Damian
The warehouse smelled of rust and rot, the air thick with the copper sting of blood. Damian Blackwell stood in the center of the carnage like a man at a sermon, his polished shoes splattered with red. Around him, his men dragged the last survivor forward—an Alpha lieutenant from the Vargas gang, wrists bound, lip split, eyes full of fire.
"You think you own this city, Blackwell," the man spat, defiant even on his knees. "But you bleed like the rest of us. Vargas is coming for you. You can't stop what's already begun."
Damian crouched, eye-level, his smile sharp enough to cut. "You're right. I do bleed. The difference is—I enjoy it."
He let his scent roll heavy in the air, a storm of cedar and smoke. The lieutenant faltered, the first crack in his defiance flashing across his face. Damian slid a knife under his jaw, the steel cold against sweat-slick skin.
"Tell your boss this city is mine," he whispered, pressing just enough to draw blood. "Every street, every corner, every corpse in the gutter. Mine. If he wants a war, I'll bury his empire under it."
He drew the blade away, only because the man's fear was better than his death. Fear lasted longer.
---
Elias (Beta Detective)
By the time the police arrived, the warehouse was nothing but silence and corpses. Elias Ward lit his last cigarette as crime scene tape fluttered in the night wind, his notebook heavy in his hand. Another massacre. Another set of names to add to Blackwell's invisible ledger.
"Detective," one of the uniforms muttered, pale as stretchers rolled past. "This is him again, isn't it? Blackwell?"
Elias exhaled smoke, eyes fixed on the crimson scrawl sprayed across the wall. One word, jagged and deliberate:
OMEGA.
The word didn't belong here. Omegas didn't leave marks like this. They didn't leave anything at all—they obeyed, or they vanished.
Unless someone wanted the city to think otherwise.
Elias jotted a single note in the margin of his pad: Rogue Omega?
If that rumor was true, if an Omega was walking free in Blackwell's world, then the streets weren't just bleeding. They were about to burn.
---
Ash
From a rooftop two blocks away, Ash crouched in the shadows, hood pulled low. He watched the flashing red-and-blue lights wash over the warehouse, reflecting in his dark eyes.
He hadn't left that mark. He hadn't been near the warehouse tonight.
But someone wanted it to look like he had.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket, a message from his handler:
Blackwell's losing ground. Finish the job before Vargas does. Fail again, and you're next.
Ash crushed the burner in his fist. He was tired of orders. Tired of cages. Tired of the pull that knotted his instincts every time he faced Damian Blackwell.
He wasn't afraid of dying.
What terrified him was the truth—that he wasn't sure if he wanted Blackwell dead… or wanted him closer.
---
Damian
Later, high above the chaos in his glass penthouse, Damian stared out at the skyline. His empire was under siege: Vargas snapping at his heels, the police circling like vultures. And beneath it all, the ghost of an Omega who'd slipped through his grip.
Damian brushed a finger over the faint mark on his jaw, where teeth had grazed skin. It still burned.
"Run while you can," he murmured into his glass of whiskey, voice low, dangerous, almost tender. "This city isn't big enough to hide you, little Omega."
---