Chloe scrambled up and tore the drawer open, scattering pens and notebooks. "Got it. What do I do?"
"Break it on the doorframe. The metal threshold."
She didn't ask questions. She rushed to the door and smashed the vial against the frame. Black sand spilled out, sparking with a flash of violet magic. A shimmer descended over the door and settled — the room sealed.
The scent-bleed stopped.
"Okay. It's working," Chloe said, sliding down the door to sit on the floor. She looked at me — fierce and helpless in equal measure. "The smell is contained. But you still look like you're dying. The magic sand doesn't fix whatever's happening inside you."
She was right. The ward protected the rest of the dorm from me, but nothing was stopping my body from continuing to cook itself. Without an alpha to stabilize the fever with their aura, my internal temperature would keep rising until it caused permanent neurological damage.
I had hours, at best, before the pain made me delirious.
"I have to leave," I whispered, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. "If the ward breaks, if the legacy packs down the hall smell me?—"
"You can't stand up," Chloe said. "Where are you going to go? We don't have a car."
"Knottr."
She stared at me. “The hookup app? The one the frat guys use?"
"It has a hidden emergency beacon built into the code. For unbonded omegas in crisis. It bypasses the social profiles and connects you anonymously to pre-vetted dominant alphas willing to provide biological stabilization. No political strings. No formal claim."
It was the most taboo secret in elite shifter society. The Northern packs pretended the app didn't exist. Using it meant admitting that arranged bonds were failing, that omegas were capable of seeking relief outside pack structures. It meant turning yourself into a transaction.
But as the fever spiked again, I realized I didn't care anymore. I didn't care about my mother's reputation or my father's standing. I just wanted the pain to stop. I just wanted to survive the night.
"That sounds insanely dangerous," Chloe said, voice dropping. "You're going to invite a random predator to come stabilize you? What if they hurt you?"
"It's regulated by neutral zone enforcers. Anonymous both ways — they don't know who I am, I don't know them. We meet at a secure location off-campus. They stabilize the fever, my core resets, we walk away."
Sterile. Transactional. Loveless. What I deserved now.
Chloe looked like she wanted to take the phone away from me. Then I made another choked, animalistic sound of pain as a fresh wave hit, and she exhaled.
"Okay," she said. "Do it. I'll pack you water, suppressants, and clean clothes."
My slick fingers slipped against the screen. I found the app, downloaded it, bypassed the social profiles, and located the hidden Emergency Crisis beacon buried in the settings. A stark black interface asked for my location and biological status.
Status: Omega. Unbonded. Trauma marker: Yes. Crisis Phase active.
I hit submit.
A spinning white wheel. Thirty seconds. I lay on the floor watching it turn, wondering if the emergency system was an urban myth, if I was going to burn out on cheap carpet while my mother sat hours away pretending I didn't exist.
A chime.
The screen flashed green.
Match found. Suppressor: User_AlphaX. Designation: High-Capacity Dominant. ETA to Neutral Zone Safehouse: 15 minutes.
A secure address pinged on my map — three miles off-campus, in the neutral, unwarded section of the city. A time-sensitive entry code, valid for thirty minutes.
"I got a match," I whispered.
"I'm calling an Uber," Chloe said, already swiping. "I'm riding with you to the door. I don't care about your shifter rules or your pride. You're not navigating this alone."
I didn't have the strength to argue, and I didn't want to.
