-Ryland Grayson:
I wake before the alarm, before the light fully settles into the room, before the rest of the camp even begins to breathe. For a few seconds, I stay still, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet stretch just a little longer before I break it myself. This is the only part of the day that feels right—no noise, no movement, no unnecessary presence pressing in from every direction. Just silence. Just control.
I sit up slowly, rolling my shoulders back, feeling the faint tension in my muscles from yesterday. It's not discomfort. Not even close. Just something to acknowledge. Something that reminds me I haven't actually done anything worth my time yet. That changes today.
The suite is exactly as I left it—clean, untouched, perfectly in place. No clutter, no distraction, nothing out of line. I prefer it this way. If I had full control over everything here, I wouldn't just sleep alone—I'd train alone too. No shared space. No wasted time adjusting to other people's limits. Just me, the work, and someone qualified enough to keep up. But that's not how this place works, apparently. Instead, I get a field full of Alphas trying to outdo each other in the loudest, least efficient way possible.
Six months, I remind myself as I stand and head toward the bathroom—just six months. I can tolerate anything for six months.
The water runs clean over my skin, quick and efficient, and I immediately notice the difference again. The shorter hair makes everything easier—no weight, no extra time, no pointless inconvenience. I drag a hand over the buzzed strands, exhaling quietly as the last bit of sleep leaves my system completely. Better. Everything about this place should be like that—simple, stripped down, focused only on what matters.
By the time I step out and get dressed, there's nothing left of that stillness from earlier. My mind is clear now, sharp in the way it always is before training. I don't waste time checking the mirror. I already know what I look like, and more importantly, I know what I'm capable of.
The hallway outside is already active when I step out. Doors open and close, voices overlap, footsteps echo against the polished floors in uneven rhythms. Some people are fully awake, already moving with purpose, while others look like they've barely managed to drag themselves out of bed. It's messy. Uncoordinated. Inefficient. I move through it without slowing, and I can feel the shift as I pass—conversations dipping slightly, attention catching, recognition settling in without being spoken out loud. I ignore it. It doesn't change anything.
The training field is worse.
Not in quality. In energy.
Too many bodies. Too much movement. Too much noise layered over itself in a way that feels unnecessary. Groups are already forming, instructors moving between them, correcting posture, calling out instructions before anything has properly started. The air is thick—not just with effort, but with presence. Too many Alphas in one place, their instincts clashing under the surface even if they don't realize it.
If it were mine, this would be quieter. Controlled. Structured in a way that doesn't allow this kind of chaos to exist.
"You're here early," a voice says from somewhere to my side.
I don't turn immediately. "No," I reply calmly. "I'm on time."
There's a quiet scoff, followed by footsteps closing the distance. "Right. Of course you are."
I glance over just enough to acknowledge Kieran standing there, arms crossed, already watching everything like he's trying to understand how he fits into it. He studies me for a second, then smirks slightly. "You always this… intense, or is this just your default setting?"
"It's not intensity," I say. "It's efficiency."
"That sounds worse," he mutters, shaking his head. "I'm glad you're not in charge of this place."
"That makes two of us."
He lets out a short laugh, but before he can say anything else, the instructor's voice cuts through the field, sharp and immediate, introducing me.
Everything shifts instantly. Conversations drop. Movements tighten. Lines form with varying levels of discipline, but they form nonetheless. I step into place without hesitation, my attention already moving across the group.
Most of them are exactly what I expected.
Strong, but careless. Confident, but unfocused. Too much reliance on strength, not enough awareness of how to use it properly.
And then—
I see him.
It's immediate, not because he draws attention, but because he doesn't fit into the pattern the others fall into so easily. He's smaller. Not weak—no, that would be inaccurate. There's muscle there, built deliberately, shaped through effort rather than natural dominance. It shows in the way he stands, the tension in his posture, the way he holds himself like he's constantly aware of being watched.
The cap doesn't hide it.
If anything, it confirms it.
Blackmore.
