"The sentencing of Kim Sol, the youngest biological son of the ZQ Holdings and X Pharmaceutical conglomerate, has just been pronounced," the reporter shouted into her microphone, her voice competing with the roar of the crowd. She adjusted her stance, ensuring the news channel's logo was perfectly framed against the backdrop of the high court.
Behind her, the scene was a chaotic sea of lenses and flashbulbs. Hundreds of media outlets had descended upon the courthouse, their drones hovering like mechanical vultures overhead. This wasn't just a legal proceeding; it was a cultural earthquake. In a society strictly governed by the secondary gender hierarchy, the "Elite" class usually operated above the law.
"This verdict is staggering," the reporter continued, breathless. "Public speculation leaned heavily toward an acquittal, as is common for those of his stature. The young heir was embroiled in a massive controversy involving 'Ecstasy K'—a synthetic drug circulating in the shadows of high-society clubs. It's a substance known to wreak havoc on the pheromonal stability of Alphas and Omegas alike."
She paused as a wave of shouting erupted behind her.
"Last year, a similar case involving high-profile personnel resulted in a mere slap on the wrist due to 'insufficient evidence.' But today, the Attorney General seems determined to prove that no one is above the law, regardless of their lineage. Some say this is a targeted move against ZQ conglomerate X pharmaceutical growing monopoly on secondary gender suppressants…"
The reporter was cut off by a surge in the crowd. She spun around, signaling her cameraman to follow. A phalanx of specialized guards, their heavy tactical gear designed to withstand Alpha pheromone outbursts, led a figure down the stone steps.
The man was swallowed by an oversized grey sweater, his head bowed. Questions were screamed at him ,vicious, prying things, but he remained a silent void at the center of the storm. The police shoved through the mob, creating a narrow, violent path toward a reinforced transport van. Just as they reached the doors, the jacket slipped, revealing a glimpse of a pale, sharp jawline and a look of profound boredom before he was shoved inside and the doors slammed shut.
A dry, jagged scoff echoed through the prison cafeteria.
I took a bite of my cold rice, my eyes fixed on the small, flickering television mounted high on the concrete wall. "Complete idiots," I muttered. It was obviously a diversion. A high-value asset like Kim Sol wouldn't be paraded through a front entrance unless they wanted a spectacle. He was likely already miles away, being processed through a private subterranean entrance while those reporters froze in the cold for a glimpse of a body double.
Still, I had to admit, the verdict was a curveball. Men like him don't go to prison. They go to 'rehabilitation retreats' with silk sheets and five-star chefs. The idea of a ZQ conglomerate heir being tossed into a cage with the rest of us was almost enough to make me feel intrigued. Almost.
I rolled my eyes and shoved another spoonful of the bland grains into my mouth. He'd probably be in a luxury wing anyway, with guards acting as his personal valets.
The food was whack, as usual, but the current cook was an improvement over the last one. Mostly because the Beta was terrified of me. I didn't have to say a word; my scent did the talking for me. Even in a place like this, an S-class Alpha was a biological apex.
I had tried to keep a low profile when I first arrived, but prison attracts a specific type of 'corky' Alpha ,the kind who thinks a loud bark and a thick neck make them king. After a few of them tried to one-up me, I had to set the record straight They had tried to test me, to see if the rumors of the 'S-Class Alpha' were true. It's safe to say that after the first five men ended up in the infirmary with their jaws wired shut. Now, no one dared approach my table. I preferred the quiet. I didn't want favors, and I certainly didn't want friends. I just needed to finish my time.
Though, 'finishing' a life sentence for a serial killer is a bit of a paradox.
The public called me "The Tongue Ripper." A bit dramatic, but accurate. My victims were always found missing their tongues. In my defense, they talked too much. The begging, the pathetic crying, the excuses they made for the lives they had ruined - it got irritating fast. People felt sorry for them, but they were scum. Rapists who thought their secondary gender gave them a license to prey on the weak. I was just removing the rot.
The judge had expected remorse. He wanted to see me cower, hoping a display of broken spirit would justify a lighter sentence. I just smirked at him. It was hilarious, really. The police spent years embarrassed by their inability to catch me. They only have me now because I wanted to be caught. I had a job to do inside these walls.
Being an S-class Alpha only fueled the media frenzy. In this age, the secondary gender is everything.
Alphas: The leaders and protectors, ranked from S-class down to B-class.
Betas: The steady majority, the "normal" ones who don't deal with the biological volatility of heats or ruts.
Omegas: The ones often marginalized, also ranked S through B.
S-class Alphas like me are rare—biological anomalies that the government is obsessed with replicating. They even have campaigns to incentivize people to sign up for experimentation. They wanted to save me, to use me, but my crimes were too heinous for a public pardon. The backlash would have burned the city down.
I finished my meal and stood up. The cafeteria went momentarily still. I could feel their eyes,dozens of Alphas , Betas and omegas gauging my movement, looking for a sign of aggression. It always amazed me how much they feared a man who was just walking to a trash can.
Life here was a cycle of boredom, punctuated by the occasional intense rut. My ruts were more violent than a standard Alpha's, a side effect of the S-class biology. I wasn't the type to force an Omega; the very thought made my skin crawl. It went against everything I stood for. But I didn't stay celibate. I chose the inmates who were in here for the same crimes I punished on the outside. I made sure they knew what it felt like to be powerless. When I called, they ran to me like pathetic dogs, terrified and eager to please the monster that could break them.
The jail therapist, a Beta who smelled perpetually of anxiety and cheap coffee, had asked if I had trauma. I laughed in his face. I asked him if he felt sorry for the men I used. He had squirmed, his eyes darting to the door. Since then, I just used the therapy room as a nap lounge. No one bothered me there.
Back in the cafeteria, the guards returned, their batons tapping against their palms. They signaled for us to file into lines. It was unusual; our wing was the "Quiet Wing." Contraband was rare, and trouble was usually dealt with internally.
After a headcount, we were led back to our cells. The routine felt off, a tension humming in the air that I couldn't quite place.
Later, during yard time, I sat on my usual bench. I did a few sets of press-ups, feeling the familiar pull of my muscles, before settling back to watch. I focused my hearing- an S-class trait that allowed me to pick up whispers from across the pavement. I tuned into a group of inmates huddled near the fence, picking up snippets of Intel about a new arrival in the medical wing.
When the whistle blew, I headed back. My cell was a solo unit - a privilege and a curse. It kept me isolated but also meant I had to work harder to get Intel on what I wanted.
I stood in front of the heavy door, waiting for the electronic click. When it opened, I stepped inside, my mind already drifting toward sleep. I let out a long sigh and began to lay down on the floor.
Suddenly, a movement in the corner of my vision triggered every instinct I had.
I didn't think; I moved. I lunged, sweeping the intruder's feet out from under them. The person hit the timber floor with a heavy thud, a towel flying from their hand and landing in the dust. I pinned them down, my hand clamping around their throat in a crushing chokehold.
The person beneath me thrashed, their fingers tapping frantically against my forearm - the universal sign for surrender.
I slowed my pulse, my Alpha instincts gradually receding as I realized I wasn't being attacked. I reluctantly loosened my grip. The intruder gasped, coughing violently as they turned their head to face me.
My breath hitched.