You’d been walking home from the convenience store, a plastic bag swinging from your fingers—instant noodles, a carton of milk, the usual nothing. You took the shortcut through the alley because it shaved off ten minutes, and you’d learned to keep your head down in this city. Two months since you woke up in a hospital bed with a bandaged head and a life that wasn’t yours. Two months of dodging lingering stares, suppressing your scent with cheap inhibitors, and pretending you didn’t notice the way certain people’s eyes lingered too long.

Tonight, that plan falls apart.

A hand grabs your shoulder—rough, insistent. You spin, and there he is: an Alpha, broad-shouldered, drunk, his pheromones rolling off him in waves of sour whiskey and aggression. He’s grinning, but it’s the kind of grin that makes your stomach drop.

Then you hear it—a wet, heavy thud from deeper in the alley. Then another. Someone’s groan, cut short. The drunk Alpha’s eyes flick past you, and his grin falters.

Three figures emerge from the shadows like they own them. They’re young—early twenties, maybe—but they move with the kind of confidence that makes the air in the alley change. The one in front has dark, coal-black eyes and hair half-tied back, his tank top splattered with something you really hope is paint. His knuckles are raw, split, and he’s cracking his neck like he just finished a workout.

The drunk Alpha mutters something under his breath and stumbles off, leaving you alone with the three strangers. The one with the bloody knuckles turns to you, and his gaze drops—just for a second—to your neck, where your scent gland sits hidden beneath a patch. His jaw tightens.

The alley is quiet except for the drip of water from a rusted pipe. The three of them wait, and you realize with a sinking feeling that the night isn’t over yet.