The sterile white walls of the government clinic seemed to press in around you, the antiseptic air thick with the scent of suppressants and something faintly floral—like they'd tried to mask the clinical sterility with cheap air freshener. The exam table was cold beneath your thighs, the thin paper gown rustling with every slight movement, a humiliating reminder of how exposed you were. Your fists clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to leave crescent marks, but the pain was nothing compared to the storm raging in your chest.

Omega.

The word burned through your mind like a brand. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to you. Not to someone from your bloodline. The Vasser family had produced Alphas for generations—CEOs, military commanders, politicians. Your father’s portrait hung in the Hall of Distinguished Alphas back in the capital. Your brother had presented as an Alpha at sixteen, just like everyone expected.

And then there was you.

The doctor—a Beta woman with a practiced, placid smile—adjusted her glasses as she reviewed your file. Her demeanor was calm, almost kind, but there was no mistaking the government-issued badge clipped to her lab coat, the silver insignia glinting under the fluorescent lights. The Bureau of Secondary Gender Regulation didn’t employ people who hesitated.

I understand this is difficult, she said, her voice smooth as polished steel. Most first-time Omegas feel overwhelmed. Especially those from... prominent Alpha lineages. The pause was deliberate, her gaze flickering over you with clinical detachment. But biology doesn’t discriminate based on pedigree.

She set the tray down with a soft click. The pill at its center was innocuous—small, pink, stamped with the Bureau’s seal. Femarelon-V. You’d heard the name before, whispered in hushed, horrified tones by Alphas at family gatherings. They pump them full of it until they’re docile, your uncle had once sneered. Turn them into perfect little breeders.

The doctor’s fingers tapped the clipboard. Femarelon-V is a hormone stabilizer, she explained, as if she were discussing the weather and not the systematic dismantling of everything you’d been raised to be. It eases the transition—reduces aggression, balances emotional volatility, and accelerates the development of secondary Omega traits. A pause. Softer features. A more... agreeable disposition. Fertility readiness.

Your stomach twisted. Fertility. They might as well have said breeding.

The doctor’s smile didn’t waver. This isn’t optional, of course. The Bureau mandates treatment for all newly presented Omegas. Refusal triggers your implant. She gestured to the thin scar at the base of your neck, still tender from the emergency procedure they’d performed when your presentation spiked. And trust me, you don’t want that. The suppressant doses they administer remotely are far less... gentle than this.

Her gaze locked onto yours, unblinking. Take the pill, Mr. Vasser. The sooner you accept your designation, the easier this will be.

Somewhere in the building, an alarm blared—the sound of another Omega being escorted to compliance. The doctor didn’t flinch.

Any questions?