In life, there are many positives as well as utterly negative things.

Some believe that having money is a wholly positive thing, as they think money can solve everything and never cause sadness.

Others think that crossing paths with a black cat is horrible, unlucky, and negative no matter how you look at it. The mere darkness of that animal can give some people goosebumps if it appears in the middle of the night.

It all depends on people's thoughts, and everyone has different thoughts, beliefs, and especially a different way of seeing what life is. For some life is just everyday living and nothing more, but for others, it is something laborious, sad, almost like an impossible puzzle to solve with obstacles that, with each passing day, become much more complicated.

Yet, for Bley, the only thing that was entirely negative was being recessive. And not just slightly, but completely. At twenty-two years old, his body continued to have no reaction to anything.

It didn't matter that he was surrounded by Alphas all the time who protected him and lived just for him, for none even glanced at him sideways because all were aware of his condition, and to the Alphas, there was nothing more disgusting and despicable than an Omega who was recessive. He had sometimes felt some pheromones, but none of them had awakened that part of him, not even the artificial ones, and he had stopped attending therapies or doctor's appointments to improve that part of him long ago.

As the car moved down the street, he simply looked out the window. Ten Alphas always accompanied him. They carried earpieces where they listened to everything the others said and microphones in their jackets that were nearly invisible so they could talk.

Their suits were black, and they all were nearly two meters tall. They carried weapons, and each one was sufficiently trained to even give their lives for the son of the former president of the country. No one said he was the best president ever, but no one denied that he was a powerful man, with a great last name and with enough money that anyone would want to have in their hands.

"We're almost there, young Bley," announced one of the bodyguards, the only one who had always shown him kindness.

The Omega nodded, giving him a brief glance.

He had some concerts to give in his hometown, so that brought him a little joy because he always liked returning and remembering his mother, who had died a few years ago.

He said nothing, preferring never to speak and to keep looking out the window while imagining many things he was sure he would never feel, experience, or love. He closed his eyes for a few seconds because he was tired of it. Tired of being despised, rejected, and excluded. He never liked to remember things from the past, but at the end of the day, he always ended up doing it. He preferred to avoid all those times when he had been humiliated; however, his head never made things simple and always reminded him of everything.

He imagined that, for being an Omega, all Alphas would like him, but as time went on, he realized that no one was interested in him, and the first rejection came when he was only fifteen years old.

In every high school, some people were more popular than others, and Erik, a dominant Alpha, was famous among many for playing football and being good at all subjects. He always watched him, always found him handsome and had the naive thought that if he confessed first, then that boy would say yes.

He trusted the words his mother told him when he was a child, and she always told him that he was beautiful with his blond hair, blue eyes, and white skin, but it wasn't so.

"You? Like me? You're a damn recessive Omega, you don't even have a scent, who could possibly like you?" he asked, laughing without caring that everyone was listening and watching. "You're not even an Omega, you're just a boring Beta."

He never imagined that not having a scent could be so difficult. He never thought that hearing that would hurt so much, but it hurt him enormously.

He let out a sigh and looked at his hands for a few seconds when the car braked hard, causing the tires to make noise. The Alpha by his side, placed his arm in front of him in case of any eventuality.

"What happened?" he asked, looking around frightened.

"We hit someone."

"What?"

He didn't hesitate to get out and move forward. His men covered him, so he didn't see it.

"What's your name? We'll take you to the hospital!"

He saw someone moving him on the ground and took a few steps as they held him tightly. He spoke so they would move, and that's when he saw a man bloody from his injuries. His eyes were closed, and he didn't know where he had come from, but he was completely disastrous and unable to stand.

Fear dominated him for a few seconds because he wasn't moving, and he imagined that they had killed him, until he let out a moan.

He saw him open his eyes and saw the darkness in them watching him with difficulty because of the sun, so he moved a little. He didn't look bad from the crash; rather, he seemed like he had been in bad shape for a long time, and the crash had finished him off in some way. He swallowed because they couldn't leave him there as if nothing had happened. They hit him, so he had to take responsibility.

"What's your name, sir?" he asked while indicating to his men that they should lift him to take him to a clinic.

Some hesitated, but in the end, they did it, and lifted him slowly. He saw him much older than himself, without a doubt, and too big that it was evident he was a dominant Alpha.

"M-Maverick," he heard him say with great difficulty due to how bad he was.

He nodded, even though he couldn't see him, and as they were in two cars, his men put the redhead in one car and he added:

"Don't worry, Mr. Maverick, we'll leave you in good hands."

The two cars advanced to the first clinic where he made sure he was well taken care of and that all expenses were on his account. He didn't see it necessary to do anything else because the crash had been a simple bump, and he had already taken care of leaving him in a specialized place.

He quickly forgot about that because he had a new presentation afterwards, and that was where they were going before they were delayed.

He got out of the car with his men following him everywhere. They were waiting for him in the dressing rooms to dress him, comb his hair, and apply a little makeup just like in all his other presentations. His clothes were always perfect and almost magical, and his presentations were mesmerizing.

