Thirty-Seven: Wren

The stew and the eyes and the tension still coil in my gut when the guards ease up their watch. The dining hall’s emptied of everyone but the cleanup crews—omegas sweeping up crusts, kitchen staff stacking the benches, warriors trickling out in pairs to the next ritual or shift or petty violence of the day. I make myself count to five after the last clatter of bowl, then rise to clear my place.

The act is automatic, muscle memory from a dozen dead-end jobs, but here it’s loaded. I pick up my bowl and spoon, move to the tray station by the kitchen door, and sense the sudden shift in air pressure as every remaining body in the hall turns my way. At first, I think I’ve misread the code. Then a shape blocks my path: Scarface, flanked by the same two betas from before, all three grinning as if they’ve caught a fox in the henhouse.

“Strays don’t serve themselves here,” Scarface says, loud enough to echo. The silence that falls is dense as concrete. I pause, bowl in hand, and look up at him. He’s close—too close for comfort, far enough that if I made a run for it, he could take me down in a single stride.

“Is that the rule?” I say, as neutral as I can manage. My voice comes out steadier than I expect, edged in something colder than anger.

He bares his teeth—not quite a smile, more the memory of one. “Don’t want you contaminating the rest of us.”

The betas snicker. The omegas at the wall go rigid, eyes big and wet. The woman with the vest from earlier has turned on her bench and is watching, elbows on the table, mouth a thin, hungry line.

I could bow my head, set the bowl down and retreat. It’s what he expects. What the whole room wants. Instead, I stand my ground, shifting my grip on the bowl until my fingers ache with the effort of not trembling.

“If you’re worried about contamination,” I say, “maybe don’t breathe.”

It’s a cheap shot, but it lands. His face goes red, then settles into a look that says he’s already decided how I’ll pay for it later. He leans in, so close I smell the morning’s coffee and the faint, metallic tang of blood on his breath.

“Don’t test me, Stray,” he whispers. “You won’t like the answer.”

I stare him down, not blinking. The wolf in me wants to bare its own teeth, but I clamp down, show nothing but boredom.

Then, out of nowhere, Mira materializes at my side. She’s silent as a rumor, no tray this time, just her hands empty and held low in deference. She steps between us—not fully blocking, just enough to make the warrior shift his weight back a fraction.

“I’ve got it,” she says, eyes on the bowl, not the men. “Protocol says kitchen staff clears for containment cases.”

Scarface makes a show of considering it, then shrugs as if the whole thing bores him. “You hear that, Stray? Even the dish pigs are smarter than you.”

Mira takes the bowl from my hands. As she does, her fingers fold around mine, and for a second, her grip is tight and warm. She slips something between my palm and the bowl—a scrap of paper, folded tiny, the edges softened by much handling. The touch lingers a heartbeat longer than needed.

Scarface sees none of it. He’s already pivoted, dismissing me with a toss of his head, the betas following him out with matching sneers.

Mira turns back to me, voice low and urgent. “Don’t push them. Not yet.”

She’s gone before I can answer, bowl and spoon vanishing into the soapy chaos behind the kitchen door.

The omegas start to breathe again. The woman in the vest gives a snort, like she’s disappointed there wasn’t more blood. I flex my hands, feeling the sweat slick in the grooves of my fingerprints, and step back to my bench, sitting until the guards reappear at the door.

On the walk back to my cell, I keep my fists clenched. Every turn, every stair, every new hallway, I wait for the slip of discipline, the opportunity for someone to “correct” me for my defiance. But nothing comes. The guards are stone-faced, bored, not even looking at me.

Only when the door locks behind do I uncurl my hand and retrieve the scrap of paper.

It’s folded once, then again, then again, until it’s a secret you could hide under a fingernail. I smooth it open, heart racing for no good reason.

The handwriting is small and hurried, but legible:

Not everyone fears what’s different. — Mira

That’s all. No more, no less.

I read it three times, then tuck it into the cuff of my sleeve, near the burn. It doesn’t make the pain stop. But it makes it matter.

For the first time since being caged, I allow myself to believe that something in this place might bend before it breaks.

And I am not the only thing here that knows how to survive.