The body was still warm.

Alta groaned, hating that his wrists hadn’t healed as he tried to shift the dead alpha off him. He couldn’t remember what day the alpha had snapped them, but it had happened too recently. His healing, unfortunately, wasn’t very fast, even when he had his name back. Somewhere in the apartment, the faint buzz of the heater kicked on again, stirring a cold draft from under the window frame. The scent of pine lingered from a broken candle Neralle had dropped off before all of this began. He never even got to light it.

The past three weeks had been exactly what Alta expected. Allssaai, well, Yna, had stayed during the first two weeks, during his heat, when his abuse was “palatable” for her. Where she got to play the role of loving beta while his body was used by the alpha she chose and she could remind him that he could end this. That he knew how to break his curse, so he must love it too. 

“Fucking, stupid ass bitch, making me miss Rosa’s funeral,” Alta cursed, attempting to shift his shoulder again, but stopping as soon as pain ran up the whole length of his back. Whatever was broken was telling him not to move and Alta closed his eyes to stop himself from crying. He was tired of this, but he was not going to let her find him crying. Bad enough that she had come back every day, never into the room of course, not after his heat ended. She didn’t want to be there for that part, when the forced rut she caused killed the alpha. When the assault would be non-stop, and not loving.

After all, this one was never meant to last. It was just to hurt him.

Alta lay still under the weight of the corpse, jaw clenched tight against the burn in his eyes. The alpha’s body had started to cool. If he shifted just a little, he could feel the difference; heat withdrawing, like even death had the decency to leave him alone. Too bad the stench wouldn’t. The rut always brought it: sweat, blood, desperation. It lived in the folds of the sheets, on his skin, in the bruises pressed deep enough to mimic fingerprints. He tried not to gag.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered, voice hollow in the stale air. It wasn’t even about pride anymore. Crying made it worse. For him. For the memory of who he was. For the bitter, stubborn thing inside him that still believed this wasn't it. That there had to be an end, not just more of this.

He kicked his heel into the mattress and slid his legs out from under the alpha’s limp ones. His hips cracked, his thighs spasmed, but the lower half of him was free now. He turned his head to the side, bracing against the rush of bile that always came after it was over, and heaved. Nothing came up but the spasms still shook him hard.

“Khezen,” Yna’s voice made Alta freeze. On one hand, at least it was her voice and not the voice of a new alpha she intended to force him. After all, she couldn’t be his master; it had to be a human. On the other… Well, it was her. “Do you need help?”

Alta looked away as the door to his bedroom opened, and her steps crossed the threshold like she had any right. The sunlight from the hall cast a clean, golden wedge across the filth-streaked floorboards, and still, she didn’t flinch. The weight of the dead alpha still bore down on his chest, not just in body but in the stink of failure and used-up rage. He felt like a tomb, still warm, barely breathing.

“You look awful,” she murmured, a slight pout to her voice. He groaned as she lifted the body off him with a strength few would believe she had, dumping the body to the side like a pile of dirty laundry. “You can’t go to work like that.”

“W-work?”

“Of course, I only called you off for three days,” Yna laughed and Alta closed his eyes as she grabbed his face, her touch soft as she tilted his face to hers. “Look at me Khezen, or I’ll find someone else to say your name again.”

Alta slowly forced his eyes to open, noticing how Yna was playing with the red strands of his hair with her free hand. He wanted to spit at her to stop, that she could at least leave his damn hair alone, but the look in her eyes made him swallow the words. She wasn’t wearing her true form, her golden hair traded for chestnut and those candy pink eyes were now a rich hazel. 

But her expression held everything she wasn’t saying and it made Alta’s heart freeze in his chest. She had another alpha ready if he so much as twitched wrong.

“After all,” Yna finally cooed, relaxing her grip on his face as she brushed her thumb across his cheek, “a good Omega doesn’t miss work.”

Alta slowly nodded, his breathing starting to grow rapid as his fear grew, blinking back the tears that still wanted to spill. Gods, not here, not in front of her. 

“Right. So go take a shower and have a good night at work,” Yna purred, finally releasing Alta’s hair as she stood, picking up the dead alpha’s body as if it weighed nothing. “Me and your new master will pick you from your shift. I wouldn’t suggest being late.”

