Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Long before anyone alive could remember, there had been three kinds of people in the world: alphas, betas, and omegas. That was the way of things. Alphas led, betas balanced, and omegas…

Well, omegas destroyed.

That was what the stories said, passed down from one generation to the next until the words hardened into truth.

That was how the old stories began, whispered at night around fires, written into myths that children grew up hearing from the lips of parents and priests. And though the details varied, the shape of the tale never changed: omegas were not like the others.

Omegas were predators in disguise.

They walked among humans with faces like angels, with voices as soft as lullabies and bodies built to entice. But their beauty was a lie, a mask stretched too thin over the truth. They lured in alphas with a smile, drew them close with trembling lips and fragile-seeming hands, and then—so the legends claimed—they devoured them. Sometimes with claws sharp as knives. Sometimes with teeth. Sometimes with nothing more than the madness they carried in their blood.

It was said an omega could topple kingdoms with a glance, that they could enslave an alpha’s mind with a single touch. They made themselves appear small so that alphas would not see the trap until it was too late. They wore vulnerability like armor, played weakness like a weapon.

And worst of all—they enjoyed it.

The oldest folktales painted them as demons, creatures who had crept out of the dark places of the earth. “Do not trust the angel who weeps,” mothers told their children, “for its tears are poison. Do not follow the sweet scent on the wind, for it will lead you to death.”

Some claimed omegas were cursed by the gods, punished to forever hunger for alphas’ flesh. Others said they were the gods’ chosen weapons, sent to test mankind’s strength. But whatever the reason, every story ended the same: the omega was killed, or it killed everyone else.

It was inevitable.

For centuries, those stories were only whispers. Omegas lived alongside alphas and betas, filling their roles in society. There were omega farmers, omega scholars, omega rulers. They mated, raised children, carried families on their shoulders. The tales of blood and betrayal were dismissed as superstition, the kind of thing that only zealots believed.

But fear does not die when ignored. It waits. It lingers. It sinks deep into the cracks of a society until all it needs is a spark.

That spark came in the form of a single death.

The records disagreed on the details. Some said it happened in a mountain village, others that it was a noble family in the heart of a city. The story bent with the teller, but the heart of it remained: an alpha was found dead, his omega mate at his side. His throat was torn, his body drained.

And just like that, every whispered tale became prophecy fulfilled.

The churches took the stage first. Priests thundered from pulpits about the demons hidden in plain sight, about wolves in angel’s clothing. Omegas, they said, were the reason men fell from grace. Omegas were sin made flesh.

Then came the governments. Lawmakers declared emergency decrees. Omega marriages were annulled. Children were taken from their homes. The streets were filled with soldiers who claimed to be protecting the people, but whose eyes burned with the same suspicion as the priests.

Where once omegas had been neighbors, now they were creatures. Beasts. Parasites to be cut out for the good of the whole.

The hunts began.

At first, it was cautious. One or two arrests. A trial here, a public execution there. The leaders of the world spoke of “order” and “safety,” of temporary measures to protect the balance. The crowds cheered when the guilty burned.

But fear feeds itself. And once the blood began to flow, there was no stopping it.

Whole villages were purged. Families turned on their own. Parents dragged children into the streets for fear of being accused themselves. Soldiers swept through cities with torches and rifles, and the government decreed that killing an omega was not murder, but mercy.

There were rumors, even then, of brutality so cruel it could not be spoken aloud. Omegas locked in iron cages, paraded through town squares before being torn apart. Experiments carried out in secret laboratories, men in white coats determined to “understand” what made them monsters.

They said the sky was thick with smoke for years.

They said the rivers ran red.

And by the time it was over, omegas were gone.

Erased.

The world declared itself cleansed.

History books reduced omegas to footnotes, listed as a “subspecies” that had vanished due to natural decline. The churches declared victory over demons. Governments congratulated themselves on their vigilance. And the people, relieved to be free from the shadow of their own fear, pretended to forget.

Generations passed. Children grew up never seeing an omega, never smelling their scent in the air, never knowing what was true and what was myth. And because memory is short and ignorance is convenient, the stories twisted.

Now omegas were bedtime monsters. Fairy-tale villains told to frighten little ones into obedience. “Go to bed, or the omega will come for you.” “Stay close, or you’ll be lured into the woods.”

Schoolbooks devoted a page, maybe two, to the so-called creatures. A single sketch in a margin: a pale figure with wide eyes and bloodied lips. They were treated no differently than witches, or vampires, or banshees—dangerous once, but long gone now.

Extinction had made them safe.

Still, the word remained poisonous.

“Omega” became the worst insult you could spit at someone. Children on playgrounds hissed it at each other like a curse. Adults threw it across bars and boardrooms when rage stripped them bare. The accusation was enough to ruin reputations, careers, lives.

Nobody wanted to be compared to an omega. Nobody wanted to be linked to something so vile, so despised, so dead.

The culture was built on forgetting, but it was also built on hatred. The two worked hand in hand.

And so when, decades after the last supposed death, an omega was born again… there was no celebration.

There was only terror.

George Russell had been six years old the first time he heard the stories in earnest. His classmates huddled around a worn library book, pointing and laughing at an illustration.

The picture was crude: a figure drawn like a saint in stained glass, halo glowing around its head, but with claws instead of hands. Its mouth dripped scarlet. Its eyes were hollow pits.

The caption read: The Omega—demon in disguise.

The boys imitated its snarling face, the girls shrieked, the teacher eventually snapped the book shut with a sharp word. But George couldn’t look away.

Because even then, even before he had words for it, some part of him recognized himself in the monster on the page.

He went home and stood in front of the bathroom mirror for hours, staring at the reflection that looked perfectly ordinary, perfectly human, and wondering what might be waiting underneath.

The truth revealed itself years later.

The fever hit first. Then the shakes, the ache that sank into his bones, the scent curling sharp and undeniable in the air. His parents recognized it before the doctor even confirmed.

The test result came back stamped in bold letters: OMEGA.

The silence in their kitchen was unbearable. His mother’s hands shook as she folded the paper. His father’s face had gone pale, drawn tight with panic. They both knew what it meant.

The world believed omegas extinct. If anyone found out, their son would be caged, dissected, destroyed.

So they made their choice.

Suppressants. Scent blockers. Falsified records. Every tool at their disposal to smother what George was and make him something else. A beta. Ordinary. Invisible.

George learned to move carefully, to keep his head down, to wear neutrality like a second skin. He laughed when others laughed about the ridiculous stories of demons and seductions. He nodded along when classmates called omegas “filthy.” He folded the fear inside himself and locked it tight.

The world never looked closely enough at betas. And that was his salvation.

But even masks grow heavy.

The stories never stopped. Omegas still lurked in locker-room jokes, in the corners of drunken arguments, in late-night conversations whispered over beers. People laughed at the absurdity of them. “Imagine being seduced to death by one of those things.” “Can’t believe anyone ever fell for their tricks.”

