The Omegas Cry
Blood—warm and sticky—spilled over my hands, staining the fabric of my gown, pooling at my feet.
“You should die, omega.” The voice came again, harsh and filled with malice. The figure loomed over me, their face obscured, their intent clear.
I tried to speak, to cry out, but no sound came. My strength ebbed with each passing second, the world around me dimming. All I could think, as I crumpled to the ground, was how unfair it all was—how I had tried so hard, only to end up here, powerless and alone.
Bab Populer