Chapter 18
Charlie
I made my mind go blank just like I used to with clients.
No thoughts. No feelings.
Just silence.
It was the only way to keep the tears from spilling, to hold myself together while my heart quietly broke apart.
I didn’t understand why it hurt this much. Alpha Harris was just another Alpha. He was never going to keep me.
I would’ve ended up back at Lockswell House either way.
But still…
Something about this goodbye felt different. And that difference was the part I couldn’t afford to feel.
Over the years, teachers pressed the issue of never allowing an Alpha to get to our feelings. Feelings made Omegas do stupid things, to make wrong choices. Then, in return we’d be punished for it.
I knew better than to let my heart want something it should never have. Yet, it felt like my heart was getting left behind in pieces as it beat inside my chest.
I wasn’t a fan of the feeling.
But, I knew, in time, the feeling would pass. I’d serve my client; I’d do what I had to do.
Nothing else mattered. It couldn’t.
On the way back towards Lockswell, the two handlers, both Betas, sat in the front seat. I was chained like a criminal in the back. It wasn’t like I was going to run, but I complied with the demands.
What else was I to do?
The scenery passed by, my eyes staring blankly at everything. It was harder to shut out the world this time than ever before, and took every bit of effort to not shed a tear.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to beg whoever was listening to let me stay with Alpha Harris.
He was a kind Alpha. And he hadn’t asked much of me.
My clients wouldn’t be so nice. They never were.
It didn’t take long before the Beta behind the wheel made the final turn, and there it was—Lockswell Housing and Boarding School.
The sun caught the edge of the massive metal sign, casting a glare that made it impossible to ignore. It rose above the entrance like a monument.
Like it mattered. Like it was proud of what waited beyond the gates.
But all I saw was a name that had carved itself into my bones. And a place that never let you forget who you belonged to.
The shift hit me the moment we passed the sign. Something inside me recoiled—tightened.
Not panic. Not fear. Just a quiet, sinking dread.
The van slowed as we neared the main building. The one I rarely entered. It wasn’t a place for Omegas like me, not for service, not for rest. It was just for decisions made behind closed doors.
Suddenly, everything felt sharper. The air smelled too clean, too sterile. The sun dimmed behind the clouds, like even the sky didn’t want to look.
And the silence…
That awful, curated silence pressed in from all sides.
I hadn’t noticed it before. Not like this. But now it consumed everything.
I didn’t like it.
I didn’t understand how I’d lived like this for so long. I didn’t know why it was only now, after Alpha Harris, after warmth, after choice, that it finally started to hurt.
The van rolled to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires like a warning.
The Betas didn’t speak, just stepped out, walked around, and opened my door. I followed. Not because I wanted to but because that’s what you do when you’ve been trained to move without question.
The air smelled of the same—bleach, polished wood, something floral that never quite masked the rot underneath.
The building loomed ahead, tall and indifferent. I hadn’t spent much time inside it. It wasn’t where clients waited. It was where decisions were made. Where people like me were sorted, assigned, forgotten when they were brought here to become what I am now.
The Beta didn’t touch me. No one needed to. I knew the pathway to where I was to go as though I had never left this place.
I walked beside him, steps quiet, head down. The doors opened with a soft hiss, and the silence inside swallowed everything.
No voices. No movement. Just the echo of my own footsteps and the weight of being back. Back where I was a no body.
A schedule.
A service.
And no matter how long I’d been gone, Lockswell hadn’t changed. It never did.
“Ah, welcome back, Omega. Go to room number three to get you resettled in.”
I dipped my chin, not bothering to answer. The voice was just another person paid to do a job. A job to keep us Omegas in line, no matter where we went or where we came from.
The Beta beside me stepped aside, but I felt his eyes on my back as I found the room. I wanted to wrap my arms around my middle. I wanted to cry; wanted to fall to my knees and beg for mercy.
I knew better than to act out here.
No pacing. No fidgeting. No signs of discomfort.
So I walked the way they taught us to. Head high, shoulders loose, arms at my sides, hands relaxed. It took more effort than it ever had before. Every step felt like a betrayal.
The door opened with a soft creak, metal hinges groaning just enough to remind me I was entering a place that didn’t care if I came willingly. I shut it behind me gently, the click echoing through the stillness like a warning.
