Gina comes to with a gasp that tears at her throat, the sound echoing off the cracked plaster of the alley wall. The world is blurred, swimming in bruised purples and sickly yellows, the light slanting low and gold.
It looks close to evening.
When she left the facility it was already morning.
Her body is a map of pain: every inch aches, her ribs throb, and her skin is tight and hot where the loan sharks' boots and fists left their marks.
She tries to move and nearly retches from the wave of nausea that follows.
For a moment, she lies still, cheek pressed to the cold, greasy concrete, listening to the distant hum of the city.
Martin and his men are gone. For now at least. She's alive.
That's something.
She manages to push herself upright, vision narrowing to a tunnel as black spots swirl at the edges. Her duffel bag, where most of her possession lie, has been scattered, its contents strewn carelessly across the alley.
Gina crawls, knees scraping, palms stinging as she gathers her things: a cracked phone, a threadbare sweater, a battered notebook, a pair of socks.
Each movement sends fresh jolts of agony through her battered limbs.
Her fingers brush over her forehead, sticky with half-dried blood.
The wound there pulses, but she can already feel the skin knitting together, the bruising fading beneath her touch.
The low-level omega healing is sluggish, nothing like the rapid mending of a Beta, who are built to be naturally durable, but it's better than nothing.
She closes her eyes, focusing on the slow, crawling warmth of her body repairing itself.
Not fast, not really all that painless, but enough to keep her moving.
She starts repacking her duffel, hands trembling, when she sees it: the photograph.
It's been tossed aside, the edges curled and dirty, the image of her and her grandfather faded but still clear.
Gina and the old man, side by side, their smiles crooked and real.
She picks it up, heart squeezing tight.
On the back, however, sits something new: letters scratched in jagged lines, as if carved by a knife:
"Don't forget to pay this time!" It's undoubtedly martin's handy work.
Her breath catches. The words choke her , more than any bruise. Her hands shake, the photo rattling between her fingers.
She wants to cry, to scream, but the tears won't come. Not here.
Not now. She tucks the photo into her pocket, presses her lips together, and forces herself to her feet.
Each step is a battle, her legs weak and unsteady, but she keeps moving, duffel slung over one shoulder, the city pressing in around her.
The walk home feels endless. Every sound is too loud, every shadow too deep.
Gina hugs the wall, limping, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
After a few minutes, her body gives out. She slumps down at the corner of a crumbling building, the world spinning around her.
She closes her eyes, just for a moment, letting the darkness swallow her.
***
The facility is bright, sterile, humming with the quiet strain of disappointment and anxiety. The last of the women have been escorted off the property and they had left quite the stench lingering in the air.
In the glass-walled office, Dr. Harrow, director of the westros facility and general overseer of the operation, sits stiff-backed at his desk, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.
Victor, Maxwell's Beta, stands by the window, jaw clenched, arms folded tight across his chest.
The air between them is thick with unspoken dread.
Dr. Harrow clears his throat, voice low. "All the eggs failed to implant. Not a single viable pregnancy."
Victor's eyes narrow. "That's not possible. We screened every candidate. The compatibility scores were perfect." he insists, voice chilling.
The doctor swallows shakily, eyes shifting around.
"It's never happened before," Harrow says, voice brittle. "It's as if the sperm rejected the hosts. Every single one. We're out of candidates. The project is…well, it's a failure."
Victor's face is a mask, but sweat beads at his temple. "How do we tell The Alpha? He'll—"
The door slams open. Maxwell strides in, presence filling the room like a thunderstorm.
He's immaculate as always: in a dark grey suit, white shirt, not a hair out of place.
His eyes are cold, bottomless, and they pin both men where they stand.
"Well?" Maxwell's voice is soft, dangerous. "How are the results?"
Victor and Dr. Harrow exchange a glance, the fear in their eyes almost comical.
Dr. Harrow swallows, mouth working silently. Victor's fingers twitch, knuckles white.
Maxwell's gaze sharpens, a predator scenting blood. "I'm waiting." He sounds about as patient as a dog with a bone.
The silence stretches, brittle as glass.
Dr. Harrow finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper. "There were…complications. None of the eggs took. The process failed." he wrings his fingers afterwards, refusing to look at Maxwell again.
Maxwell's jaw tightens. "Failed? Explain." the alphas presence seems to vore down on them but victor shakes it off and steps forward, voice forced steady.
"We think—there may be an issue with the donor material. The sperm. It's possible the problem is…not with the candidates."
Maxwell's eyes narrow, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. "You're suggesting the fault is mine?"