The Omega everyone was talking about earlier.
My gaze lingers just a fraction longer than necessary, enough to register everything I need. Then I look away before it becomes noticeable.
"Warm-up laps!" the instructor calls.
The line breaks, and we start running.
The pace settles quickly, though not evenly. Some push too fast, trying to prove something. Others lag slightly, conserving energy they don't know how to manage properly. I don't adjust. I don't need to. My pace is steady from the start, my breathing controlled, my stride efficient in a way that doesn't require correction.
"This is already annoying," someone mutters behind me after the first lap.
"No kidding," another replies, breath heavier than it should be this early. "We just got here."
"Then you should've been ready," Kieran says from my left, his tone edged with amusement.
I don't join the conversation.
Instead, I look ahead.
Blackmore is there again, just slightly ahead of the main group. Not fast enough to stand out, not slow enough to fall behind. Controlled. Calculated. He's pacing himself properly, which is more than I can say for most of them.
It's… unexpected.
But it doesn't change anything.
He still doesn't belong here.
We run lap after lap, the rhythm settling deeper, the strain becoming more visible in the others. Breathing grows heavier. Steps lose consistency. Posture breaks.
He adjusts.
Not dramatically, but enough to keep going without falling apart.
That's the problem.
He shouldn't be keeping up like this.
"Pair up!"
The command cuts through everything, and movement follows immediately. People shift, choosing partners quickly. I don't move. I don't need to.
Kieran steps in front of me with a grin. "You're with me. Don't even think about pretending you didn't hear that."
"I wasn't."
"Good," he says, smirking, then slowly his smirk vanished when he realized that he had set himself up for failure. "I'm losing this, aren't I?" I shrugged.
We take our positions as the instructor explains the drill—controlled sparring, focus on timing, precision over strength. Finally, something that requires actual skill.
Kieran moves first, fast enough to be respectable but not refined enough to be difficult. I block easily, redirecting his momentum, countering without wasting movement. Every strike is measured, placed exactly where it needs to be.
"Okay," he breathes out after the second exchange, adjusting his stance. "You're not holding back at all, are you?"
"No."
He grins slightly despite the strain. "Good. I'd be bored if you were."
Around us, the sound of impact builds—bodies hitting the ground, instructors correcting mistakes, frustration slipping into movements that should be controlled.
And again—
I notice him.
Blackmore is across the field, paired with someone bigger. Predictable. The other Alpha relies on strength, pushing forward aggressively, trying to overwhelm him.
It doesn't work.
Blackmore steps back, shifts his weight, and uses the momentum against him instead of meeting it directly. It's smart. Controlled. Deliberate in a way that suggests he's been doing this long enough to know his limits.
But he still gets hit.
Not cleanly.
Not decisively.
But enough.
He stumbles back, catches himself quickly, and for a second—just a second—his control slips. His jaw tightens. His shoulders tense.
Then he resets.
Keeps going.
Doesn't stop.
That's the part that doesn't make sense.
"Focus," Kieran says, snapping my attention back.
"I am."
"You're watching the others."
"And you're still off-balance."
He exhales sharply as I take advantage of it, sweeping his legs out from under him and sending him to the ground harder than before. He lands with a grunt, then lets out a breath, staring up at me for a second before laughing quietly.
"Alright," he says, pushing himself up. "That one was on me."
"It usually is."
"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, shaking his head. "You're insufferable."
"I've been told."
Training continues, intensity building, movements sharpening, mistakes becoming more obvious with every round. And through all of it, I keep noticing him—how he moves, how he adapts, how he refuses to stop even when he should.
It's unnecessary.
It's inefficient.
It's—
Persistent.
I drag my hand across my jaw, wiping away sweat as the instructor calls for another reset. Across the field, Blackmore straightens again, breathing heavier now, movements slower but still controlled.
Still standing.
Still here.
I watch him for a second longer than I should.
Then I look away.
Because sooner or later—
I'll make sure he understands exactly why that won't last.