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The memory hardens my resolve. Whatever happens, I won't become another Sarah.

"Weather report," the driver announces, clawed fingers dancing over the communication array. "Storm system moving faster than predicted."

Captain Kain's lips pull back from his teeth—not quite a snarl, but close. "Increase speed. I want us clear of the eastern pass before it hits."

"Sir, mountain protocol dictates?—"

"I know the protocol." The captain's tone could cut glass. "I also know the value of our cargo."

He turns to study me with that calculating stare that strips away humanity, reducing me to breeding potential and market value. The cold assessment of what my body might produce rather than who I am.

"Eight years you managed to hide, nurse," he says, and there's grudging admiration beneath the threat. "Impressive achievement. Most omegas break after a year of chemical suppression."

I maintain the facade of sedation while every muscle coils tight. He knows I'm listening, but he's enjoying this psychological torture too much to end it.

"Of course, your little chemical tricks have consequences." His voice drops to a whisper meant for my ears alone. "The fertility specialists are fascinated by how your system will respond after such prolonged suppression. They have experiments planned."

My mind flashes to the settlement clinic—the life I built against impossible odds. Head nurse at thirty-two, unusual for any omega, unthinkable without the suppressants that let me pass as beta. I've set compound fractures, delivered breach babies, performed emergency surgery during resistance raids. Skills that made me valuable to my community—and now mark me as premium breeding stock to these monsters.

All those years of careful hormone management, of building something real despite the Conquest—destroyed because I miscalculated a single dose by three hours. The bitter irony tastes like copper in my mouth. Dr. Martinez had trusted me to manage the clinic's emergency rotation that night. "You're the best nurse I've ever worked with," he'd said just days before the inspection. "Natural talent for trauma medicine."

Natural talent. If only he'd known what I really was, that my steady hands during crisis came from omega biology designed to nurture and heal. Would he have felt the same way if he'd known I was breaking twenty different laws just by practicing medicine? Would the families whose children I'd saved have welcomed my touch if they'd realized an unregistered omega was treating their loved ones?

The settlement clinic had been more than a job—it was proof that I could be something beyond my biology, something more than what the Conquest wanted to make of me. Every successfulsurgery, every life saved, every technique mastered was a victory against the system that insisted I existed only for breeding.

Now it's gone. All of it. The staff probably thinks I abandoned them during the night shift. They'll never know I was dragged away in chains.

"The Council prizes medical omegas," Kain continues, savoring my forced silence. "Especially ones with field experience. Your offspring will receive specialized training from birth."

I catalog everything within reach while maintaining my drugged act. The guard's position, the restraint mechanism's weak points, the emergency kit strapped beside the door. Every detail becomes potential leverage, every observation a possible weapon. Three escape attempts have taught me patience. The first—a desperate rush during a bathroom stop—earned me a shock baton to the ribs and tighter restraints. The second attempt, during a shift change, got me sedated for six hours straight. The third time, I'd almost made it to the tree line before the tracking collar's electric shock dropped me like a stone.

Each failure taught me something valuable. The guards' patrol patterns. Their communication protocols. The weak points in their procedures. Now I know to wait for genuine chaos rather than manufactured opportunity.

The transport hits a washout in the road, harder this time. Rain begins to spatter the windshield—the storm's advance guard. Perfect. Chaos always breeds opportunity.

"How much longer?" my guard asks, nervousness creeping into his voice as he watches the sky darken.

"Three hours to transfer point," the driver replies. "If the weather cooperates."

Three hours. I take inventory of my body's responses. The suppressant isn't taking hold like it should—my skin feels feverish already, hypersensitive where the rough uniformchafes. Years of chemical manipulation have made my system increasingly resistant to these crude compounds. My pulse runs fast and shallow, blood pressure elevated—early warning signs I know too well from treating other omegas in crisis.

The methylnortaxine cocktail they're using is designed for short-term containment, not long-term suppression. It's already interacting badly with the residual black market suppressants in my system, creating a toxic feedback loop that could trigger rebound heat syndrome. In a hospital setting, I'd be monitoring for seizures and cardiac events. Here, I'm just cargo with an expiration date.

If my calculations are right, I have maybe eighteen hours before my body starts the biological process these bastards are counting on—the heat that will make me compliant, desperate, willing to do anything for relief. Eighteen hours to escape or accept a fate worse than death.

Not heat yet, but the warning tremors. If the storm delays us, if the next dose fails, if I can somehow turn the coming chaos to my advantage...

"Settle in, nurse," Captain Kain says, baring just enough fang to remind me what I'm dealing with. "Your medical skills make you particularly valuable breeding stock."

I close my eyes completely, feigning unconsciousness while calculating exactly how much pressure it would take to crush his larynx if I ever get my hands free. Not just for me, but for every omega reduced to livestock since the Conquest turned our world into their hunting ground.

The van accelerates as rain intensifies, tires struggling for purchase on the increasingly treacherous mountain road. Behind my closed lids, I construct and discard escape scenarios. The cuffs are the primary obstacle—military-grade restraints requiring either the key or enough force to shatter the locking mechanism.

The guard checks my bonds every hour, but his attention has been decreasing each time. Complacency. The key hangs on his belt beside standard enforcement gear—shock baton, communication device, and what looks like omega-specific incapacitant spray.

Lightning flickers in the distance, illuminating the van's interior for a heartbeat. The gap between flash and thunder tells me the storm is still miles out, but closing fast. Mountain weather—unpredictable, violent, and potentially my only ally.

Another bone-jarring impact rocks the vehicle, and I let my body sway naturally while testing the restraints' give. The right cuff has a microscopic flaw in the locking mechanism—barely detectable, but present. If I can create enough distraction, enough pandemonium...