His instructor had him stretch a bit while reminding him of some things because they were about to go out and start everything. The seats were always full, but, even though it was something he always did, now he felt a little nervous. He held onto the railing while all the other dancers were beside him in a brief warm-up.

He wore his ballet ballerinas, with pink stockings and over them a black skirt of classical dance. They always played with the masculine and feminine, which caught all the spectators' attention because they all looked perfect whether they were men or women.

Bley had his hair loose, and the blond shone and looked soft at a glance.

He wore makeup on his face like everyone else, playing with strong colors. The final touches were more than ready, and the people were all seated watching the red curtain covering the entire stage. When the music started, everyone was absorbed in the spectacle. None turned their gaze away until it ended, and they stood up applauding.

Bley performed a small bow just like always, enjoying the applause, for they were the only times he felt that someone showed admiration, and above all, love, and they didn't mind in the slightest that he was a recessive Omega because they loved him.

A Year Later…

He relished the view from the aircraft he was traveling on. It was a private jet, and he was accompanied only by his bodyguards and the aircraft's crew.

He listened to music and wished for a long journey. The prospect of arriving in Russia didn't appeal to him. He had lived there with his father for a long time, but his father wasn't the warm or attentive type, showing little concern for him around the clock. With a weary sigh, he reflected on the relentless days filled with performances and an array of other demanding activities to which he felt almost bound. He loved his art, he loved to dance, he loved everything to do with being on stage, yet his father continuously demanded more and more from him.

Ballet dancing was no simple task. It wasn't merely about slipping into ballet shoes and gliding across the stage. It required practice, enduring pain, dismissing discomfort, and lots of rehearsal.

He discovered his passion at the age of five when his mother took him to a theater, and he saw a woman dancing. He was enchanted by her movements, her grace, the love she expressed for her craft, and in that moment, he knew it was what he wanted to do for life. However, a year later, his mother passed away.

Understanding that his conception was the result of a one-night affair, he had no memories of his parents together—not a kiss or embrace—as they never lived under the same roof.

Such familial warmth was unimaginable to him, knowing it was an impossibility. Thus, following his mother's death, his father took on the responsibility out of sheer obligation, bringing him home to avoid any gossip tarnishing the family name. His father was never truly interested in having a son; his real pursuits were fame and power. And as his son grew, he saw him as a potential goldmine to exploit endlessly.

It was clear to him he wasn't his father's cherished child, as the man had other children he loved and cared for, whereas he was only known as the president's son.

Closing his eyes, he opened them again when one of his bodyguards indicated they were about to land. It was winter in Russia, so from above, as they descended, everything was blanketed in white. He liked the snow and allowed himself a slight smile. He didn’t want to let the thoughts of returning to Russia bring him down as they usually did, instead, he focused solely on the positive.

After disembarking from the plane wrapped up in a heavy coat, his breath visibly puffing out with every exhale, he didn't take long to get into another car awaiting him.

"Your father will be expecting you," one of the guards informed him.

"Alright, Soel. I suppose it's family business as usual."

Soel, the Alpha, nodded. He was the one he most often joked with and engaged in conversation—after all, he didn't have many friends. When his performances ended and the team disbanded, they went their separate ways and wouldn't meet again unless another opportunity arose.

"I don't have much detail. Just that message."

He let out a sigh.

"We have time. I'd like to grab something warm and buy some candies."

The other nodded. It was his ritual upon each return to Russia. He always visited the same spot, ordered his usual warm beverage, and got the candies he munched on daily without fail. Whether chewy, tiny, hard, cognac-flavored drops, or lollipops, he enjoyed a diverse mix.

The car headed to the place. It was large but secure.

Stepping out accompanied by just two of the guards—donning a cap to obscure part of his hair, dark sunglasses, and a face mask—he preferred not to draw attention. Crowds and disorder ensued whenever he was recognized in Russia, especially at packed theaters and notably at the eminent Bolshoi, renowned for its opera, dance, and naturally, theater.

As the doors swung open and the two Alphas followed closely, on guard with stern expressions and imposing statures, bystanders immediately steered clear of them.

With Bley well-covered, no one could guess whom they were protecting so vigilantly.

The Omega was never bothered, finding it pointless to worry when he was confident that his bodyguards would never let anything happen to him—besides, he felt inconsequential enough that nobody would bother him.

After picking out and filling two bags with his favored caramel sweets, he couldn't imagine a day without at least one, as it turned his day vibrant and kept troubles from magnifying. The candies had become his steadfast companions, and he had no intention of substituting them for anything else.

Proceeding to the cashier, he usually carried cash, but before he could settle his purchase, he noticed someone else had already taken care of it.

The man beside him, with a brusque manner and no warmth, waited for the girl to tell him the total. Bley threw a brief glance and spotted him wearing a simple short-sleeved shirt despite the chilly weather. He noted the man's large arms and physique—no further clue was needed to deduce he was an Alpha—and how his red hair stood out with a striking contrast between long on top and close-cropped sides.

Tattoos marked his arms—barbed wires, hearts pierced by daggers, serpents—giving off the impression of imminent danger.