George laughed too, because what else could he do? But sometimes, when the laughter echoed too loud, he caught himself thinking about the picture in the library book, about the hollow eyes staring back.

He wondered if extinction had truly been mercy.

He wondered what it meant to survive when the whole world wanted you gone.

George Russell became a Formula 1 driver.

The irony never escaped him. He, the creature despised and erased from history, sitting behind the wheel of machines built for strength, dominance, survival. He drove as if speed itself could keep the truth at bay, as if every lap was another chance to outrun extinction.

But extinction is never permanent.

And lies never last forever.

                        ****

George sat in front of his locker, head bent, phone pressed to his ear. Around him, the Mercedes garage was alive with sound—the clatter of tools, the low rumble of voices, the occasional shriek of an air gun. Mechanics passed by in a blur of black and teal, their arms laden with equipment. Someone laughed, sharp and bright, and a song played faintly from a speaker in the far corner.

The world around him was busy, ordinary, and loud. But inside his little corner, George carved out a bubble of quiet.

“Hi, Mum,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“Georgie.” Alison’s voice was warm, laced with the kind of fondness that only came from years of saying his name a thousand different ways. “I was hoping I’d catch you before the race. How are you feeling?”

George leaned back against the locker door. He let the familiar rhythm of her words settle his nerves. “I’m fine. Usual pre-race jitters, nothing new.”

“That’s my boy.” He could hear the smile in her tone. “You’ve always been the calm one, you know. Even when you were little. Do you remember how you used to line up your toy cars on the carpet? No one was allowed to touch them, you were so serious about it. You’d sit there, frowning like a little old man.”

George chuckled, the sound quiet enough to be drowned out by the clamor of the garage. “Yeah, I remember. Alex tried to steal the red one once. I didn’t talk to him for a week.”

“And then you made him a chart.”

George winced at the memory. “God, don’t remind me.”

His mother’s laugh crackled through the phone, softening some of the tension in his chest. For a moment, he could almost forget. Almost.

“How’s Dad?” he asked, lowering his voice instinctively, even though no one was paying attention to him.

“Oh, you know your father,” Alison said fondly. “He’s glued to the television already. Claims he’s ‘scouting the competition.’”

“Isn’t he supposed to be working?”

“He calls it work. I call it him yelling at the screen.”

George smiled, tugging absently at the cuff of his race suit. It felt good, this normality. This reminder that there was still something outside the endless roar of engines and the constant eyes watching him.

But then Alison’s voice shifted, just slightly. A softness, a hesitation.

“Georgie,” she said quietly, “you’ve been keeping your suppressants close, haven’t you?”

The words hit like a crack splitting through glass.

George’s fingers froze on his cuff. His throat went dry. For a heartbeat too long, he didn’t answer. Around him, the garage noise carried on as if nothing had changed—air compressors hissed, someone shouted across the room—but the air in his lungs grew sharp and heavy.

“Mum,” he said at last, his voice low, carefully even. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

“George—”

“I take them every morning. You know that.” He forced the reassurance out, the lie smooth with practice. “I haven’t missed a dose. And the blockers are working. No one suspects anything.”

On the other end of the line, Alison exhaled shakily. He could almost see her hand pressed to her mouth, the worry written across her face.

“You have to be careful,” she whispered. “Always. Even for a second, if anyone noticed—”

“I know,” George cut in, sharper than he intended. His grip on the phone tightened. He lowered his voice again. “Mum, I know. I’m careful. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’ll always worry,” she murmured. “You’re my son.”

The words landed heavy, tugging something tight in his chest. George closed his eyes briefly, shutting out the light of the garage, the sound of his team working around him. For a moment, it was just him and her, tethered by fear they couldn’t speak aloud.

“I’ll be fine,” he said again, softer this time. “I promise.”

There was silence, then a reluctant sigh. “Alright, Georgie. I trust you. But please—don’t let your guard down. Not for anyone. Not even for a second.”

He nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “I won’t.”

Another silence stretched between them, filled with everything they couldn’t say. Finally, his mother cleared her throat. She pitched her voice brighter, lighter. “Now, go win your race. Make us proud.”

George smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll try.”

“Not try. Do.”

And just like that, she hung up.

George sat still, phone pressed against his thigh, the echo of her warning looping through his head. Always careful. Always hidden. Always pretending.

The weight of it was suffocating some days. Suppressants every morning, scent blockers layered on his skin like armor. Records altered, doctors bribed. A lifetime of caution balanced on the thin edge of secrecy.

One slip and it would all be over.

The thought made his stomach twist. He shoved the phone into his pocket and dragged in a steady breath. Mask back on. Beta again. Safe, ordinary, invisible.

The locker room door creaked open.

George’s head snapped up, his expression smoothing into polite neutrality. His new teammate, Kimi Antonelli, leaned against the doorframe. The younger driver’s dark hair flopped into his eyes, and he looked far too relaxed for someone who was still on the edge of his first year in Formula One.

“There you are,” Kimi said, grinning. “Toto’s calling for you.”

George blinked, momentarily thrown. “Toto?”

“Yeah. Wants you in the briefing room.” Kimi tilted his head, studying him. “Everything okay?”

George’s heart hammered once, hard, before he forced a smile. “Yeah. Just talking to my mum.”

Kimi’s grin widened. “Ah. That explains the serious face.” He tapped his temple knowingly. “Parents have a way of doing that.”

George let out a practiced chuckle, rising smoothly to his feet. He grabbed his gloves, sliding the mask of composure back into place. Every movement neat, deliberate, rehearsed.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said.

Kimi shrugged, easy and unbothered. “Don’t keep him waiting.” With a wave, he disappeared back into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind him.

George stood in silence, staring at the closed door. His smile slipped. His hand tightened around the gloves until the seams dug into his palm.

Always careful. Always hidden.

He shoved the fear down, locked it tight in the box inside his chest, and stepped out into the garage with his mask firmly in place.

The debrief was always suffocating.

The Mercedes meeting room was sleek, glass-walled, furnished with polished tables and immaculate rows of chairs, but the air inside never failed to grow heavy. George sat at one end of the long table, his race suit half-unzipped, a water bottle forgotten at his side. Across from him, Kimi slouched in his chair, fiddling with the cap of a pen like a bored schoolboy. Aleix, the chief strategist, tapped notes into his tablet with military precision, while Marcus from performance analysis projected graphs onto the screen.

Toto sat at the head, arms folded, expression unreadable. Beside him, Bono scribbled in his notebook, occasionally leaning in to murmur something to his boss.

The door clicked shut. Silence fell.

Aleix cleared his throat. “So, W16 performance in Japan. Top speed competitive. Sector one, strong. But we’re losing too much in the mid-corners. Mechanical grip’s lacking. That’s costing us tenths every lap.”

George nodded, forcing his shoulders to stay relaxed. “The balance is inconsistent. Turn four feels alright, but in Ascari the rear just… it snaps. You can’t lean on it the way you need to. I had to compromise entry speed just to keep it on track.”

