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My muscles burn with the weight of the cardboard box as I climb the final flight of stairs. It’s my eleventh trip today and hopefully the last one.

I should have spread the weight of the textbooks between the boxes instead of putting them all into one big one. I won’t make that mistake the next time that I move.

And there will be a next time because this place isn’t exactly home sweet home.

My new home is an abandoned office building three blocks up from campus. According to my research, it’s been empty for almost six years, owned by some shell corporation with iffy legal status. It seems to have been forgotten about. Or at least, there’s little chance of it being freshly tenanted by the time I finish my law degree. That’s all the time I need.

I’m not the only omega moving in. There are another twenty-three of us, all stubborn holdouts against the requirement to register with the Omega Match Bureau if we want to access student housing.

It’s a ridiculous requirement. In order to be allowed to stay in the student dorms, I have to register myself as available to mate on some government database. No thanks. I have better things to do with my life than get married to some primitive alpha who thinks he owns me.

I seem to be almost permanently furious these days and now, yet another spike of fury races through me. It propels me through the last steps and onto the landing. I’ll haul a thousand boxes of law books upstairs before I voluntarily register with the Bureau.

The glass door to the set of offices on the fifth floor has been propped open with one of my boxes. I take the last steps through and drop the box of books with a satisfying thud that echoes in the empty space.

This used to be a travel agents in another life. The space still has peeling posters of sun swept beaches on the walls and I’ve had to stack old desks and swivel chairs to the left of the space in order to have enough space for my mattress.

Late afternoon sunlight filters through the windows. I’m going to have to cover them over with newspaper to stop light from seeping out and advertising that we have moved in.

I stand and stretch, hearing my back pop.

This is it—the last of my possessions transferred from university housing to whatever you call an abandoned office building converted into an omega squat.

My mattress sits on the floor in the corner. I’ve got a hot plate plugged onto the top of a desk where an old printer once sat and I’ve shoved a mini-fridge underneath. It’ll do for a kitchen. It’s not much, but it’s mine without conditions, without registration requirements, without Bureau oversight.

I collapse onto the mattress, bones aching in that specific way that comes from moving your entire life in cardboard boxes.

The eviction notice had given us three days. I’d used one of them filing emergency appeals and arguing with administrators who smiled sympathetically while explaining that university housing policies were non-negotiable.

No Bureau registration, no campus housing. Simple as that. Assholes.

No one should have to trade their freedom for an education.

My phone buzzes against the worn carpet where I’d left it on my first trip up the stairs.

A text from Meg lights up the screen: Blood drive desperate for omega donors. They’re down by half. You still coming?

I close my eyes and grimace. Oh hell, that’s today. With everything else happening, I’d completely forgotten.

I’d signed up to the blood drive at the university gym weeks ago, back when I still lived in civilized accommodation with reliable plumbing. I’ve just moved everything I own. I’ve barely slept in the last week. There’s nothing wrong with skipping this one.

But the omega community depends on donated blood from other omegas. Transfusion compatibility isn’t just about blood type—designation markers are essential too. Omegas need omega blood. Life is difficult enough for us without us supporting each other.

It won’t take long. And I’ll get a cookie.

I’ll be there, I text back, already forcing myself upright.

We’ve jury-rigged a shower on the ground floor—a showerhead connected to the janitor’s closet sink. The water pressure that varies between trickle and flood but it’s functional, and after packing and moving and days of arguing with bureaucrats, I need to wash the fury off my skin along with the grime.

The walk to campus takes longer than it used to, my new address adding an extra mile to the route. Students pass me on the sidewalk. I try not to resent them, but they take so much for granted. Life is hard right now. I can’t take anything for granted. I left home at fifteen after I presented as an omega. The moment it happened my father told me I had to leave school and stay home away from ‘temptations’ so I could learn how to run a household like my mother. Screw that.

It’s taken me years to build up enough savings to make it to law school on my own. My dad’s long gone: a heart attack in his office three years ago, but there’s no going home for me. My mother let her fifteen year old end up on the streets because she couldn’t or wouldn’t stand up to my father. I’m not going to forget that.

Sometimes I get a parcel from her with cash. I always donate it.

I haven’t closed the connection entirely. She’s still family, but that doesn’t mean I want to see her.

Besides, one day my little sister might need me. It’s one thing to cut off a parent. It’s another to cut off a sibling, especially one who is just a kid. Fleur is almost thirteen now. There’s nothing wrong with being an omega. I know that, but I still hope she doesn’t present as one. Life is too difficult.

The gymnasium is buzzing with afternoon activity when I arrive. Folding tables are staffed by volunteers and they’ve set up rows of beds and equipment on the north end.

I find the registration table and give the woman behind it my name.

“ Torres. I should be signed up.”

The technician checks my name against her list, then passes me a consent form. I sign it, pass it back and she guides me to an available station.

I don’t have to wait long before a technician is at my side. She’s a short middle-aged beta with dark hair and a professional smile. She moves through the process like she’s done this a thousand times.

“Thanks for coming. We’re really short on omega donors today.”

I nod, settling into the donation chair, rolling up my sleeve as she prepares the needle. The process is routine—I’ve done this dozen times over the past few years. It’s part of my commitment to community support. We omegas need to take care of each other. The system won’t.

“Just a quick pinch,”

she warns, sliding the needle efficiently into my vein.

