Page 7

His smell hits me first— earth after rainfall, worn leather, and something reminiscent of old books with pages yellowed by time . Beneath it all runs a current of something uniquely alpha but distinctly different from Riot's more primal signature.

This scent speaks of judgment and wisdom, of patience born from witnessing countless human failings, of knowledge acquired through observation rather than experience. It reminds me of those rare moments when clouds part after storms, revealing clarity that’s impossible during tumultuous weather.

Like freedom.

The thought catches me off-guard, primitive omega instincts recognizing something my conscious mind hasn't fully processed.

This alpha's scent carries notes I've never encountered within Ravenscroft's walls—elements that must originate from the world beyond, from experiences in open air and natural environments.

I step carefully to the marked line on the floor, keeping my movements deliberate and non-threatening. Despite remaining upside down, the judge turns his head with precise control, facing me directly for the first time.

His eyes captivate me immediately— pale silver like mercury, reflecting light with unnatural intensity. They show no surprise at my presence, no reaction to the novelty of a young omega entering his space.

Only calm assessment, as if my arrival represents merely another variable in an equation he's already solving.

"Hello," I offer quietly, keeping my voice below the threshold where monitoring systems automatically activate enhanced recording protocols.

He studies me silently, gaze tracking across features with methodical precision. When he finally speaks, his voice emerges surprisingly smooth despite his inverted position—rich baritone with a controlled cadence that suggests careful measurement of each syllable.

"Blackwood genetics," he observes, the simple phrase carrying weight beyond its syllables. "Interesting that they've allowed direct interaction at this stage of development."

Surprise flickers through me at his immediate recognition of my lineage. Most subjects know me only by numerical designation, not genetic heritage.

"How did you?—"

"Hair coloration patterns consistent with documented Blackwood phenotypic markers.

Facial structure matching statistical probability models for matrilineal inheritance.

Scent signature carrying distinctive base notes associated with specialized genetic modifications implemented during second-generation enhancement protocols. "

The clinical assessment flows with practiced ease, yet something in his tone suggests these observations serve as cover for a deeper analysis he chooses not to verbalize.

"You know my family," I state rather than ask, certainty flowing from his precise terminology.

A smile touches his lips—the expression strangely dignified despite his compromised position.

"I knew of them. Different matter entirely." His silver eyes narrow slightly. "Why have they brought you to me, little omega? What purpose does this interaction serve in their endless experimentation?"

The question carries no accusation, only practical assessment of motivations and potential consequences. I recognize the judicial mind at work—evaluating evidence, identifying patterns, determining probable outcomes.

"They think I requested this interaction out of curiosity," I answer truthfully, matching his quiet tone. "They don't understand the actual purpose."

Interest flickers across his features, the first genuine emotional response he's displayed.

"And what is that purpose?"

I step closer, approaching the boundary of the safety line without crossing it.

"I'm building something," I tell him, the admission dangerous yet necessary. "Something they don't see. Can't see. Won't see until it's too late."

He remains silent for several heartbeats, those mercury eyes studying me with renewed intensity.

When he speaks again, his voice drops even lower.

"You're collecting alphas."

The simple statement, delivered without judgment or question, confirms what I've suspected—this man sees patterns others miss, understands strategies from minimal evidence.

I neither confirm nor deny, but my silence serves as answer enough.

"Dangerous game," he observes, gaze flicking briefly toward the monitoring cameras before returning to me. "Especially for one so young."

"Youth provides certain advantages," I counter. "They underestimate capacity based on chronological development. Mistake biological immaturity for cognitive limitation."

Another smile touches his lips, this one carrying genuine appreciation.

"Indeed." He shifts slightly within his restraints, the movement revealing carefully controlled muscle strength despite his prolonged suspension. "What qualities do you seek in your... collection?"

The question cuts to the heart of my purpose here, bypassing pretense with judicial efficiency. I consider how much to reveal, weighing tactical advantage against potential alliance.

"Strategic diversity," I answer finally. "Specialized capabilities applicable across varying scenarios. Adaptability within structured framework."

"A pack designed for specific functionality rather than traditional compatibility," he translates, understanding flowing from experience rather than explanation. "With you as the central axis around which these specialized components revolve."

His perception confirms my initial assessment—this alpha possesses exactly the analytical capabilities I require for my developing strategy. The ability to extrapolate complex systems from minimal data points represents invaluable potential.

"Would you be interested in serving as one such component?" I ask directly, time constraints forcing efficiency over subtlety.

He studies me for what feels like eternity compressed into seconds, those silver eyes seemingly peering beyond physical appearance to evaluate potential futures branching from this moment.

"You offer freedom from this?" He gestures slightly with his bound hands, indicating his suspended position.

"Eventually," I acknowledge honestly. "Not immediately. The process requires multiple phases of implementation before extraction becomes viable."

"Honesty," he notes with approval. "Refreshing change from standard manipulation protocols."

I maintain his gaze steadily.

"Deception serves no practical purpose between potential allies. Especially when strategic alignment requires mutual understanding of limitations and capabilities."

Something shifts in his expression—respect, perhaps, or recognition of kindred strategic thinking despite our differences in age and designation.

"What would you require of me in this arrangement?" he asks, the question carrying neither agreement nor rejection, merely practical assessment of proposed terms.

"Judgment," I answer simply. "Evaluation of complex variables across divergent scenarios. Assessment of potential allies and identification of necessary eliminations."

"The same functions they force from me now," he observes, "but directed toward purposes I choose rather than those imposed."

"Precisely."

He falls silent again, consideration evident in his expression despite the physical discomfort he must be experiencing.

The combat scenarios on surrounding monitors continue their bloody progression, yet his attention remains focused entirely on our interaction—a significant tell regarding prioritization.

"You should know," he says finally, "what brought me to this place."

I nod slightly, understanding the offering for what it is—not deterrent but disclosure, ensuring informed consent rather than manipulation.

"I sentenced one hundred and twenty-seven individuals to death during my judicial career," he continues, voice carrying neither pride nor shame, only factual acknowledgment.

"Each decision made with careful consideration of evidence, precedent, and legal framework.

I believed in justice as defined by systematic application of established parameters. "

His gaze grows distant, focusing on something beyond physical surroundings.

"The last case changed everything. Evidence indicated guilt beyond reasonable doubt—circumstantial connections, eyewitness testimony, forensic alignment. I delivered the sentence according to established protocol. Execution proceeded as legally mandated."

Something flickers across his features—the first crack in judicial detachment.

Regret.

"Six months later, definitive evidence of innocence emerged. DNA analysis unavailable during trial proceedings, conclusively exonerated the executed individual. My perfect record of judicial determination shattered against irrefutable scientific fact."

The implications crystallize with perfect clarity—this man's defining trauma centers not on what was done to him, but on what he did to others through misapplied justice.

"You turned yourself in," I surmise, understanding flowing from logical progression. "Surrendered to evaluation protocols voluntarily."

A small nod confirms my assessment.

"I believed the research might prevent similar miscarriages of justice. That studying decision-making processes under controlled conditions could identify cognitive biases and systematic errors in judicial determination."

Bitterness enters his tone for the first time.

"Instead, I discovered that research served merely as pretense for experimentation focused on biochemical extraction rather than procedural improvement. By then, withdrawal was no longer permitted."

The story completes my understanding of this alpha—a man driven by principle rather than self-preservation, who values justice above personal comfort, who accepts consequences of actions even when those consequences extend beyond reasonable proportion.

Perfect for my purposes.

"In my proposed arrangement," I tell him quietly, "your judgment would serve life rather than determine death. Would build rather than destroy. Would protect rather than condemn."