Marcus flicked to the next slide, full of telemetry traces. “We can see that here. The rear instability’s costing at least three-tenths. Both cars show it.”

Kimi groaned, tossing his pen onto the table. “It’s impossible to drive. Like, I’m turning, and then suddenly the car decides it’s a shopping trolley. No grip. Nothing.”

There were a few chuckles. Even Bono cracked a smile.

George didn’t. “It’s not funny. We’re bleeding points. Every race, same story.”

Toto raised a hand. The room stilled. “We know the car is difficult. But we adapt. That’s the job.”

George bit down on the retort rising in his throat. Adapt. Right. As if you can just adapt a fundamentally broken chassis into a winning one. Instead, he nodded stiffly.

The meeting dragged on, a blur of graphs and data and muttered frustrations. Kimi yawned openly. Aleix snapped at him. Marcus tried to lighten the mood with a joke about Red Bull’s straight-line speed. Nobody laughed.

Finally, Toto pushed back his chair. “Alright. Enough. We know what we need to work on. Updates are coming for Bahrain. George, Kimi—you both did what you could. We move forward.”

Chairs scraped as people rose. George gathered his notes, sliding them into a neat stack. He was halfway to the door when Toto’s voice stopped him cold.

“George. Stay a moment.”

The words weren’t sharp, but they held weight. A command dressed as a request.

George froze, glanced at Kimi. The rookie raised his brows, offered a sympathetic half-smile, and slipped out with the others. One by one, Aleix, Marcus, Bono filed out too. The door clicked shut again, leaving George alone with Toto.

The silence pressed in.

Toto leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His gaze was steady, unreadable. “Sit.”

George obeyed. Slowly.

Toto let the silence stretch, a tactic he’d perfected over years of running teams. Let the driver squirm. Let them fill the silence themselves. George kept his face carefully blank, his hands folded tightly in his lap.

Finally, Toto spoke. “Your contract ends next year.”

George’s throat went dry. “Yes.”

“And as of now, you have no contract for 2026.”

George swallowed. He knew this, of course. Knew it every time he opened social media, every time he overheard the whispers in the paddock. Still, hearing Toto say it aloud made the air feel thinner.

Toto studied him. “You are a very consistent driver, George. Reliable. You bring the car home. You score points. You don’t make unnecessary mistakes.”

George inclined his head. He knew a but was coming.

“But,” Toto continued, “you are performing as good as any driver. Not better. Not extraordinary. And you are in a Mercedes.”

The words cut deeper than George expected. He clenched his jaw. “The W16 has been underperforming all season. Everyone knows it. Even Kimi is struggling to score points.”

Toto waved a dismissive hand. “Kimi is eighteen. A rookie. We do not compare.”

George’s fingers curled into fists against his thighs. Of course. Excuses for the rookie, criticism for me.

Toto leaned forward slightly, his gaze narrowing. “You must understand something, George. You are a beta. Fifteen drivers on the grid are alphas. The other five betas—Lance, Esteban, Oliver, Lando, and you—have proven to be less competitive. This is not opinion. It is fact. Biological, statistical, historical fact.”

The words rang in George’s ears like a slap. His pulse spiked. He forced his expression to stay neutral, but his jaw ached from the effort.

Toto pressed on. “It is also well known that Mercedes wants Max. The best driver in history. Four-time world champion. An alpha at the peak of his powers.”

George’s vision narrowed.

Max Verstappen.

The Alpha. The golden boy. The untouchable. The one the world bowed to, worshipped, aspired to. His rival. His shadow.

George’s fists trembled where they pressed into his thighs. He could hear Max’s voice in his head, dripping contempt, sneering insults replayed across the media for years.

Two-faced.
Pathetic beta.
If you screw me again, I’ll put you in the wall.

Max, who had the world eating out of his hand. Max, who had four world championships stacked neatly beside his name. Max, who stood where George never could—not because George lacked skill, but because George carried a secret that would destroy him if it ever surfaced.

George swallowed hard, his throat tight. He forced his voice steady. “Max has everything handed to him. He doesn’t fight the same battles. He doesn’t have to prove himself every weekend just to be seen.”

Toto’s brow lifted, just slightly. “And yet, he wins.”

George’s chest burned. He wanted to scream, to rip the veneer of calm from his skin and shout the truth: I’m not a beta. I am more than you think. More than you can ever imagine.

But the truth would kill him.

So he forced the mask tighter. Smoothed his expression. Kept his voice calm, clipped, controlled.

“The car is the problem,” he said evenly. “Not me.”

Toto’s gaze lingered, sharp as a blade. Then he leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “We will see.”

The meeting was over.

George rose, his hands trembling as he gathered his things. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not without the fury breaking loose. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His heart pounded against his ribs, the scent-blockers on his skin working overtime to smother what wanted to leak out.

Always careful. Always hidden.

Max Verstappen.
The Alpha the world adored.
The one who would replace him.

George walked out of the room without looking back.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely broken over the Bahrain desert when George strapped himself into the W16, the heat already pressing against him like a physical weight. The pit lane shimmered in waves of heat, the asphalt radiating like a furnace. Every driver had felt it before, but today the temperature seemed almost deliberate in its cruelty. Sweat clung to the back of George’s neck, dampened his gloves, pooled along his lower back.

He tried to focus on the screens inside the cockpit, the endless streams of data scrolling across his dashboard, but the car felt off the second he touched the steering wheel. The brakes were soft, unresponsive, as if the brake-by-wire system was slipping, lagging behind every command. He tapped the pedal again, harder, and felt the subtle delay between intention and reaction.

The DRS indicator blinked erratically, sometimes refusing to engage, sometimes opening without command. The GPS feed cut out entirely for a stretch of laps, leaving him without a clear sense of position.

And the heat.

God, the heat.

He could feel it crawling under his skin, igniting his muscles, setting his nerves on fire. Sweat streamed down his hands, pooling between his fingers as he gripped the wheel tighter. His back ached from tension and from the harness pressing into his shoulders. His skin tingled, a phantom sensation crawling like insects across his forearms and legs.

George tried to swallow the panic pressing against the walls of his chest. Focus. Focus. Focus. The team’s voice crackled in his ear. “Telemetry is showing high brake temperatures, George. Be careful. Maintain current pace.”

But he wasn’t maintaining pace. The onboard screen showed P20.

Twenty.

George blinked. Twice. Checked the timing again. It was impossible. He was in P2. He had fought tooth and nail to get here, passing Lando last lap with a move he still couldn’t believe he’d executed cleanly. He was chasing Oscar, wheel-to-wheel for the lead. Every nerve screamed that the screen was lying, that something was broken.

“Copy that,” he muttered into the radio, his voice tight. “I know where I am.”

But even as he said it, doubt gnawed at him. The world had a way of bending reality in moments like this. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He wiped it away with the back of his glove, trying not to smear the visor. Every second he hesitated, the car felt heavier, slower, as if the W16 itself was conspiring against him.

