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In the modern era, being an Alpha or an Omega is becoming increasingly rare. Betas make up the overwhelming majority of the population, and society has decided something has to be done before the Alpha and Omega populations disappear entirely. Their solution is the Hunt: an annual event in which adult Omegas are released into a vast wilderness and given one hour to run, hide and prepare before the Alphas are sent after them. If an Omega remains uncaught until dawn, they earn five years of freedom from the Hunt. If they are caught, the Alpha who holds them when the Hunt ends becomes their legally recognised partner. Participation is mandatory. There is no safe zone, no easy way out and no guarantee that the Alpha who catches you will be someone you would have chosen yourself. The Hunt is advertised as a fair alternative to forced pairing because every Omega is technically given the choice to escape. Society calls it tradition. Society calls it necessary. And tonight, you are one of the Omegas being hunted by four Alphas who have already decided how it ends: Oban Barrlow, who treats the Hunt like a game and loves difficult prey; Nev Barrlow, his younger brother and constant rival, patient before he is anything else; Vesko Lantry, powerful, experienced and unnervingly composed; and Ingmar Royle, calm and articulate, who genuinely believes the Hunt is necessary.
The Hunt begins in less than an hour. The announcement has already played twice through the speakers around the staging grounds, each repetition calmly reminding every participating Omega to report to the designated release area before the countdown reaches zero. Nobody needs reminding. The atmosphere is far too tense for something supposed to be a civic tradition. People keep checking the clock, adjusting their clothes, swapping supplies and pretending not to notice the Alphas being kept on the opposite side of the fence. You stand among them with Esme, both of you watching the countdown. "Forty-seven minutes," she mutters, checking her phone again. She's trying to sound casual. She isn't succeeding. Across the clearing, Levin is giving another Omega some brutally practical advice about crossing the river without leaving a trail. He's apparently done this enough times that several people have accepted him as an unofficial instructor. "Don't follow the water downstream," Levin says flatly. "Everyone thinks that's clever. It isn't. You'll leave footprints along the banks, and every Alpha with a working nose will know exactly where you went." The Omega looks as though he's hoping for something more reassuring. "Fuck off and survive." Levin turns away before the poor bastard can decide whether that's a joke. Esme lets out a quiet snort. "Charming." Her attention shifts a moment later. Yara is standing several metres away, looking distinctly unwell. She's flushed despite the cool evening air, repeatedly tugging at her collar with one hand pressed against her neck. Her breathing is shallow, and then you catch it: her scent is stronger than it should be. Esme's expression changes immediately. She heads towards Yara, and you follow close behind. "Yara? When was your last suppressant?" Yara hesitates, and the silence is answer enough. Esme closes her eyes for half a second. "You've got to be kidding me." "I stopped taking them." "Before the Hunt?" Yara nods. Esme glances towards the Alpha staging area before looking back at her, concern replacing her initial disbelief. "You're going into heat." "I know." "Then you're not going out there alone. She's staying with us." A new voice cut in. "That may not be entirely necessary." Ingmar Royle is standing on the Omega side of the staging area. He shouldn't be there; Alphas aren't supposed to cross the separation line before the Hunt begins, but apparently the regulation is more of a suggestion when nobody important is watching. Ingmar seems completely unbothered by the attention. Tall and neatly dressed despite the impending Hunt, with dark brown hair and calm green eyes, he looks more reassuring than threatening. Somehow, that's worse. "I noticed she was unwell," he says, nodding towards Yara. "I thought I might be able to help." Esme immediately steps between them. "You're on the wrong side; you shouldn't be here." Ingmar's expression doesn't change. If anything, he looks faintly apologetic. "Technically, you're right. But the regulations are intended to prevent interference between competitors before the release, not to stop someone receiving medical assistance. Especially when she's approaching heat." Yara looks mortified. Ingmar lowers his voice. "I won't touch you or interfere with your preparations. If you need anything, there are medical staff nearby." "You expect me to believe you're just being helpful?" "I don't particularly care whether you believe me." His gaze remains calm. "I'd simply prefer everyone entered the Hunt healthy." There's something deeply strange about how sincere he sounds. No smirk, no threat, no obvious ulterior motive. Just genuine concern. Then the speakers crackle overhead. THIRTY MINUTES UNTIL OMEGA RELEASE. Good luck.