Page 83 of Stream Heat
To every young Omega watching this unfold, know this, you shouldn't have to poison yourself to be taken seriously. You shouldn't have to hide who you are to be valued for what you do.
To Nexus Management and Victoria Smith, Your time is up. I'm not the only one you've exploited, but I'm determined to be the last.
To Stella, You thought exposing my designation would destroy me. Instead, you've freed me from the prison I built around myself. I'm Kara Quinn. Omega, competitor, survivor. And I'm just getting started.
I could barely recognize myself in the words, but I couldn’t deny the truth of them, either. The anger, the resolve. The refusal to be boxed in.
Ash was watching me when I looked up.
“This could still backfire,” I said, running a thumb along the edge of my phone. There were ways this could go so, so wrong. “Victoria has connections everywhere. Sponsors could still blacklist me. The platform investigation…”
“Let them try,” he cut in. Flat. Final. “They’d be going against public opinion, medical evidence, and five very pissed off Alphas with a combined following larger than most small countries.”
I laughed, sharp and surprised. “When you put it that way…”
“Besides.” He hit enter, eyes flicking back to code. “Legal’s already prepping cease and desists. Malik’s connected with three designation rights orgs. Theo’s followers are purging every account reposting your records.”
“And Jace?”
“Editing a documentary,” Ash replied, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Collecting testimonials from other suppressed creators. He’s been at it all night.”
The seamlessness of it, the way every pack member had immediately found a way to protect, to defend, to create narrative, it left me hollowed out and rebuilt all at the same time. This wasn’t just camaraderie. This was pack instinct in action.
My pack.
The realization slotted into place. These weren’t just temporary alliances, they weren’t just about contracts or even survival. I belonged here. They belonged with me.
“You should rest more,” Ash said, breaking the stretch of silence. “Tomorrow will be intense.”
“I don’t think I can sleep. Too wired.”
He nodded, the faintest suggestion of a smile. “Want to help?”
“If you mean with code, I’d just slow you down.”
“Not code,” he said, and pivoted the laptop to show me a CAD blueprint. Custom streaming hardware, it looked like. Adaptive controls, sensory modulation interfaces, tool tips blinking with notes.
“What is that?”
“Designation-adaptive tech. For Omegas with sensory processing issues.” His eyes met mine over the rim of the screen. “For you specifically. But scalable, if others need it.”
The precision of it, the calculation, the fact that he’d noticed my problem and designed a solution without me ever asking, it flattened me for a second.
“You’ve been working on it for a while.”
“Since your first withdrawal episode.”
He didn’t dress it up. “Your sensory spikes have patterns. I’ve been mapping them.”
“So I can keep streaming even with destabilized senses,” I realized, the logic slotting into place. “You’re building me a way forward.”
Shrug. “It’s just engineering.”
But we both knew it was more than that. It was a lifeline, disguised as blueprints and specs. Hope as a schematic, with my name on the prototype.
“Show me,” I said, dragging the covers off and sliding over to join him at the little makeshift workstation.
The next two hours passed in a way I barely noticed, Ash typing and diagramming, me pointing out how certain triggers or cues landed differently when my senses were overloaded. It was easy. Effective. Like two halves of a mechanism slotting together, clicking into place without friction.