With that, she left. The door clicked softly behind her, and that sound, almost polite in its quietness, made Alta’s stomach turn more than the stench still clinging to the room.

He didn’t move for a long moment.

There was a steady beat behind his ribs, hollow but constant. If he moved too fast, he’d puke for real. If he moved too slow, he wouldn’t move at all. 

Every part of him was screaming at once but none of it louder than the still, buzzing terror settling back into his lungs. He finally rolled onto his side, arm pressed close to his stomach, and tried to push himself up. The floor met his knees like a slap, the cold wood sticking to his skin. The alpha’s fluids had dried in patches across the sheets and across him, and everything about it burned into the seams of his body.

It felt like days, but he managed to crawl his way to his bathroom, his wrists and legs finally healing enough for him to stand. He wanted to take a bath, but knowing Yna, he was lucky if he had an hour to get to work.

The sound of the shower running was almost too much. It was too normal, too safe; a lie dressed in the sound of rushing water. Steam rose quickly, curling around the cracked mirror and fogging over the reflection he couldn’t look at anyway. Alta stood just outside the spray for a long time, head bowed, hands braced on the tile wall, watching the water spiral into the drain.

He didn’t want to go, but he knew what would happen if he didn’t. She would corner him with another alpha saying his name, and she would put him through the same hell again. Maybe worse, maybe longer. 

Alta stepped into the shower.

He was tired of this game. 

Tired of centuries where she left him alone where he managed the curse himself, only to show back up and torture him more. Tired of her pretending it was his fault. Tired of pretending there was a way out, that he was just too afraid to take it.

The water was scalding, but he didn’t turn it down. He let it hit his skin like punishment, chasing the filth, the sweat, the stench, the skin-crawling phantom of touch from his bones. Black streaked down the drain; dried blood from where the alpha’s nails had split his shoulders, from his cracked lip, from somewhere deeper he didn’t want to think about. Alta scrubbed his skin raw, ribs heaving under the weight of breath that never came easy anymore. 

“Khezen,” Alta whispered. He wanted to be relieved he could say his own name. 

He wasn’t.

He dressed slowly.

Alta stood in front of the mirror again, not looking at his face. The air in the apartment was colder than usual. After all, late December never let the walls warm up properly, especially in buildings this old. He normally just wore a sweater and sweats but he decided to take a page out of Nerallel's book tonight. He smoothed the long thermal sleeves down over his wrists, hiding the faint bruising still blooming purple and green beneath his skin. The simple pair of tights barely did anything to cover the ache in his legs and he quickly slid on his work boots.

Alta looked at himself in the mirror, hating the person he saw reflected back at him. The red hair he had loved, now tainted by her touch. His hollowed out green eyes that three weeks ago had been so full of quiet peace. Not hope, never that, but peace. He slowly gathered up the strands, doing his best to tie them back. The braid came together loosely, fingers clumsy from exhaustion, and every pull reminded him of Yna’s hand threading through the same hair like it belonged to her. When it was done, he left the elastic crooked and unraveling at the end. Let it fall apart if it wanted.

He was past caring.

He arrived three minutes early.

The bakery was dark like always, but Alta let himself in with his key. He considered using magic, using his powers just because he could, but instead he simply fumbled for the key from his bag. Most of the decorations had already been removed, and someone had shoved a fake pine tree into a dumpster on the next block over, ornaments still attached. It had started to feel like even the decorations were exhausted.

He stepped inside, cut on the lights, turned on the ovens, glanced at the prep list that had been left for him to complete. Pulled on his apron like the last three weeks hadn’t happened.

The air inside the bakery was blessedly cold, a balm against his still-throbbing skin, and the silence wrapped around him like a thin, worn-out blanket. He tied the apron behind his back, wincing as the motion pulled against the bruising on his ribs. He didn’t bother adjusting it again. Every part of him ached, but this was the closest thing to mercy he’d known in days.

As he moved, weighing ingredients, pre-icing cakes for the decorators to finish, baking off fresh cookies, Alta felt his movement get easier and easier. His body healed with every hour that passed, knit back together under the repetition of muscle memory and the rhythm of routine. Sugar, flour, eggs, oil. Crack, pour, mix. The act of measuring calmed his breathing. The beat of the stand mixer drowned out the echoes in his head. By the time the first batch of muffins had risen golden and fragrant in the oven, he could almost pretend he was okay.

