready. He studies me the way you study a door when you're not sure what's behind it. Which… fair. Accurate, even.
I lean slightly to the side, peering around him at the corridor beyond. Technicians are hovering at a respectful distance with their tablets. Havel somewhere back there, probably.
"Is this a kidnapping or a field trip?" I ask, "because the energy is very kidnapping, but I want to stay positive."
Silence.
Behind him, the other two guards fan out slightly, rifles angled down but indexed, ready in a way that means something. These aren't rent-a-cops running through the motions. They know how to stand in a room with a subject. My eyes move over all of them automatically.
Distance. Angles. Weight distribution. The approximate reach of each person, the gap between them, and what it would cost to move through the space. The kind of math you start doing in your head after enough time in cages. Not because escape is always the plan, but because keeping the map current is the only thing that makes you feel like yourself.
My gaze drifts back to the center guard. Alpha. Definitely. Not just the posture. There's something else. Something quieter and more specific. The way he takes up space without acting. Most alphas broadcast. This one doesn't have to.
Tall.
Calm.
And very, very still in a way that isn't passivity.
Interesting.
"Subject O-00," he says.
His voice is low. Controlled. The kind of voice that has said things once and watched people learn not to require a second repetition. I tilt my head.
"Oh, good," I say, "someone who knows my stage name. Most new ones call me 'the problem.'" I consider, tapping my index finger against my chin, "which is also accurate."
He doesn't react. Not even a flicker. Just continues looking at me with that steady, door-evaluating expression. Rude, but impressive.
Behind him, one of the lab technicians clears his throat with the specific nervous energy of a man who wants something to happen but doesn't want to be the one to make it happen.
"Proceed with extraction."
Extraction. Right. That's the word they use when they move you from one controlled space to another.
It sounds like the removal of something unwanted. A splinter. An infected tooth. I've decided to find it funny because the alternative is to find it something else, and I'm not doing that before breakfast.
The alpha steps forward another pace. Close enough now that the faintest edge of scent reaches me despite the recycled air and industrial antiseptic that coats everything in this building. Warm. Sharp. Somethingunderneath that, an actual smell, not a chemical one, steel and smoke and something I don't have a word for.
My brain lights up with something old and instinctive before I can redirect it. My body shivers with some unknown anticipation, and my cock twitches.
Alpha.
My smile sharpens at the edges.
Well.
That's new.
Most of the guards in this facility have learned to keep their distance from me. Whether that's protocol or personal preference varies by individual, but the result is the same. A comfortable buffer zone that benefits everyone involved. This one walked into the reach of my hands without hesitating, bringing that enticing scent with him.