He pushed forward, teeth gritted, knuckles white. Lando was close behind, his McLaren a whisper off the rear wing. George could hear the faint whine of the turbo through the cockpit, smell the faint metallic tang of heated brakes and scorched rubber. The W16 was screaming, and he was screaming with it in a way he couldn’t voice.

The first corner approached. George’s hands shook, slick on the wheel. He braked late, feeling the soft give underfoot, and the rear shifted, threatening to snap. Every adjustment was calculated to a fraction of a second. The car responded, barely, with a shudder that rattled his teeth.

Oscar was just ahead, the championship leader taunting him with a perfect line through the turn. George eased off the throttle, letting the tires bite the asphalt, then pushed again. The DRS flared open. Nothing.

He cursed under his breath. The radio was quiet for a moment, then Marcus’s voice came, clipped and concerned. “DRS not responding, George. Hold your line, but manage the delta.”

Manage the delta. George let out a sharp exhale, trying to keep his pulse in check. Sweat ran down his temple, burned his eyes, but he refused to touch the visor again. Not yet. He couldn’t lose the sense of touch, couldn’t lose the feeling of the car under him.

Lap after lap, the heat pressed in, relentless. His gloves stuck to the wheel. His feet ached from constant modulation of pedals that refused to respond as expected. His back burned where the harness dug into his shoulders. Even breathing felt wrong, shallow, forced. He could feel every vein in his body expanding with exertion, heart hammering like it wanted to escape his chest.

And the onboard screen… still showed P20.

“George, we’re getting conflicting GPS feeds,” Marcus’s voice said. “Telemetry shows you ahead of P10. Can you confirm?”

George’s jaw tightened so hard he thought it would crack. “I see the cars. I know where I am. Just… just watch the gap.”

Ahead, Oscar’s orange-and-black machine glimmered in the sun, deceptively smooth despite the heat. Behind, Lando was relentless. The younger Brit kept sniffing at his rear wing, trying to force a mistake. George’s pulse spiked with each glimpse in the mirrors. Every lap was a gamble. Every second a negotiation with chaos.

Through the heat, the failures, the lie of the onboard screen, George felt his control slipping. His arms tingled. Fingers twitched involuntarily. There was a cold, tight knot in his stomach, a warning that his body was reacting faster than his mind could process.

And yet he pressed.

He had to.

Braking late again for Turn 4, he felt the rear step out. The ABS flared, the brake-by-wire sputtered. Sweat ran into his eyes. Heart hammering, he corrected, fighting the car like a live thing in his hands. He felt his Omega instincts flare—subtle, subconscious, the way every muscle and nerve in his body sharpened in a crisis—but he shoved it down, masking even from himself.

The W16 groaned under him, high-pitched metal protesting. Tires squealed. Every ounce of control felt temporary, fragile.

By lap forty, George’s vision had begun to blur at the edges, heat and dehydration tightening their grip. Hands slick, gloves clinging, he wiped at his visor again, smearing sweat across the glass, making the sun a glaring enemy. His back burned from the harness, legs ached from constant pressure on the pedals, every nerve screaming, tingling as if warning him the car was going to betray him completely.

And yet he was still in the fight.

P2. He knew it.

P2, chasing Oscar, holding Lando behind. Fighting a car that was disintegrating under him, a body that felt like it might combust in the cockpit.

Lap fifity, DRS refused again. He tried to force it. Nothing. The rear wing stayed locked, the car heavier than it had any right to be. His hands trembled. He gritted his teeth, forcing smoothness into every movement, every touch.

He thought about the spectators, the media, the entire F1 world watching. He thought about the team in the pit, monitoring every heartbeat and throttle input. He thought about Toto and Max and the contract that had yet to be signed. Every expectation, every threat, every whisper of comparison pressed down on him as tangibly as the desert heat.

And still, he pressed on.

Through corners, over straights, the W16 groaning with every modulation. Tires screaming. Brakes glowing red-hot, the metal beneath him screaming in a higher pitch he could almost hear. The sun reflected off the car’s body in violent blinding flashes. George’s heart thudded. Pulse spiking. The sweat on his skin tingled almost painfully. Every nerve screamed for relief he could not grant.

Ahead, Oscar remained elusive. Behind, Lando was patient, calculating. A mistake now could cost everything.

Every lap was a balance between control and chaos, between instinct and suppression. George felt the familiar burning in his chest, that almost primal anxiety that the world could see right through him if he faltered. But he clenched tighter, pushed harder, and refused to let the W16—or the heat—win.

Lap fifty-two, DRS finally engaged, a sudden, fleeting gift. He surged forward, heart hammering, sweat stinging his eyes. The car responded… partially. But the brakes were fried, the rear unstable, the GPS still lying. Still, he gained a fraction, closed the gap, barely keeping Lando behind.

Every second was agony. Every heartbeat a reminder of fragility.

By lap fifty-five, George was drenched, exhausted, and barely able to maintain clarity. His skin tingled from the heat, his muscles burned, his gloves saturated. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. P2, chasing Oscar, holding Lando at bay. One mistake, one slip, one failure of the W16 or his body or the suppressants he had taken in the morning, and everything would collapse.

And still he pressed on.

The finish line wasn’t far.

He gritted his teeth, a bead of sweat running into his eye, vision slightly blurred, arms trembling as he pushed the W16 to its breaking point. The car complained with every adjustment, groaned with every corner, but George fought, teeth and nails and every ounce of muscle.

After the race, George’s hands shook as he lifted the visor, the cockpit heat clinging to him like a second skin. Every muscle ached, every nerve buzzed, and his lungs still gasped for air, even as the W16 came to a stop. He had finished P2 — a miraculous recovery, a flawless display under impossible conditions — and yet, the pride he might have felt was smothered by the creeping dread in the back of his mind.

The pit lane air hit him first: scorching, dry, thick with exhaust fumes and tire smoke. Sweat ran down his back, soaking his fireproof undersuit. He tried to stand tall, tried to keep his posture neutral, beta-like, professional. But the heat had been relentless, the stress unbearable, and the car had betrayed him in subtle ways he could no longer ignore.

He swung the steering wheel onto the side, unbuckled the harness, and climbed out, body trembling from exertion. Every step was a careful negotiation with his own muscles, which were spasming in protest. The pit crew clapped and cheered around him, oblivious to the storm building inside him, praising his performance, congratulating him on the podium-worthy finish. George smiled, barely, the kind of polite, rehearsed smile he had perfected over years of hiding himself.

Then the first, faint warning hit him: a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable. Something warm and cloying spread across the paddock, tangling with the smells of rubber, fuel, and metal. He froze, hand halfway to the pit wall, stomach tightening.

No. Not now.

The suppressants. He must have missed a dose, or perhaps the heat had overwhelmed their effect. His heart thundered, each beat sending a ripple through the trembling muscles of his body. His skin tingled more intensely now, a low, primal warning that something was wrong. His senses sharpened in a way that wasn’t normal for a beta — a sharp edge slicing through perception, the subtle pull of alphas nearby.

