Chapter 2
JESS
Idon’t sleep. Not really, I just hover in that edge-place where fear hums louder than rest.
My pulse jumps at every creak in the hallway. The cot’s too thin, the air too sterile, and I stare at the gaps between the ventilation hums because silence feels like it might swallow me whole.
At some point, the air shifts, and the hum softens; the hallway goes quiet. I think maybe they’ve cut the power, but then a small voice breaks the silence.
“Goodnight, Jess.”
For a second, I think I imagined it…that soft, trembling voice reaching through the dark. The words catch on something tender, the kind of ache that almost feels good.
“Night, Lily,” I whisper back. “See you tomorrow.”
The words feel fragile, like a promise I have no way to keep.
Hopefully, I find out what the hell is going on here. Surely they don’t leave us in these cells all day, and I can scope out the place.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out the rest: my friends, my sister, this hellhole.
Tonight, all I managed was letting one terrified girl know she still exists. It’s not much, but it’s something.
Time crawls. I count ceiling cracks (fourteen). The hallway runs east-west, I think. My cell faces north. Not that it matters because there’s no windows, no reference points to figure out the layout of this place, just endless gray.
Hours pass. Maybe two. Maybe five. Hunger sharpens from dull ache to persistent gnaw.
Eventually, exhaustion wins.
The next morning, the lights snap on like a punch to the eyes.
I bolt upright, throat dry, skin sticky with cold sweat. My head feels full of sand, but my stomach’s louder than my nerves. The metallic scrape of food carts rolling down the hallway makes me realize it’s breakfast.
It’s a brown sludge, but now with a banana tossed on the tray for extra luxury. The guard with the porn-stache slides mine through the slot with a grunt.
“Please, I-I can’t eat this,” a woman says down the hall, “I have a nut allergy. It makes me—”
“Not my problem.” Mustache cuts her off.
He’s already moving on.
Rather than talk myself out of it, I shove the tray toward the slot.
“Hey!” My voice breaks on the word, but I double down anyway.
Mustache turns, eyebrows raised.
“Give her my banana.” I tap my tray.
He gives me that blank, dead-eyed look.
“Give mine to the girl with the nut allergy,” I say. “I’m not eating this crap anyway.”
“That’s not how this works, princess.”
“Then make it work.” The words come out steadier than I feel.
I wave my banana through the bars, and my hand is shaking—from hunger or fear, I don’t know anymore.
“Or what—you gonna let her go into anaphylaxis? Pretty sure even Nexus doesn’t want to explain a dead Omega because you couldn’t swap her nut paste for my banana. ”
He stares a beat too long. In that silence, I realize what I’ve done—drawn attention, made demands, become memorable.
Everything the Omega Institute told me not to do. But the image of Sabrina sneaking me food when Mom insisted I needed to lose ten pounds flashes in my mind, and I can’t take it back. Won’t take it back.
He snatches the banana with a curse and stomps to her cell.
A small gasp. “Oh, thank you.”
Those two words land in a place I thought had gone numb from welding shut all these years. When was the last time someone thanked me? Or that I did something that mattered, even if it was small?
Maybe that’s dangerous. Maybe caring about these girls will make this worse. But I’m here, in this place, and if I lose the part of me that gives away bananas, what’s left?
Besides, I’ve skipped meals before, while she’s probably terrified enough without adding a swollen throat to her morning.
I lean back on the cot, pressing my palms over my eyes until colors pulse behind them.
“You’re okay,” I whisper to no one. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re—”
My stomach is already regretting the charitable impulse, growling like I’ve betrayed it, which I have. But this tiny split inside me? It doesn’t hurt as much as the hunger does. It almost feels... warm.
Sabrina would’ve done the same thing, I think. She was the one sneaking extra dessert to me when Mom put me on another diet. The one who stood between me and Dad’s disappointment.
The memory squeezes in close, too tight to breathe. I shove it away before it can take root and sprout tears I won’t be able to stop.
Footsteps pause outside my door. A soft beep, then the slot opens again.
A different voice this time—steady, low. “Mancini.”
I blink up. It’s the Beta from last night. He slides a pair of gray foam slip-ons with vent holes and a stamped NEXUS ASSET logo on the heel.
“Facility issue,” he says. “Courtyard’s damp. Safety says no bare feet.”
I eye the shoes. “You delivering high fashion now?”
One corner of his mouth threatens a smile and then thinks better of it. “Just… wear them.” He nods once, like that’s a compromise, and starts to move on—then adds, softer, “Keep your head down.”
“Thanks, Mercado.”
“Eli,” he corrects. “Call me Eli.”
“Thanks for the shoes, Eli.”
