Page 7 of The Drama King

"They're starting early this year," he said when I finished. "Usually they wait until after the first week of classes to begin their campaigns."

"Campaigns?" I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I knew what he meant.

"Systematic harassment designed to drive out students they see as threats or inadequate," Stephanie explained, sliding a plate with a chocolate scone toward me. "Robbie's been documenting their patterns for two years."

"Documentation?"

Robbie's expression became clinical. "My family taught me to keep records when dealing with hostile Alphas. Names, dates, witnesses, exact quotes when possible. It's the only way to build a case if things escalate to the point where you need administrative intervention."

"Does administrative intervention actually work?" I asked, thinking of the financial aid director's warnings about false reports.

"Sometimes," Robbie said carefully. "But you have to be strategic about it. The pack has learned to be subtle, to stay within the bounds of what can be dismissed as 'social dynamics' or 'personality conflicts.'"

"Plus, the Ashworth is loaded, remember?" Stephanie added bitterly. "They're not going to risk that funding over a few scholarship students."

As if I could forget. I slumped in my chair, the weight of the morning settling on my shoulders. "So what's the strategy? Survive until they get bored and move on?"

"That's one approach," Robbie said. "But it rarely works. They're persistent, and they view resistance as a challenge rather than a deterrent."

"So what do you do?" I asked.

"I fight back," he said simply. "But I have advantages that most Omega students don't. My family has money—not Ashworth-level, but enough that I'm not financially vulnerable. And my parents..." He smiled, a genuine expression that transformed his face. "Let's say they raised me to never accept traditional bullshit about Omega limitations."

"Robbie's parents are part of a progressive pack in California," Stephanie explained. "They actually value Omega autonomy and education."

"Revolutionary concepts," Robbie said with dry humor. "My mother's the pack Alpha, if you can believe it. When theyrealized I was a male Omega, it’s practically unheard of in our family line. She made sure I had every opportunity instead of being hidden away like most families would do."

I felt a stab of envy. My own family consisted of my father and me, and while Dad was supportive, he'd never really understood the challenges I faced as an Omega in competitive academic environments.

"That's amazing," I said, and meant it. "My dad tries, but he's a Beta from a pretty traditional background. The whole Omega thing is still confusing to him."

"Most parents struggle with it," Robbie said kindly. "The important thing is that he supports your dreams, even if he doesn't fully understand the obstacles."

"Speaking of obstacles," Stephanie interjected, glancing at her phone, "we should probably head to department introductions soon. Better to arrive together and claim good seats before the pack shows up."

As we gathered our things, I found myself feeling cautiously optimistic. The pack's targeting was real and frightening, but I wasn't facing it alone. Between Stephanie's fierce loyalty and Robbie's strategic experience, maybe I actually had a chance of surviving Northwood.

"One more thing," Robbie said as we prepared to leave. "Don't let them isolate you. That's their primary tactic—cut you off from support systems, make you feel like you're facing everything alone. As long as you have allies, you have options."

I nodded, tucking that advice away alongside everything else I'd learned this morning. The theater building loomed ahead of us as we stepped outside, all gothic spires and expensive promise. Somewhere inside, Dorian Ashworth and his pack were probably already staking out their territory, preparing to assert their dominance over another semester's worth of victims.

But they'd never dealt with a scholarship student who had real friends watching her back.

three

Vespera

StudioA,VoiceandMovement, 10 AM Tuesdays and Thursdays. I'd memorized my schedule down to the room numbers like a soldier committing enemy territory to memory. Preparation was my only defense against whatever Dorian Ashworth and his pack of privileged assholes had planned for me.

The shift in atmosphere hit me like a wall as I neared the studio. Students scattered like prey animals, conversations dropped to whispers, and the air suddenly thickened with concentrated Alpha pheromones that practically screamed "bow down, peasants." Even the Beta students visibly stiffened, instinctively creating more space. Subtle.

Don't look, don't engage, don't give them the satisfaction, I coached myself. But my survival instincts betrayed me, and I glanced in their direction as I turned the corner. Dorian leaned against the wall with predatory elegance, his uniform worn withcalculated disregard for regulations: tie loosened just enough to be rebellious without risking actual consequences, top button undone, blazer hanging open. Corvus stood nearby, pretending to be absorbed in his phone but clearly tracking everyone's movements with that creepy peripheral vision thing I’d noticed him doing at the welcome dinner. Oakley stretched against the opposite wall, his position creating a subtle triangle formation that controlled the hallway's flow like they owned the damn building.

I kept my eyes forward, chin up, trying to slip past with my dignity intact. It was like trying to sneak past wolves in an open field while wearing bacon perfume.

Dorian's gaze lifted, connecting with mine across the crowded hallway. Anticipation. Satisfaction. The look of a hunter who'd found his prey exactly where expected.

He murmured something to his companions, and suddenly all three shifted their stance in perfect synchronization. Shoulders back, chests expanded, a coordinated display of Alpha dominance that wasn't subtle at all.