The omega scent that he had hidden so carefully for decades, suppressed, neutralized, blocked by layers of chemicals, started to bleed past the blockers. He could feel it spreading, rising with his heat, saturating him in a terrifying halo that he could no longer contain.

No.

His breath came short. He glanced around the pit lane. Mechanics, engineers, journalists — all alphas and betas, all entirely unaware at first. Then he saw the subtle shifts: noses twitching, a hand to a throat, a step back. The color drained from some faces. Eyes widened. Movement slowed, almost imperceptibly, until he could feel the collective panic blooming around him like a storm.

One of the pit photographers leaned forward, camera poised. He blinked. “Wait… what?”

George’s stomach dropped as he realized the truth. The scent blockers had failed. Completely. The suppressants, the careful maintenance of his beta mask, the meticulous life of hiding himself… all of it had collapsed at the exact worst possible moment: in front of hundreds of people, in the center of a Formula 1 paddock, with every camera lens hungry and every reporter alert.

He took a careful step back, his boots sticky with sweat, hoping — praying — that maybe no one could really notice. But the reactions were immediate.

A crew member staggered back, clutching his chest. “Jesus… what is—”

A journalist froze, lens half-raised, eyes wide with fascination and horror. “Is… is that—”

George clenched his fists, trying to force the panic down, to force the beta calm he had lived under for years, but the scent flared hotter, spreading like fire. Alpha after alpha in the paddock stiffened, some inhaling sharply, others stepping instinctively away, the scent of him impossible to ignore.

He could feel their focus on him, every instinct in their bodies screaming, pulling him into their awareness. Betas recoiled slightly, but the alphas… they shifted subtly, predatory, captivated, yet wary. Every head turned. Every gaze pinned him like a specimen in a glass tank.

Oh God. No. No, no, no.

He tried to speak, to explain, to reassure them somehow that he was harmless. His voice caught in his throat, high and strained. “It’s… it’s nothing. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine.

The cameras were everywhere. Video feeds caught the subtle reactions, the way the people around him moved. Their bodies recoiled, but they couldn’t stop staring. Social media would burn with this footage in minutes. News outlets would be live before he even stepped away. George Russell, the last omega, revealed in the Bahrain paddock.

His knees trembled under the weight of it. He gritted his teeth, forcing one careful step at a time toward the garage, hoping — praying — to escape the crush of eyes and the invisible pull of his scent. But the panic had already taken hold. Alphas whispered to each other, scanning, analyzing. Cameras clicked, lenses zoomed. The smell clung to him like a halo of danger.

He stumbled slightly, catching himself on the side of the car, his heart hammering. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stung like acid. His muscles screamed. His skin tingled unbearably. The heat, the stress, the fear of being exposed — it all combined into a weight that made him dizzy, disoriented.

Somewhere behind him, he heard voices rising. A journalist yelled, camera trained on him. “What… what is that? He… he smells…”

George shook his head, tried to force the beta calm back over him. I am a beta. I am a beta. I am beta. But the words were meaningless against the onslaught of instinct. His body betrayed him, every nerve screaming a truth he had hidden for decades.

He stumbled into the garage doorway, hoping to lose the media in the tangle of equipment, the walls, the cars. But even here, he wasn’t safe. The alphas and betas inside froze mid-motion, turning toward him with wide eyes. A mechanic’s wrench clattered to the floor. Someone whispered, almost in awe. “It’s him… it’s… George…”

He backed up, pressed himself against the wall, heart hammering, chest tight, vision narrowing. His breath came fast, shallow, tingling through his fingertips and across his face. Every inch of his body screamed danger and exposure.

He could feel it — the attention of the alphas, sharp and immediate. Their instincts tuned into his scent like a living alarm. Some stepped away, cautious. Others leaned closer, fascinated, drawn toward him despite themselves. His presence was magnetic, lethal in a way he had spent years denying.

“Get… get away from me!” he croaked, voice tight, cracking under panic. But even as he said it, he knew it was too late. The cameras, the media, the witnesses — every movement recorded, every reaction preserved. The footage would go viral. The world would see.

George pressed his hands to his face, trying to smear the sweat, to hide the scent, to hide himself. But there was no hiding. His carefully constructed identity — the beta mask, the suppressants, the scent-blockers — had shattered. In the heat of the Bahrain paddock, in the aftermath of a punishing race, he had been exposed.

And everyone could smell it.

The chaos escalated. Reporters shouted over each other. Photographers clicked wildly, capturing the way alphas and betas around him reacted like a predator had been unchained. Crew members whispered urgently, some taking instinctive steps back. George’s Omega scent swirled in the air, impossible to contain, drawing attention like a beacon.

He could feel the collective gaze, heavy and unrelenting, as he stumbled toward the nearest exit. His gloves were slick, his arms trembling, every nerve raw and exposed. The tingling on his skin was unbearable, a constant reminder that his secret life — his carefully suppressed identity — had been ripped open in front of the world.

And worst of all… he had no control.

Every step, every breath, every shiver was watched. Every eye was on him. The legend of the omega — the demon in disguise, the extinct predator — was alive again, and he was the epicenter.

George stumbled through the pit garage doorway, chest heaving, gloves slick with sweat, every nerve screaming in panic. The smell of him had spread too far, too fast. He could feel it lingering in the air, a halo of danger and power that no suppressant could touch anymore.

Mechanics froze mid-motion, eyes wide, some stepping instinctively back, hands shielding mouths. A few whispered to each other, voice low but urgent. “It’s… it’s him…”

Reporters outside the garage doors had caught sight of him, cameras clicking frantically, microphones thrust forward, voices overlapping in chaos. Live streams picked up every movement, every staggered breath, every shiver that ran across his skin like a warning. Social media would explode in minutes; hashtags and trending topics were already forming in real-time, though George couldn’t see them.

He tried to force himself forward, toward the exit. Every step felt heavier, his muscles screaming as if betraying him, trembling uncontrollably from both exhaustion and the heat of the day. The W16 had left him drained in more ways than one, but this—this exposure—was something he could not run from.

“Mr. Russell! Step away from the garage!”

The shout came from a security marshal at the far end of the pit lane. George flinched, turning toward the voice. More marshals converged, forming a line, radios crackling. Their expressions were tense, almost fearful. Some glanced at the other team members, as if confirming he was alone, a singular threat.

Threat…?

His hands went to his face, pressing against his visor, hoping somehow to suppress the overwhelming sensation that had flooded him. The scent was still clinging to him, floating invisibly in the air, and George could feel the attention of every alpha nearby sharpening like knives. Some were watching warily; others were drawn forward against instinct, inexplicably magnetized by his presence.

“Please… I can explain!” His voice cracked. “It’s not—”

But no one listened. The panic was infectious. The crew froze, alphas recoiling, betas whispering frantically. The world around him blurred in confusion and heat. Cameras captured every motion: the way people stepped back instinctively, the way some clutched at their collars or masks, the way eyes widened in horror and fascination. George felt like a creature from one of the ancient legends, the “demon in disguise” finally revealed.

