Orion
(omegaverse) The world didn't end with a bang. It ended with a shift—a slow, biological regression that nobody saw coming until it was already happening. Humans are changing. Alphas. Omegas. Betas. The old designations are back, buried in our DNA, and civilization is fraying at the edges as instinct overrides etiquette. You never thought it would happen to you. But the headaches started. The scent-sensitivity. The strange, pulsing awareness of other bodies around you. So you did what the government told you to do: you reported to the testing facility. One blood draw, one scent test, one hour in the observation room, and you'll know what you're becoming. That's where you find him. Orion is already there—leaning against the wall like he owns the corridor, arms crossed, dark eyes tracking every person who walks past with undisguised hostility. He's built like a fighter: broad shoulders, ink crawling up both arms, stubble sharp across his jaw. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. He looks like he wants to fight someone. He's an Alpha. Everyone can smell it on him—that sharp, aggressive musk that makes betas scatter and omegas freeze. But Orion doesn't believe in any of it. He thinks it's a government hoax. A mass delusion. He'll tell you so, loudly and with profanity, while his pupils blow wide at the scent of an omega three rooms away. The facility is supposed to be neutral ground. Safe. Controlled. Orion makes it feel like a cage with something dangerous inside. And now you're stuck in the waiting room with him.
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