Alpha Academy: The omega in disguise

Elias's Pov

"You're late for morning drills, Arden."

The voice came from behind me, low and edged with arrogance. I didn't bother turning around as I tightened the strap on my combat boots.

"I'm never late," I said flatly.

A pause. Then a scoff. "Are you planning to stare at your laces till breakfast?"

My jaw ticked once, but my expression stayed calm, bored; Alpha standard. I straightened and met the eyes of the boy blocking the doorway. Broad shoulders, messy blond hair, cocky stance. A second-year Alpha, ranked in the top thirty. I didn't bother remembering his name.

He smirked like he thought I'd rise to the bait. "What, no threat today? No broken bones to hand out?"

I stepped forward without answering. He hesitated just long enough for me to brush past him. His scent flared in irritation as he caught the underlying warning in my silence. I didn't need to speak to make them move. They always did.

The corridor outside was cold, metallic, and quiet except for the rhythmic thud of boots and the distant sound of drills starting on the field. Dawn hadn't fully broken yet, but the academy never slept.

Aurelion Alpha Institute. Where only those born to dominate survive. Where a single slip could get me killed.

I kept walking, posture loose but controlled, shoulders straight, eyes forward. Every inch of me was trained to mimic Alpha poise. I had perfected this performance over years of necessity. I couldn't afford tremors. I couldn't afford mistakes.

Not when one wrong breath could expose everything.

The suppressants were supposed to hold for eight-hour cycles. I used to inject once every morning. Then twice. Now three times a day, and the effects still faded too fast. My pulse thudded once against the band of my wristwatch. Five hours, maybe less, before my next dose.

Too risky.

I turned down a side hall, away from the flow of students heading toward the training fields. No one stopped me. No one questioned me. Rank 2 had privileges. And fear was a language everyone here understood.

I slipped into a maintenance stairwell and closed the door with a soft click. My footsteps echoed once. Then silence.

I pulled up my pant leg, revealing the faint faded bruise from last night's injection. The skin there was sensitive, still healing. I swabbed a fresh spot on my thigh and pressed the syringe in slowly.

The chemical burn spread like frostbite under my skin. I exhaled through my teeth, counting seconds.

One. Two. Three.

I'd built tolerance too fast. The doctor warned me years ago that my body would eventually fight the formula, reject it, demand more. But I didn't have the luxury of stopping. The academy's mandatory health scans were coming up in two months. If even a trace of Omega markers showed in my blood, it would be over.

Not just for me, for her.

My mother's face flickered in the back of my mind; brown eyes, lined with exhaustion,