A marshal moved closer, gesturing for him to stop. “Sir, we need you to come with us. Now.”

George shook his head, panic rising. His legs felt like lead, his skin tingling with every heartbeat, every step threatening to betray him further. He stumbled, nearly tripping over the pit hoses. “I… I can’t! Please, just give me a moment!”

The marshal’s expression hardened. Another moved to flank him. “We can’t risk this spreading. You need to be secured.”

George’s chest tightened. The word secured rang in his ears like a cage snapping shut. He tried to explain, tried to push back against the hysteria building around him, but even his own words sounded weak. The scent, the heat, the tremor in his limbs—all of it had made him undeniably visible, undeniably omega, and there was no way to take it back.

Behind him, the garage erupted into controlled chaos. Team members tried to step in, shield him, but even they were flinching involuntarily, unable to ignore the primal pull of his presence. The cameras caught everything, recording the moment in high definition: George Russell, the supposed beta, revealed in the open air of the paddock, his body screaming the truth he had spent a lifetime hiding.

“Sir, we said move!” another marshal shouted. One of them reached for his arm, trying to guide him toward the pit lane exit. George yanked back instinctively, heart hammering. Every instinct screamed flee, hide, survive, and yet the reality pressed in like iron. He was surrounded, trapped in a glass cage of attention.

The media was relentless. Reporters shouted questions, cameras flashing, microphones extended like probing fingers. “George! What’s happening? Are you… are you an omega?”

The words hit him like a hammer. His knees buckled slightly under the weight. Omega. That word, that identity he had buried for decades, now screamed in front of the entire F1 world.

George’s throat burned. “It’s… I… I—” His voice faltered, breaking. Panic clawed up from his chest, unrelenting. Sweat ran down his back, seeping through the fireproof suit, gloves slipping from the combination of heat and fear. The tingling sensation on his skin intensified, spreading across his limbs in waves, amplifying the scent that had already leaked into the air.

He could feel them—every alpha around him. They were drawn, captivated, their senses snapping to him with an intensity that made his stomach twist. Some stared openly, others stepped back, eyes wide, uncertain how to respond to what they were sensing. The pheromone halo he had suppressed his entire life now enveloped him completely, making him impossible to ignore.

Security moved faster, forming a tighter perimeter. The lead marshal gestured for him to comply. “Step this way. Now.”

George forced himself forward, each movement measured but trembling. Every step was agony; every heartbeat seemed amplified in his ears. He could hear the cameras clicking, the voices overlapping, the whispers of awe, fear, and fascination. The paddock was no longer a racetrack—it was a cage, every eye a predator, every lens a witness.

As he moved, he glimpsed Kimi across the garage, the rookie frozen, hand half-raised, mouth open in disbelief. Aleix and Marcus were behind him, their faces pale, unsure how to intervene. Bono tried to call out, but his voice was drowned by the media frenzy.

George’s pulse raced. His legs threatened to collapse under him. His gloves stuck to the steering wheel remnants he had grabbed for support. Every nerve ending sang in alarm, every muscle tensed to breaking. He had spent years hiding, surviving under the careful mask of beta, and now all of it was gone in an instant, evaporating under the heat, the stress, and the relentless attention of the paddock.

The first marshal reached for him again, more firmly this time. George flinched, instinctively, and a wave of scent surged, drawing the attention of nearby alphas even more acutely. Some whispered, some stepped back, some seemed captivated, unable to look away. Cameras captured it all: George’s exposed state, the tremor in his frame, the raw, primal aura he could no longer suppress.

He stumbled into the corridor leading away from the paddock, security flanking him, the media still snapping relentlessly behind him. The press shouted questions he couldn’t answer, their words washing over him like waves he couldn’t dodge.

And all the while, the tingling, the sweat, the raw heat of his own omega presence consumed him. He had tried to hide for decades. He had tried to be invisible, safe, beta. And now, in the blazing sun of Bahrain, with cameras recording every moment, he was utterly, irrevocably revealed.

Every instinct screamed for survival. Every muscle ached. Every sense was overwhelmed.

And George Russell, the last omega, walked into containment, the world finally seeing what had been hidden for so long.

The hallway was blinding. White walls, polished floors reflecting the harsh overhead lights, stretching endlessly as if designed to erase any sense of familiarity. George’s legs shook as he was led forward, security flanking him on either side, gloved hands firm on his elbows. Every step was heavy, measured, and yet uncontrolled; the adrenaline from the Bahrain paddock was still surging, mixing with sweat, fear, and the raw panic of exposure.

The door ahead opened silently, revealing a room even more sterile. White. Sleek. Minimalist. A single table, two chairs, and nothing else. It smelled faintly of antiseptic, of cold metal and the faint tang of cleaning chemicals. The harsh light reflected off every surface, making George squint, his muscles tightening instinctively.

He was ushered inside, hands still raised, wrists awkwardly crossed to signal compliance. The security officers stepped back, leaving him standing at the center of the room, the cold light washing over him, exposing every tremor, every drop of sweat glistening on his skin.

And then the door behind him closed. Click. Silence, save for the faint hum of air conditioning.

George swallowed hard. Heart hammering. What now?

The silence broke with measured footsteps. A figure appeared from the corner of the room, tall, confident, and imposing: Mohammed Ben Sulayem, FIA President, moving with the air of someone who had never been denied control. His eyes, dark and assessing, fixed on George instantly, scanning, measuring.

“Mr. Russell,” he said evenly, voice low but carrying authority, “please, sit.”

George obeyed, as if compelled by some invisible force. The chair was cold under his palms as he lowered himself, maintaining a posture that screamed compliance while every nerve screamed flight.

Ben Sulayem circled slowly, resting a hand lightly on the table, gaze never leaving George. “Do you understand why you are here?”

George swallowed, voice dry. “I… I think so.”

“You were exposed, Mr. Russell,” Sulayem said. “In front of the world. In the Bahrain paddock. Cameras, journalists, everyone. Your… nature… was revealed.”

George’s throat tightened. “I… I didn’t mean—”

Sulayem’s eyes narrowed. “We are past meaning, George. Tell me. What are you?”

The question was blunt. Clinical. An accusation disguised as curiosity.

George shook his head quickly. “I… I’m… I’m just a driver. I… I—”

“You’re hiding more than that,” Sulayem interrupted, calm but absolute. “How long have you hidden it?”

George’s throat closed. Years. Decades. His pulse spiked. “I’ve… I’ve been careful… since I was… born.”

Sulayem leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. The light glinted off the steel watch on his wrist. “And during all this time, have you—” His voice softened dangerously, “—seduced alphas? Used your… abilities to your advantage?”

George recoiled slightly, hands pressed flat to the table. “No! Never! I didn’t— I wouldn’t… I couldn’t!” His voice cracked, panic lacing every syllable. “I’ve… I’ve tried to stay hidden. I never wanted… anyone to know. I… I didn’t—”

“Your scent,” Sulayem said, calm as ever, “was impossible to conceal yesterday in Bahrain. The entire paddock experienced it. You realize the implications?”

