Chapter 1: Discarded

Chapter 1 Discarded

"You're not my son," said Jhonatan's father, his voice echoing through the family room that was usually warm, now feeling like a courtroom.

Jhonatan stood stiffly in front of the dining table, the differentiation test results still gripped in his father's hand, the edges slightly crumpled from being clenched.

"Father, I—" Jhonatan tried to explain.

"Silence," his father cut him off, throwing the paper onto the table. "Omega. You're an Omega."

"I didn't choose this," Jhonatan said, his voice breaking at the end of the sentence.

"No one cares what you choose," his father shot back, standing up, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. "For eighteen years I raised you as the heir. I taught you how to lead, how to fight, how to be this family's pride. And now—" he pointed at Jhonatan's body as if pointing at broken merchandise, "—now you're not even something I can show off in front of our allies."

His mother stood in the corner of the room, unmoving, silent. Jhonatan looked at her, searching for even a shred of defense.

His mother looked down, saying nothing.

"Mother—" Jhonatan called out.

"Don't drag her into this," his father said, stepping forward, gripping Jhonatan's arm with a strength too familiar—strength once used to train him, now used to drag him away. "Tonight. I don't want an Omega living in this house."

"This is my house too!" Jhonatan cried, trying to struggle free.

"Not anymore," his father said. The front door was forced open. Rain slapped Jhonatan's face the moment his body was shoved outside. "You're no one to this family now."

"Father, please, just listen to me—" Jhonatan pleaded.

The door slammed shut, locking his last words inside.

Jhonatan stood on the steps of the house that used to be his, rain soaking his hair within seconds, his body still in the thin shirt never meant for weather like this.

He knocked on the door once. Twice.

No answer.

"Please," Jhonatan whispered to the locked door, though he knew no one was listening. "I don't know where to go."

---

Three hours later, Jhonatan had stopped knocking on anyone's door.

He sat at a bus stop with a leaking roof, hugging his knees, watching people pass by without a single one glancing his way.

An old woman walked by, dragging a shopping cart.

"Ma'am, excuse me—" Jhonatan called out, his voice hoarse, "—do you know the nearest shelter?"

The woman glanced at him briefly, then quickened her pace without answering.

Jhonatan lowered his head again.

His phone had died two hours ago. His wallet was left in his room—a room that no longer belonged to him. All he had was the clothes on his back and loose change in his pocket, barely enough for a bottle of water, nothing more.

"Hey," greeted a young man who sat down on the same bench, maybe around his age. "You look pretty messed up."

Jhonatan didn't answer.

"Need a place to sleep tonight?" the man asked, smiling, though the smile never reached his eyes. "I know someone who could help. Just needs a little... cooperation."

Jhonatan had lived in this world long enough to know exactly what that meant.

"No, thanks," Jhonatan said, standing quickly, walking away before the man could respond.

He kept walking. He didn't know where to. He only knew he had to keep moving, because stopping meant giving his body a chance to give up.

---

The streets grew quieter the farther he moved from downtown. Streetlights became sparse. The alleys grew darker.

Jhonatan stopped in front of an old warehouse, his chest heaving, his legs no longer able to support his own weight. He leaned against the cold brick wall, sliding down slowly until he sat on the wet pavement.

"I just need to rest a bit," Jhonatan muttered to himself. "Just a bit."

The sound of a metal door creaking from inside the warehouse made him tense up.

"—and if you try anything again, I'll make sure this is your last transaction," said a man's voice, deep and cold, from the gap in the door left ajar.

"I just need more time—" another voice answered, shaking.

"Time's up," the first voice replied, cold.

Jhonatan heard something heavy dropped onto the floor, followed by a short groan. He should have run. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to run.

But his body no longer listened to his brain.

He tried to stand, his hand gripping the wall, and it was that very movement that knocked over an empty can near his feet, clattering loudly in the silent alley.

The warehouse door swung wide open.

"Who's there?" the voice called out.

Jhonatan didn't get the chance to answer. His legs finally gave out completely, and he collapsed onto the pavement just as a large figure stepped out of the warehouse, the silhouette of his broad shoulders blocking the streetlight behind him.

The man approached, crouching in front of Jhonatan's fallen body, studying him with eyes that were assessing—not worried, not angry either. Something far more dangerous than either.

"Did you see anything tonight?" the man asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

"No—didn't see anything," Jhonatan answered weakly, his teeth chattering.

"Good," the man said, tilting his head, studying Jhonatan's soaked, trembling body up close. "Because I hate cleaning up more than one mess in a night."

"I'm not a mess," Jhonatan tried to speak, though his voice was nearly gone. "I just... I just need somewhere to shelter."

The man stayed silent for a moment, his eyes tracing Jhonatan's pale face, his lips blue from the cold.

"How long have you been on the street?" the man asked.

"I don't know anymore," Jhonatan answered honestly. "Today alone feels like it's been a year."

Something shifted in the man's expression—a brief flicker that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Get up," the man said, extending his hand.

"Why are you helping me? You don't even know me," Jhonatan asked, eyeing the hand warily.

"I'm not helping you," the man answered, pulling Jhonatan up with one tug, no real effort at all, as if Jhonatan's body weight meant nothing to him. "I just don't like witnesses dying of cold in front of my workplace. It's bad for business."

"What business?" Jhonatan asked, though he could already guess the answer from the voices he'd heard from inside the warehouse.

The man gave a thin smile, a smile that felt more like a warning than friendliness.

"A better question," the man said, starting to lead Jhonatan away from the warehouse, "is what you're willing to do for a warm bed tonight."

Jhonatan stopped walking. "I won't—"

"I'm not selling you," the man cut in, slightly annoyed. "I'm offering a ride. You can take it, or freeze here alone. Your choice."

Jhonatan looked back at the dark alley behind him, then at the man's broad back already walking away without waiting for his answer.

He had no other choice.

"Wait," Jhonatan called out, catching up with unsteady steps. "What's your name?"

The man didn't turn around.

"Glenmorrin," he answered simply. "And you just became my business tonight."