The room was empty. But I didn’t drop the posture. Someone was always watching. Whether through a camera, a vent, or a mirrored panel—I didn’t know.
But I knew better than to let them see how much I hated being back.
I’d only been in this room once before. Or one like it. That was enough.
I sat on the edge of the metal bed, careful and deliberate. My legs wanted to move, wanted to kick against the frame, to make noise, to feel something.
But I didn’t.
I’d heard what happened to those who did. And I wasn’t going to give them a reason. Not yet.
The door opened without warning minutes later. There was no knock. Just the soft groan of metal hinges and the sharp click of polished shoes against tile.
I didn’t look up. Didn’t move. I barely breathed, keeping my posture straight, hands resting lightly on my thighs, eyes fixed on the far wall.
The doctor stepped in, white coat, clipboard, the usual scent of antiseptic trailing behind him like a shadow.
He didn’t speak right away. Just observed. Like I was something to be measured instead of greeted. His gaze was heavy on me, like I had done something wrong, even though I hadn’t.
“Charles,” he said finally, voice clipped and professional.
I gave a small nod.
He glanced at the monitor on the wall, then scribbled something on his clipboard. “Routine check,” he said. “Vitals, compliance, emotional state.”
I didn’t respond. He didn’t expect me to.
He moved closer, setting the clipboard down and pulling on gloves with practiced ease.
I kept still. Because that’s what you do here. You stay quiet. You stay compliant. You let them take what they need and hope they don’t look too closely. Because if they do, they might see the cracks. And cracks get punished.
The doctor adjusted his clipboard, eyes flicking over whatever notes had been left from before. Then he looked at me. Not like a person. Like a file.
“Any dizziness?” he asked, voice flat.
“No.”
“Sleep disturbances?”
I hesitated. “Yes.”
He didn’t look surprised. Just scribbled something down.
“Appetite?”
“Fine.”
“Any emotional irregularities?”
That one made me pause. What did that even mean here? Was crying irregular? Was wanting to stay with someone who didn’t treat me like property? Was feeling anything at all a problem?
“No,” I said.
He nodded, like that was the answer he expected.
“Any resistance to reassignment?”
My throat tightened. But I kept my voice steady. “No.” I knew if I answered anything other than that two word answer, I’d be placed into retrainment. Where punishment wasn’t just training. It was demanded. For weeks on end with no breaks.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t ask if I meant it. Just checked a box.
I sat still, hands folded, posture perfect. Because that’s what they wanted.
Compliance. Clean answers. No signs of life beneath the surface. And I was good at that.
Too good.
“Good. Now, to check your stats.” He didn’t give me any warnings, just went about it like a business transaction.
Checked my heart and lungs. Checked my reflexes. Made notes on his clipboard.
“Cleared for the next client.”
Great, I thought, dread filling me like no other.
“Thank you, Sir.” I spoke quietly, but loud enough he could hear me.
“Go to your room. The schedule will be updated within the hour.”
I slipped from the table, glad that the doctor didn’t do a more thorough exam.
My feet led me from the room, from the building, to outside.
The warm sun didn’t warm me as I walked the stone pathway to my sleeping quarters.
The buzz of the birds and bees nagged at my brain.
The lone passing car that sped down the driveway towards the client house set fire in my gut that wasn’t going to be put out easily.
The halls hadn’t changed. They were the same polished floors, same muted lighting, same faint scent of disinfectant clinging to the air like memory.
I passed other closed, unmarked doors. Each one holding its own story, its own silence.
When I reached mine, I opened it without ceremony. I stepped inside, seeing it just as I remembered.
Plain. Clean. Empty in all the ways that mattered. A bed. A dresser. A small desk with nothing on it. No photos. No books. No signs that anyone lived here.
I stood in the center for a moment, letting the stillness settle around me. Then I sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting in my lap, posture perfect.
Because that’s what they expected.
Even now.
Even after everything. And I gave it to them. Not because I wanted to. But because I didn’t know how not to.
The view out the window was the same, too. The tall sunflowers swayed in the breeze, their faces lifted up to the sun as though they were happy to see it’s warmth basking on them.
Shivering, I wrapped my arms around my torso, trying and slowly failing at holding it all together.
I didn’t belong here. I didn’t belong with Alpha Harris either.