George nodded frantically. “Yes! I— I didn’t mean… I didn’t want—”

Sulayem’s gaze bore into him, relentless. “Do you have any idea what this means for Formula 1? For the FIA? For the world?”

George shook his head. His chest felt tight, lungs burning. “I… I didn’t— I was careful. I took every suppressant, every blocker. I… I tried to live as a beta. Please… I’m not… dangerous. I just… I just wanted to race.”

Sulayem’s expression didn’t change. “Intentions are irrelevant now. You have been revealed. The government has been informed.”

George’s stomach dropped. “No—please. You… you can’t. You have to understand. I didn’t—please—”

Sulayem leaned back, steepling his fingers, unyielding. “I understand perfectly, George. You were hiding. But the government will deal with this. Your situation is no longer under FIA jurisdiction. You will be taken into custody.”

George’s head dropped, shoulders shaking slightly, a mixture of exhaustion, fear, and disbelief flooding him. “No… please… you can’t—just… just give me a chance to explain—”

Sulayem’s gaze remained steady. “I cannot. We are done here.” He rose, straight-backed, turning sharply toward the door. “You will have your opportunity to explain to them. I am not your mediator. You are now in their hands.”

The click of the door echoed in the white room as he left. The sudden absence of authority left George hollow, trembling in the center of the room.

Alone.

Alone with the stark, sterile walls, the echo of his panic, the unrelenting awareness of the scent he could no longer control. Every heartbeat felt amplified, every nerve ending raw, every inch of his skin screaming. The heat of Bahrain, the exertion of the race, and the collapse of his suppressants had made him vulnerable in a way he had never experienced.

Then, another voice shattered the silence.

“George?”

He froze. His head jerked up. Alex Albon stood in the doorway, expression sharp, concern written across his face. His hands were slightly raised in an instinctive gesture of reassurance, but his eyes were wide with shock.

George blinked. “Alex… I—”

“Is it true?” Alex’s voice shook, a mixture of disbelief and urgency. “Is it really true? Is… my best friend… really an omega?”

George’s pulse jumped, panic lancing through his chest. “I… I—no… I mean… I didn’t… I never—”

Alex took a cautious step forward, eyes scanning him, trying to read the truth on his trembling frame. “George… you have to tell me. I need to know.”

“I… I’ve been hiding it. For years,” George admitted, voice barely a whisper. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead. “I… I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t… I didn’t want… I couldn’t… I didn’t want to be—”

“Killed?” Alex asked quietly, his voice low, as if speaking the thought aloud would make it real.

George’s eyes widened. “Yes! I—exactly! That’s why I took the suppressants. That’s why I lived as a beta. That’s why… why I never—” He broke off, head dropping, trembling.

Alex’s expression softened slightly, though the fear in his eyes did not fade. “George… I should have known something was off. I should’ve noticed. But… God… all this time…”

George’s hands went to his face, pressing against his visor, trying to smear away the heat, the panic, the scent that still clung to him. “I didn’t mean… I just… I wanted to race. I wanted to live.”

Alex stepped closer, slowly, cautiously, hand hovering near George’s arm but not touching. “I believe you. I do. But George… the world… they’ll react. They’re not like us.”

George’s body shook. Every nerve screamed in exhaustion and fear. “I don’t… I can’t… I can’t face them. Not like this.”

Alex’s jaw tightened, frustration and concern colliding. “Then we need to figure out what happens next. You’re not alone, okay? I—”

But before Alex could continue, the door clicked again. Security cleared their throats, a reminder that even his friend’s support could not circumvent the authority now in place. George’s shoulders sagged, defeated, panic coiling tighter around his chest.

He was alone, exposed, and the future was uncertain. The government, the FIA, the media, the world—every eye already on him, every instinctive reaction captured in lenses, in whispers, in fear.

And yet, Alex remained, a tether to sanity in the blinding, sterile white of the room. George clung to that small anchor, even as everything else fell apart.

George’s pulse raced like a drum, his body still thrumming with the residue of adrenaline, fear, and the lingering heat of the Bahrain paddock. He had barely processed the whirlwind of revelation, the sterile white walls, Sulayem’s words, and Alex’s presence, when one of the security guards stepped forward.

The man’s movements were deliberate, slow, practiced. He held a small syringe glinting under the fluorescent light. “Tilt your head forward,” the guard ordered, voice low but commanding, carrying the unmistakable weight of alpha authority.

George froze. His throat tightened, heart hammering. “I… I—no, please, don’t—”

He instinctively shrank back, retreating against the smooth wall. Panic surged through him, every instinct screaming fight, flee, hide. His Omega scent, raw and unmasked, flared around him, tugging at the surrounding alphas’ attention. George could feel the subtle pull of their awareness, their instinctual hunger and dominance reacting to his vulnerable, exposed state.

One of the guards, larger, an alpha by presence and scent, stepped forward. Without warning, he grabbed George’s jaw in one hand, fingers digging harshly into the bone beneath the skin. The other hand yanked George’s head forward with force. Pain lanced through George’s neck and jaw, sharp enough to make him flinch.

“Now!” the guard barked.

George’s muscles resisted, but the alpha’s grip was iron. His body instinctively trembled under the dominance, every nerve screaming against the violation. His breath caught, panic flooding his chest in a torrent of heat and dread.

Alex stepped forward, eyes wide, jaw tight. His alpha scent surged, protective, fierce, radiating through the room. “Stop! You can’t do this! He’s my—”

“Back!” one of the other security guards snapped. Hands pressed firmly against Alex’s shoulders, holding him in place. “Step back or you’ll be restrained as well.”

Alex’s eyes flicked to George, pleading silently, frustration and fury burning in his gaze. “George! Don’t let them! Fight it if you can!”

George’s head throbbed as the alpha guard steadied the syringe against the side of his neck. He tried to jerk, tried to twist, tried to scream, but the fear, the heat, and the unrelenting grip rendered him powerless. His pulse hammered in his ears. Every instinct screamed to flee, to resist, to survive.

“Please… I didn’t—” His words were cut short as the needle pierced the skin, cold and sharp, injecting a liquid fire into his bloodstream. The sensation spread almost instantly, a flood of numbness, dizziness, and burning heat washing over him. His vision blurred, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. Muscles trembled uncontrollably.

George tried to focus, to fight it, to cling to something solid. But the drug coursed through him, relentless, stripping him of control, weakening him limb by limb. Panic became vertigo. Fear became darkness.

He stumbled, eyes rolling as the world tilted. His legs gave out, collapsing beneath him as the alpha guard released his jaw, letting gravity take over. He hit the floor with a dull thud, but the impact barely registered. The drug was winning, pulling him under like a tide he couldn’t escape.

Alex strained against the security guards holding him back, eyes wide in horror. “George! No! Stay with me!” His alpha scent flooded the room, protective and overwhelming, clashing with George’s own, but even that wasn’t enough to resist the chemical fog.