He watched the man sluggishly take out his wallet, handle his money with the same disregard, and gather his items to walk away. Blinking, Bley stepped forward to place his items down when the sound of gunfire rang through. Glass shattered and more shots followed. The last thing he saw was the cashier being hit by a hail of bullets, her body collapsing to the ground. The shouts of his bodyguards and their frantic communication through microphones were the last things he heard as they identified the situation as an ambush.

And he thought he was going to die.

He felt the tug on him.

The two bodyguards moved swiftly around the area, returning fire as they went. The intruders were numerous and armed with high-caliber weapons, while they had only their basic firearms.

The screaming never ceased, and Bley saw more than one person dead on the ground, blood spattered in every direction.

"We need backup! Call the police!"

He covered his ears as the location turned into a firing squad. The sound of gunfire was relentless.

He didn't know what had happened to the rest of his bodyguards, but the two with him couldn't hear anything through their earpieces, no matter how loudly they were addressed via the microphone.

"Respond! We have to get the president's son out of here!"

Unaccustomed to such chaos, he was clueless about what to do. Each gunshot was more frightening than the last. Tears filled his eyes, his body shook, and his sobs could be heard throughout the venue. He let out a scream when he saw one of his own fall to the ground, a bullet piercing his neck.

The last one standing was the one he trusted the most. Clinging to him, begging for help, he watched him reload his weapon and take the gun from his now-dead companion.

He hid behind some objects and saw the Alpha taking cover elsewhere, waiting for the perfect moment to move. He covered his mouth to keep quiet, paralyzed with panic. It was an unprecedented situation for him, and he couldn't control his beating heart or stem the flow of his tears. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts as he watched the Alpha strike down an approaching enemy before firing in another direction.

Believing he was going to die, with no one to mourn his passing because no one could ever love him, he wept at the thought of a miserable end – not even his father would grieve or miss him.

He closed his eyes and covered his ears, praying for it all to be over, filled with regret for having come to this moment.

He couldn't tell if they had been followed, awaited, or if he had just ended up in the wrong place by accident, but everything was going terribly wrong. His eyes snapped open to see the Alpha still battling until a shot struck him down. Bley yelled his name, wanting to rush to his aid, but stayed in place when the Alpha shook his head in refusal.

Without hesitation, he stood up. It was his duty to protect the president's son, and he was ready to do far more since, for him, it was not just about doing his job, but about protecting something he had cherished for a long time.

Bley had always thought nobody cared, but since this Alpha had appeared, he had caught his interest.

He watched the Alpha fire once more; then, two consecutive shots rang out, and the Alpha fell again. Crying harder, Bley noted it was the third shot the Alpha had taken without a sign of movement. Unable to bring himself to motion, he remained, listening to an eternal silence. Then, footsteps approached, growing louder, almost making the ground beneath quiver. He saw the silhouettes of the men and the shadows of their guns.

He stayed hidden, watching from the darkness as the blood-soaked men scoured the area with their weapons.

"Posmotri tuda," one barked, with the other promptly advancing.

They continued with exchanges that Bley understood all too well. Their words were the kind only psychopaths and murderers would utter.

Hearing their steps fading, he breathed a sigh of relief, imagining the worst was over. He figured he had hidden well and would now have the chance to go home to safety. He allowed himself to envision various scenarios that abruptly ended when his arm was yanked.

"Proklyatyy rebenok," came the curse.

Bley tried to break free, screaming until a blow to his face sent him crashing to the ground, breathless and dizzy. Drops of blood fell to the floor, and he lay disoriented for a few seconds.

"My sobirayemsya prodat' yego kak sobaku," one declared.

"Eta brakovannaya omega prineset nam kuchu deneg," added the other, eyeing him.

One grabbed his arm to pull him up and cupped his face to look at him. Bley's long, blond hair drew the man's attention, and he took a strand to smell it. Tears kept streaming as the man approached to smell him, and he closed his eyes tight, disgusted.

"No, prezhde chem prodat' yego, mnogiye iz nas sobirayutsya poveselit'sya s nim," he heard, and dread struck him. He wished to speak out, to act, to do anything, but his first attempt to resist was met with another strike to his face.

"Otpusti menya pozhaluysta!" he pleaded as he tried to flee.

One carelessly yanked his hair. He fell to his knees, dragged across the floor, feeling strands being mercilessly ripped out.

He didn't know how long it lasted until a noise broke the silence.

He screamed as more gunfire exploded in his ears. He watched them scream, watched as one after another dropped to the ground, and he remained kneeling, terrified to lift his gaze and confront his demise.

His tears fell, and his small frame shook with the desire for someone to hold him safe, to embrace and offer the protection he had never known. Footsteps neared once again until they stood directly in front of him.

With a tremulous breath, he slowly looked up, expecting a gun aimed squarely at his eyes.

And then he saw him.

The Alpha's red hair, his tattooed arms, and that cold, imposing demeanor. Those dark eyes laden with gruesome deeds and a multitude of deaths. The Alpha said nothing, only stared as if Bley were the most insignificant thing he had ever beheld. Seeing him beaten, crying, small and trembling stirred not a single hair on the Alpha's head.

To kill him would be all too easy, but he wasn't going to do that… not yet.