The familiar sting barely registers. I focus on the ceiling tiles above, counting the water stains while my blood flows into the collection bag.

“You’re doing great,”

the technician says, attaching a smaller vial to the line.

“Just need one more sample.”

I glance down, noting the second container she’s filling.

“What’s that one for?”

“Standard screening,”

she replies without looking up.

“Blood typing, disease markers, hormone levels. Routine health panel.”

Fair enough. I return my attention to the ceiling, mentally reviewing the constitutional law outline I need to finish tonight. I’ve got behind on my study schedule in the chaos of the last few days. I need to catch up.

“All done,”

she announces, withdrawing the needle and pressing cotton against the puncture site.

“Hold pressure there for a few minutes.”

She brings me an orange juice box and a handful of cookies from the recovery table.

I accept the post-donation snacks, suddenly starving. The orange juice tastes artificial, but I drink it anyway.

“There he is—the savior of omega-kind.”

Meg drops into the chair beside me, dark braids swinging as she grins. She’s been my closest friend and occasional worst influence since our first law seminar, back when I was still desperate to prove myself and the fact that I belonged in law school in the first place. I’d found myself next to her in the lecture hall while we waited for the professor to arrive and she’d asked me what had made me study law. She was just making small talk, but I’d replie.

“Because I’m tired of omegas being taken seriously,”

and instead of laughing, she’d just nodded and said, “Me too.”

Now, I grin at the sight of her and reply.

“Very funny.”

Meg steals a cookie from my plate.

“I’m not joking.”

Her expression grows more serious.

“You look exhausted, . When did you last sleep?”

The question is valid. The past week has been a blur. Sleep has been optional, food intermittent, self-care non-existent.

“I’ll sleep when we win the housing appeal,”

I mutter, not entirely joking.

Meg studies my face with the sharp attention that makes her such a good law student.

“You moved everything by yourself, didn’t you?”

“Jules helped with the furniture.”

The mattress, technically. Everything else I’d carried alone.

She pulls out her tablet, swiping to a document covered in highlighted text.

“I found something for the housing appeal. A case from 2015. The court ruled that housing can’t be contingent on Bureau registration if it constitutes undue financial hardship.”

My interest sharpens.

“How did they define undue hardship?”

“A few things”

Meg passes over the tablet and I scan the text.

“We need to cross-reference with State vs. Brinton College.”

“Already on my list,”

I assure her.

Yes, I have a roof over my head now but a squat isn’t exactly a long term prospect. I’m entitled to student housing, or I should be in a fair world.

We spend the next twenty minutes strategizing, mapping out arguments and precedents, before Meg gives me that look of hers and orders me to go home.

I don’t argue. Even I know I need rest.

I make my way back to the squat, legs heavy with fatigue. I can hear the other residents settling into their evening routines: soft sounds of conversation from other floors, the smell of someone cooking dinner on a hot plate similar to mine. We’re a community born of necessity. These are my true brothers and sisters and I would do anything for them.

My new ‘flat’ in the travel agency feels smaller in the evening light, shadows stretching across the flooring. It doesn’t feel like home but it’s safe, it’s mine, and it’s temporary. The housing appeal will succeed, or I’ll find another solution, or I’ll make this work until graduation provides other options.

I’m pulling textbooks from the last unpacked box when my phone buzzes with a notification.

OMEGA MATCH BUREAU: Registration confirmation #89274-O

I stare at the screen. I’m hallucinating from exhaustion. I must be. The notification remains, stark and undeniable against the glow of my phone.

My fingers shake as I unlock the screen, opening the full message.

CONFIRMATION OF REGISTRATION

ID: #89274-O | TORRES, LEO J.

DATE OF REGISTRATION: 10/15

STATUS: Processing Complete

The phone slips from my fingers, clattering against the floor. Registration. They’ve registered me. Without my consent.

That ever present rage rises up. How? I’ve never signed up for anything. Besides, to get the bio-chemical markers to match me, they’d need...

It’s obvious and I’m an idiot. Maybe if I hadn’t been so tired, I would have picked up on it.

The blood drive. The second vial.

“Standard screening”. What horseshit. I should have known.

I scramble for my phone, searching the website for the blood drive. It takes me a minute but I finally find a copy of the consent form and there it is, buried in paragraph four of the second page.

“Samples will be shared with appropriate agencies where applicable for community health benefits.”

It’s vague enough to provide legal cover. Specific enough that a court might uphold it.

They’ve stolen my blood and signed me up. I could kick myself. I’ve spent so long fighting against the Bureau and the endless ways they try force omegas into their system and I didn’t see the obvious when it was right in front of me.

For a moment, all my fury flies inward at myself for being stupid enough to be deceived but then my brain orientates itself. Nope. This is not my fault. This is the fucking Bureau. They did this.

I dial Meg’s number, pacing the office as it rings. When she doesn’t answer, I text instead: Emergency. They registered me. Blood drive was a setup.

The reply comes immediately: WHAT. On my way over.

But I’m already on my feet and trawling through my books. There’s going to be a way out. If the Bureau thinks they can trap me with that kind of bullshit, they’ve seriously underestimated Torres.

I’ve been fighting since I was fifteen years old. I’m not about to stop now. I am not taking this lying down.

The war has just begun. They might have started it but I’m going to finish it.