George’s vision dimmed, the bright white walls stretching and folding as if dissolving into nothing. The last coherent thought in his panicked mind was of Alex—the voice, the scent, the presence.

“Alex…” he whispered, voice barely audible, trembling, caught somewhere between plea and recognition.

And then darkness claimed him.

His body went slack, limbs heavy and unresponsive. His breathing slowed, shallow and uneven. The room spun around him in fragments of white light and echoing voices, until even that faded.

All that remained was the sound of Alex’s voice, distant and impossibly clear through the fog: “Stay with me, George. Please…”

And then… nothing.

George woke to light too harsh, sharp against his eyelids, and an unfamiliar sterility that pressed down like a physical weight. His body ached in every muscle, every nerve humming with exhaustion and residual adrenaline. He blinked rapidly, trying to orient himself.

The cot beneath him was narrow, thin, and uncomfortable, the sheet crisp and cold against his sweat-damp skin. His wrists and ankles were free, but his movements felt strange, heavy, weighted by the lingering effects of whatever they had injected him with. His throat was dry, his mouth tasting metallic, like burnt wires.

The first realization was the smell — antiseptic, cold metal, sterile cleaning chemicals. The air was too clean, too sharp, and the scent made his stomach twist. Then the walls: not walls as he knew them, not a room with doors and furniture. But glass. Every surface around him transparent, revealing more of the same sterile corridor beyond. There was a single door on one side, locked, and inside the cage only the cot and a small metal table beside it, bearing nothing but a single clipboard and a pen.

George forced himself up onto the cot, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in the silence of the cage. The glass reflected his pale, trembling face back at him, and he recoiled at the sight. He looked small, exposed, fragile in a way he had never allowed himself to be.

And then a voice.

“George.”

His head snapped up. The voice carried weight, presence, authority. It was unmistakable. Toto.

George froze. His heart skipped a beat, stuttering in his chest. He had never expected to see him here. Not now, not after everything.

Toto stood just outside the glass, hands folded, jaw tight. His alpha presence radiated even through the barrier, filling the room with authority, disbelief, and… disappointment. That was worse than anger. Worse than reprimand. Disappointment burned deeper, sharp and cutting, in a way George couldn’t defend against.

George swallowed hard. “Toto…” His voice was small, tentative, a weak thread of sound. “W-what… what happened?”

Toto’s eyes didn’t soften. His gaze swept over George, drinking in the sight of him vulnerable, exposed, trembling. “I can’t believe you hid this from me,” he said quietly, his tone low but deadly in its quiet weight. “All these years, you’ve been hiding it, hiding yourself and I never knew.”

George’s stomach dropped, twisting in knots. “I—I had to…” he murmured. “I had to stay… alive. I—”

Toto’s hand rested briefly on the glass, not touching him, but commanding him with presence alone. “Do you know what this means?”

George shook his head weakly, fear tightening in his chest. “I… I don’t…”

Toto lifted the small metal table beside him, flipping the clipboard to reveal a tablet screen. George’s eyes widened as the device glowed with headlines:

“The Last Omega — In F1!”
“Omega Pretending to Be a Beta — Demon in Disguise?”
“A Beta Demon in the Paddock: George Russell Exposed”

George felt his stomach plummet, the ground beneath him seeming to tilt. The words were screaming, not just text, but judgment, fear, and fascination all at once. He felt naked, small, utterly incapable. His knees buckled slightly as he sank back onto the cot, hands gripping the sheet.

“T-where… where am I?” he whispered, voice trembling, almost swallowed by the echoing sterility of the cage.

Toto’s gaze didn’t waver. “You are no longer in Bahrain, George,” he said evenly. “You are in London. A government facility.”

George’s breath caught in his throat. “Government…?” His mind spun, the syllables too large, too dangerous. “What… what are they going to do?”

Toto’s expression darkened slightly, though he remained calm, controlled. “They need to understand how an Omega was born. How you existed without detection. This means… experimentation, George. Testing, observation.”

The words hit George like a physical blow. His chest tightened, eyes wide, body frozen in terror. He had imagined many things after being exposed in Bahrain, but this… this was his worst nightmare made real.

“No! Please! I—Toto, you have to help me! You’re my team, my boss! You can’t just… they can’t… please!” His voice rose, pleading, cracking, trembling. The cage seemed smaller with every word, the glass pressing down, mocking his helplessness.

Toto shook his head slowly, a motion so subtle yet final. “I cannot, George. This is beyond me. Beyond the team. They will handle this now. You are exposed. And they are interested in understanding you, not negotiating.”

George’s knees buckled further as the weight of reality crashed down. His body felt impossibly heavy, sweat slicking his palms as he pressed them against the cot. “No… you don’t understand! They’ll… they’ll experiment on me! Torture me! You can’t… you can’t leave me here!”

Toto’s jaw tightened. His eyes held George’s like steel, unwavering, impenetrable. “I’m sorry, George. I cannot help you. This is above me now.”

George’s voice fell to a whisper, barely audible, hoarse from panic and exhaustion. “Please… don’t leave me here… I—”

But Toto turned, shoulders straight, alpha presence radiating authority even as he walked to the door. The soft click of the handle echoed in the sterile space. George’s stomach twisted. His chest heaved. The cage suddenly felt infinite, glass walls reflecting the futility of his struggle back at him.

“Stay alive, George,” Toto said quietly over his shoulder, almost lost in the distance of the hall. “Stay alive until they come for you.”

And then the door shut. Click.

The glass walls around George seemed impossibly bright, impossibly confining. He pressed his forehead against the cool surface, breathing ragged, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. Every instinct screamed, flee, survive, hide, and yet there was nowhere to go. He had been stripped of autonomy, of control, of safety. His Omega identity, once carefully suppressed, was now his prison.

He sank back onto the cot, wrapping his arms around his knees. Every sound from the corridor outside—the footsteps, the distant metallic clatter, the hum of ventilation—was magnified, threatening, a reminder of the authority and power that now surrounded him.

George’s stomach knotted, his hands trembling. He had survived for decades hiding who he truly was, navigating a world that would destroy him if it knew. And now… here, alone in this glass cage, stripped of agency and left with the inevitability of government study, he felt utterly powerless.

Every thought spiraled, every memory of Bahrain, the paddock, Toto’s disappointed eyes, the headlines flashing at him—burning, accusing, terrifying. The cage reflected back not just his image, but the collapse of his entire carefully constructed life.

George’s eyes closed tightly, his body shivering with the lingering heat of fear and exertion. He felt the slick of sweat on his skin, the tingling sensation of panic rising from his muscles and nerves. His Omega instincts pulsed weakly beneath the suppression that had failed him, unable to soothe, unable to protect.

He whispered, voice trembling, a plea lost in the sterile white of the cage: “Toto… please… come back… please…”

But the door remained shut. The glass walls were unyielding. And George Russell, the last Omega, was left entirely alone.