The words hung in the sterile hallway air, a bomb that had already detonated.
0913. The day I became the monster you have every right to hate.
My hand, which had been supporting his weight, went rigid. The warmth of his body against mine turned to ice. I stepped back, the movement sharp, automatic. The memory I'd spent a decade burying surged forward, vivid and cruel: the smell of smoke and blood, the roar of invading wolves, my mother shoving me into a hidden cellar, her final, tear streaked whisper. Be silent, Lydia. No matter what you hear.
I'd been ten years old.
I stared at Damien Blackwood, at the exhaustion and unexpected candor on his face, and saw the ghost of the young Alpha who had burned my childhood to the ground.
"You," I breathed, the word barely audible. "It was you."
He didn't deny it. He just watched me, his grey eyes holding the weight of it. "Yes."
Rage, white hot and pure, scorched through my veins. It burned away the pity, the strange connection from the lab, the reluctant awe. This wasn't a cursed victim. This was the butcher.
My hand shot out before I could think, a clumsy, furious slap that connected with his cheek. The sound was a sharp crack in the silence. He didn't flinch. He just absorbed it, his head turning slightly with the force.
"You murdered them," I choked out. "You killed my parents. You destroyed everything."
"I did not kill your parents."
His voice was flat, factual. It stopped my next accusation in my throat.
"What?"
"The order was to secure the territory. Disable Alpha Martin's forces. The fire…" He paused, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "The fire that took the main house was set after my forces had pulled back. By someone else."
"You expect me to believe that?" I spat. "You led the attack!"
"I led an attack. On my father's orders. I was nineteen years old, bound by blood oath and the belief I was preventing a war." His gaze was relentless, forcing me to listen. "Your parents, Lydia… they weren't in the house when it fell. My scouts confirmed they fled beforehand. They were declared dead to protect their escape."
The world tilted. The foundational trauma of my life, the story my adopted father, Alpha Martin had hammered into me, the savage Blackwood annihilation.
"No. That's a lie. My father told me…"
"Your adoptive father," Damien corrected softly, dangerously. "Alpha Roland Martin. The man who sold you to me an hour ago. He took you in as a ward of the pack, didn't he? A charitable gesture for the poor, orphaned Null from a fallen ally."
It was all true. But the implication was monstrous.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying the pack that raised you, the man who just traded you for three million dollars, was never your ally. He was the one who wanted your birth pack gone. He provided the intelligence, the access. My father provided the soldiers." Damien's expression was grim. "Your real parents, Alaric and Elara Vale, were a threat to his power. They were discovering a truth about the Shadow Council. Martin made a deal with my father to remove them. I was the weapon he used."
The hallway walls seemed to press in on me. Every pillar of my identity, my victimhood, my loyalty, my very name was being dismantled.
"Vale?" I whispered.
"You were Lydia Vale. Your mother was an Omega. A true one. Not a Null." He took a slow step closer, his voice dropping. "Martin suppressed you. He hid you in plain sight, raised you as a defective burden to keep you from ever awakening to what you are. And when you became inconvenient, he sold you to the son of his former ally. A neat, full circle."
I felt hollowed out. The rage was still there, but it had nowhere to go, a fire with no fixed target. Was Damien a monster? Or was he a weapon, just like I had been a pawn?
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you saved my life in that lab." He said it simply. "You deserved to know who you saved. And because the man who truly destroyed your family isn't dead. He's out there, and he thinks you're a useless, discarded piece." A faint, brutal smile touched his lips. "I'd like to show him how wrong he is."
This was too much. The walls were closing in. I needed air, space, anything but this suffocating truth.
I turned and walked away, down the hall, not toward my gilded cell, but toward the vast, empty living area with its floor to ceiling windows. He didn't follow.
I stood before the glass, looking down at the city lights twinkling like fallen stars. My reflection stared back to a pale, wide eyed stranger. Lydia Vale. Omega. Not a Null.
A soft sound made me turn. Damien stood in the doorway, holding two glasses of water. He looked utterly spent, the events of the night carving deep lines into his face. He placed one glass on a table near me and retreated, giving me space.
It was that small, unexpected act of courtesy that undid me. The monster wasn't supposed to be thoughtful.
"The curse," I heard myself ask, my voice distant. "The bioweapon. Did Martin…?"
"No. That came later. From the Council. For my father's… indiscretions." He leaned against the far wall, putting distance between us. "I inherited it. And the war."
Silence stretched, filled with the ghosts he had just unleashed.
"What happens now?" I asked.
"Now," he said, finishing his water, "we both get some sleep. Tomorrow, we begin."
"Begin what?"
"Deciding who we want to be. Instead of who we were made to be." He pushed off the wall and walked toward his own room. At the door, he paused. "The code to your room is still 0913. You can change it if you want. Or you can use it to leave. The front door code is the same."
He disappeared inside.
I stood frozen. He was giving me a choice. Real freedom. After everything he'd just revealed.
Hours later, sleepless, my mind churning, I crept from my room. Not to leave, but to the sealed laboratory door. The cleanup lights were on inside. Silas was gone.
Driven by a new, desperate need for truth, I used the manual override again. The door hissed open.
The wreckage had been partly cleared. I went straight for the secure data terminal, remembering Silas's password from his earlier careless typing. The files unlocked.
I searched for "Vale." For "Omega Suppression." For "Project Null."
I found them. Medical records. Blood work from my childhood under Martin's care showing deliberate hormonal inhibitors. Genetic sequencing reports with "OMEGA POTENTIAL: ACTIVE" boldly redacted.
It was all true.
Then I opened a file simply labeled "BLACKWOOD CASCADE: PROGNOSIS."
The text was clinical, cold. It outlined the parasite treatment's failure rate. A graph showed a steep, terminal decline. Estimated timeline until irreversible transformation or system failure: 4-6 months.
Damien was dying.
The final document was an audio log. I clicked play. Silas's voice, eager, filled the silent lab.
Log Entry: "The Martin girl is perfect. Her Null immunity is the key to stabilizing Subject B's transformation. But full gene therapy requires more than samples. It requires a compatible host for the refined parasite strain. A living incubator. Her biology can support it long enough to synthesize a cure. The risk to her is… considerable. But the Subject is the priority. We proceed with the extraction protocol upon her arrival."
The recording ended.
The blood drained from my face. A living incubator. The risk to her is considerable.
Silas hadn't wanted to study me. He'd wanted to use me. As a biological factory to cook Damien's cure, regardless of the cost to me. And Damien had just called him off.
I heard a floorboard creak behind me.
I whirled around.
Silas stood in the lab doorway, his glasses reflecting the terminal's blue light. He wasn't smiling.
"I told you," he said softly, "that you shouldn't touch the equipment."
He held a small, sleek device in his hand, pointed at me. A neural suppressor. A tool for containing dangerous subjects.
"Mr. Blackwood's sentimentality is a flaw," he sighed, taking a step forward. "One I can no longer afford. You see, he's not the only one running out of time."