Page 71 of Reckless: Corruption

“You noticed Jinx acting weird?” I ask, focusing on conversation to anchor myself against heat-tide rising within.

“It was subtle, like watching predator pretend he’s not stalking prey.” She demonstrates by exaggeratedly sniffing air, then quickly looking away when I glance over, pantomime precise enough to draw laugh from me. “Very National Geographic.”

I take deliberate breath, letting her scent wash over me like complex perfume. The familiar citrus and ozone remains, bright top notes I’ve come to associate with her presence, but underneath... something new. Something that makes omega instincts simultaneously confused and intrigued, like familiar song suddenly introducing new instrument.

“The virus is changing your scent,” I confirm, striving for clinical tone despite pre-heat making everything more intense. “It’s subtle, but there’s definitely something... omega-adjacent happening.”

“Omega-adjacent?” Horror paints her features in broad strokes. “What does that even mean? Am I going to start purring and nesting next?”

I laugh despite everything, sound rising unbidden. “It’s not contagious. But Sterling’s virus targets beta genetic markers. Mona thinks it’s causing temporary shifts in your pheromone production.”

“So I smell like omega having identity crisis?”

“More like...” I search for right description, composer seeking perfect arrangement. “Beta with omega undertones.Like hearing familiar melody played by different instrument—recognizable, but with new resonances.”

She groans, covering face with one hand. “That explains why Jinx kept circling me like shark that can’t decide if I’m food.”

“Poor feral alpha,” I chuckle, though mental image is admittedly hilarious. “He relies so heavily on scent cues that you’re probably short-circuiting his brain.”

“Great. Just what we need. Another broken alpha.” But she’s smiling as she says it, fondness coloring tone like golden hour light.

As we approach city outskirts, I guide the car into less traveled streets, route familiar as muscle memory. Sanctuary isn’t just club—it’s nucleus of network I’ve spent years building, connecting escaped omegas with resources, skills, safety. The underground entrance I use hides behind abandoned warehouse, accessible only to those who know exact sequence.

“Wow,” Cayenne murmurs as I guide her through concealed door, hacker’s appreciation evident. “This is some serious Mr. Robot shit.”

The hallway leads to maintenance elevator requiring both key and code, security composed in layers like fugue. Inside, my pre-heat symptoms intensify in confined space despite Mona’s injection, Cayenne’s altered scent mingling with mine like complementary instruments. Sweat beads at my temples as I focus on control panel, fingers swollen and clumsy against familiar buttons.

“You okay?” Concern colors her voice as she watches me punch code with trembling fingers.

“Just... pre-heat in enclosed spaces. Not ideal.” I force smile, projecting more control than I feel as fever rises beneath skin like tide. “I’ll be fine once we’re inside.”

The elevator opens to different world—not pulsing nightclub above but quieter space designed for comfort and safety.Lighting softer, air perfumed with calming scents specifically chosen to ease omega stress responses. Several omegas look up as we enter, expressions shifting from wariness to recognition. Their gazes linger on Cayenne, confusion evident as they scent her.

“You brought beta?” A tall omega named Marcus approaches, eyes narrowing slightly. “With... interesting pheromones.”

“She’s with me,” I state simply, letting my position here speak for itself, alpha-like authority wrapped in omega presentation. “And she’s been affected by Sterling’s virus. We need to talk to Elena.”

Marcus’s expression darkens at Sterling’s name, hatred carving deep lines into his features. “She’s in medical bay. There’s been... developments.”

The medical bay outshines many hospitals, equipped with supplies that would make insurance companies nervous. Elena—once research scientist before her designation made herunsuitablefor leadership—looks up from microscope as we enter. Fatigue shadows her eyes, tension radiates from her shoulders, but her hands remain steady, movements precise as concerto.

“Theo.” Her smile breaks through exhaustion like sunrise. “Perfect timing.”

“What’s happening, Elena?” I note increased activity around us, tightness in air carrying notes of fear beneath professional calm.

“Sterling’s virus has mutated.” She gestures to workstation where multiple screens display data patterns I can’t interpret but recognize as ominous. “We’re seeing new patterns in recent cases—more aggressive progression, higher mortality.”

Cold dread pools in my stomach, dissonant chord striking without warning. “How?”

“Someone fixed it.” Elena’s voice hardens, anger harmonizing with scientific precision. “The earlier version had flaws—deliberate ones, we think. Someone sabotaged original formula. But now...” She pulls up new images, colors shifting in patterns that speak of calculated death. “Now it’s what it was always meant to be.”

“Mona,” Cayenne whispers beside me, understanding dawning in her expression like minor key resolving to major. “Her father discovered her sabotage.”

Elena’s eyes sharpen with interest, scientist recognizing significant variable. “Mona? As in Mona Sterling?”

“My sister,” Cayenne confirms, stepping forward with new confidence. “She’s been undermining her father’s research for years. But now she’s working on vaccine. We need supplies.”

I hand over the list, watching Elena’s eyes widen as she scans it, professional appreciation evident.

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