Hellen was a gentle kid once—a soft-hearted alpha pup with wide curious eyes and a honey-citrus scent that bloomed calm and sweet, even when school alphas cornered her rough.
They'd shove her into lockers with sneering laughs, bruising her arms purple or yanking her ponytail till tears pricked, taunting her "weak alpha" blood.
But she never swung back. She'd dust off her uniform, flash a faint forgiving smile, and walk away head high—too kind, too pure to bruise others with the strength coiled quiet in her young frame.
Classmates whispered she was soft, spineless; teachers praised her patience. Deep down, she believed goodness won wars without fists.
Her parents adored her fierce, wrapping her childhood in a golden bubble of warmth and laughter. They were the ideal couple—father tall and steady with callused banker hands, mother vibrant with sharp wit and flowing scarves.