He rolled out cookie dough and cut out shapes by hand. Party hats, fat stars, crescent moons, all precise, clean cuts for New Year’s. His hands, once shaking, grew steadier. There was always something to do here, something that didn’t talk back or demand anything of him but effort and attention. Something that didn’t use his name like a leash.

“Khezen,” Alta muttered again, softer this time, feeling the way the name curled in his mouth. Not hers. Not theirs. His. A slow, bitter warmth moved behind his sternum, too shallow to be defiance, too painful to be pride. Still, he said it again, quieter. “I'm Khezen.”

Morning light started to creep through the glass walls of the bakery and Alta frowned, glancing up at the calendar. Oh; it was a Saturday. He had to open alone and Neralle wouldn’t arrive for two more hours. Alta sighed, pulling the display trays into place. The ache in his back flared again when he bent to retrieve the last one, but he swallowed the grunt of pain and set the tray in the case like nothing hurt.

The warm smell of cinnamon, yeast, and sweet butter thickened the air. He used to love this smell. Now it was just another layer of camouflage. Another thing to sink into so he wouldn’t have to think. So no one would look at him too closely. If they didn’t look, they wouldn’t ask. And if they didn’t ask, he wouldn’t have to lie.

He turned back to the prep table and resumed his list. Focaccia dough. Lemon glaze. Inventory restock. Blueberry scones, double batch. Everything had its place. Everything could be measured, balanced, made to come out right.

Unlike his own body. His own name. His own life.

The sound of the bell above the front door startled him.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Alta managed noticing it was just some of the morning customers. He always forgot the front door was on a timer and unlocked automatically when the store was open. “Any joe this morning?”

“Nah, just grab and go today,” the older gentleman chuckled and Alta laughed back, moving to the register as he logged in. He didn’t bother to count the drawer; Neralle would take care of it when they came in. The man left with a thank-you and a bag of cranberry scones, the last from the pre-Christmas batch that hadn’t sold. 

After walking goodbye to the last customer in line, Alta’s eyes landed on another patron who was sitting in a corner of the bakery. They hadn’t said a word to him when they walked in and Alta started to open his mouth when they coughed and he froze. 

Dying. 

He knew the sound of that cough too well. They were a beta with cyphora cancer, and it was killing them. Months, maybe a year, if they could afford medication. Alta’s eyes narrowed. The beta hadn’t ordered anything, hadn’t so much as lifted their gaze from the crumpled receipt they were now folding and unfolding between thin fingers. But it wasn’t just the cough that had caught him. It was the fact they were here. An option.  

“Don’t do it, Alta.” He muttered, even as his hands already started to undo the tie on his apron. 

“She’ll kill you this time.” Even as he clocked out from his shift early. 

“This is pointless.” As he walked out from behind the counter. 

Alta walked over the dying man, his steps careful and deliberate, each one a denial of what he was about to do. The beta didn’t look up. The crumpled receipt had been folded into a jagged triangle, then flattened again. They were humming something, a tune Alta didn’t quite recognize. He knew couldn’t help them. No amount of magic would stop them from dying, but it didn’t matter. 

He needed them. 

“Hey.”

Their hollow eyes met his. 

“I’m Khezen.”

A slight smile on their lips. 

“Oh, hi… Khezen? Hope I said that right.”

Alta dropped to his knees almost immediately, his body once again racked with pain as the curse took its hold, once again changing him to the shape she wanted. Beta to Omega. His to hers. Biology rewritten, his name gone, and his magic no longer his to wield. 

But it also wasn’t hers this time.

Alta panted as he started to stand, noticing the confused and worried look on the beta’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain what he had tricked them into doing, but the words died when he saw who was standing outside the glass.

Yna. And there was no mistaking her rage this time. 

Alta didn’t think. He didn’t have time to. He wasn’t even sure if he apologized to the beta before he moved. He had a master, but his body was still vulnerable. He needed to find a rutting alpha, any alpha, to mark him before the one standing behind Yna could. He knew it was a crime, but a jail cell was better than her. Anything was.

Alta ran.