His gaze flicks to my bare toes, then to the camera in the corner. “Two minutes until everyone heads outside,” he says in a loud voice, then he’s gone.
I tug the slip-ons on. They’re a half-size too big, but the foam warms fast, and the floor sting disappears. They squeak when I flex. Ridiculous. And somehow it helps to know he brought them for me, and I’m sure Nexus shoes don’t come in half-sizes anyway.
The doors click open, one after another, like dominoes falling.
“Let’s go, ladies,” a guard’s voice booms down the row.
The locks disengage with a clank, and I step out, hands loose at my sides, trying to look cooperative.
Bleach fumes and body odor fill the air. Floor staff line every few cells, badges blinking green as they scan us through. Their expressions range from bored to exhausted—none cruel, which somehow feels worse. Cruelty takes effort. Apathy just waits for its next shift.
We pass faded signs: INTAKE B, COMPLIANCE CHECK, WELLNESS EVAL. The irony’s thick enough to choke on.
Thankfully, the courtyard is open-air. Chain link fence, safety-yellow corners. Sprinklers must have misted it earlier because the smell of disinfectant over wet stone clings to everything.
Cold slides under my collar, and I keep my hands tucked under my arms.
As they move us out, a woman with a tablet calls names and cells, brisk and bored. “Cell nine—Lily Watson. Let’s go.”
I jerk to see a tall girl with freckles who ducks back into the line.
A whistle pops. “Five minutes, O’s. Stretch or walk, keep moving,” a woman calls, voice flat from repetition.
Most of the girls drift in circles. Some huddle. Some look sedated. A few stare up like they’re trying to memorize the sky.
I scan every face, pulse hammering as I look for my friends. Blonde hair—no, wrong height. A girl in the corner with Kayla’s build turns, and for one desperate second—Not her. Shit, none of them are here.
The hollow behind my ribs expands until I can barely breathe around it. They could be in another wing. Another facility. Or they could be—
No. Don’t go there. They’re somewhere and safe. They have to be.
I force myself to keep moving, keep my face neutral, but my hands are shaking, so I shove them deeper under my arms. A guard by the fence watches with dead eyes.
Lily sits on a bench near the fence, knees pulled to her chest. Her strawberry blond hair catches the light. She’s staring at nothing, picking at the skin around her thumbnail until it bleeds.
“Morning, Lily,” I say, and she nods, but she doesn’t look like she wants company, so I walk a slow lap, pretending to stretch.
A girl with black hair brushes my shoulder as she passes—deliberate but not hostile. Testing.
“You’re the new one.” She keeps her eyes on the gate ahead as we walk.
“Guess that’s me.”
“Rachel.” The name comes quickly. “You gave me your banana.”
“Jess.”
“Time’s weird in here.” She looks twenty, maybe, with a scar through her brow. “They keep some of us longer than others.”
“Why?”
She cuts me a look. “Why do you think? We’re product. Some need more… ‘preparation’ before they’re considered placement-ready.”
The word placement sits in my mouth like poison.
“Great. So what’s next?” I ask.
“Evaluations start soon. Placements if you’re lucky.” Her voice drops. “Don’t be interesting. Interesting girls get pulled for special assignments.”
“Pulled where?”
Her blue eyes are older than nineteen. “Private placements. Off-roster. Keep your head down, new girl. Blend.”
Blending has never been my strong suit.
We keep pacing in silence. Around us, whispers spread—soft, quick, dangerous. Evaluations… viewings… today.
The words pass girl to girl until they feel inevitable.
Lily joins me halfway through the next lap. Her hands twist together until the knuckles whiten.
“Did you get any sleep?” I murmur.
“Some.” She shrugs.
The staff lead claps once. “Line up! Compliance check!”
We form rows, shuffling close. Cold morning air seeps through the thin fabric. I refuse to shiver. Lily’s breathing quickens beside me.
“Easy,” I whisper. “They want us rattled. Don’t give it to them. We’re Omegas, they need us.”
She nods, but her body trembles anyway. I shift half a step forward, blocking her from the nearest scanner. If anyone notices, they don’t comment.
They march us two circuits—maybe to log vitals, maybe just procedure. A girl near the back stumbles and vomits. A staffer notes something on her tablet but doesn’t stop. Efficiency over empathy.
When the whistle blows, we’re ushered back through the doors, down a long hallway. Or maybe I’m walking slower, dreading whatever comes next.
“Keep moving,” someone calls.
We pass the open cells and turn left down a corridor I haven’t seen. The walls here are cleaner, newer. A sign reads PROCESSING & HYGIENE with a cheerful arrow.
Rachel catches my eye and shakes her head slightly. Don’t react.