Page 30 of Reckless Consequences

“That’s why my symptoms differed from yours.” My mind races, identifying patterns I should have seen earlier. “Your body adapted differently to the genetic restructuring. Your scent changed.”

“My body fought back in ways Sterling didn’t anticipate,” she confirms, confidence in her voice. “But most Betas aren’t so lucky. The virus either rewrites them or kills them in the attempt.”

Movement from the edge of the nest interrupts us—Ryker shifting from unconsciousness to full alertness in seconds. Military efficiency. His eyes find mine, a flash of relief visible before his expression shifts back to assessment.

“Status?” One word. Multiple inquiries.

“Recovering.” I match his economy of language. “Viral activity suppressed but not eliminated. Still weak but improving.” Not an estimate—a calculated assessment of my condition.

His nod carries approval and concern in equal measure, though the corner of his jaw tightens slightly. The movement wakes Theo, who blinks before recognition registers, his expression rebuilding itself from confusion to joy.

“Finn,” he breathes, Omega relief washing through his scent in waves. “You’re really awake.”

Jinx is the last to consciousness, though his breathing pattern suggests he’s been monitoring the conversation. His first action is to press his hand against my forehead—an unexpectedly gentle gesture from someone who thrives in chaos.

“Welcome back, Professor,” he says, satisfaction gleaming in eyes that track exit points even as they focus on me. “Thought we were going to have to find another chess partner.”

“No one else would tolerate your terrible strategies,” I respond automatically. The sound reminds me of before—before the virus, before Sterling, before I understood what it meant to fear losing not just my mind but my pack. Knowledge has always been my shield, but they’ve become my reason for wielding it.

I want to preserve this moment, like an equation written in permanent ink.

But even as I catalog the sensations of pack and safety, my mind begins sorting through symptoms, calculating recovery trajectories, analyzing next steps. The virus may be contained, but the threat remains. Sterling remains.

When Cayenne retrieves my laptop, it feels like reuniting with an extension of myself. The transition from patient to analyst should be jarring, but it isn’t. Both roles serve the same function: protecting what matters.

Her fingers fly across the keyboard, each keystroke creating a rhythm as familiar as my own heartbeat.

“I need to show you what I found in Sterling’s system,” she says, her voice taking on a sharp edge. “What the virus is really about.”

The screen fills with technical data, but something’s wrong. Files are corrupted, data points missing.

“Someone’s been deleting evidence,” Cayenne mutters, fingers flying faster.

“Can you recover it?” I ask.

Her smile is sharp. “Already did. They forgot I made backups.” She pulls up a hidden directory. “Project Renaissance.”

The name sounds clean. Almost poetic. It doesn’t match what it really is. “Genomic-level designation restructuring.”

“Sterling’s ultimate plan,” Cayenne confirms, her pupils dilating. “He’s not trying to eradicate Betas. He’s trying to control who gets to be what designation.”

“A commodity,” Theo realizes, his artistic hands sketching invisible patterns in the air. “He wants to sell designation like a product. Strip away what makes us who we are and replace it with what they think we should be.”

“Exactly.” Cayenne pulls up additional files. “Imagine governments paying billions for Alpha soldiers, Omega diplomats, specialized Beta workers. A world where designation is determined by the market, not biology.”

Theo absently rearranges the nest around us as we talk, his omega instincts maintaining our physical space even as we plan destruction. Jinx paces in precise loops, six steps each, the wooden floor creaking beneath him at predictable intervals. Ryker keeps one hand on his weapon, the other alternating between Theo’s shoulder and my knee, maintaining tactical and pack awareness simultaneously.

“And the virus?” Ryker asks, his tactical mind already calculating attack vectors.

“The Beta virus was Phase One—proof of concept that designation could be manipulated at the genetic level.” She navigates to another file with urgency. “But this is what they’re building now. The Aurora Facility.”

The screen fills with architectural plans—clean rooms, laboratory space, distribution networks. The scale is massive.

“Mass production,” I conclude, ice forming in my recovering system. “Global deployment capability.”

As they outline the offensive, I focus on the data to avoid the truth beneath it: I’m terrified. Not of failure—the statistical probabilities I can handle—but of watching any of them suffer again because of my inadequate solutions. The virus nearly took me from them; I won’t let Sterling take them from me.

“According to these files, they’re already in final testing,” Cayenne continues, scrolling through documentation. “The facility goes online in seven days.”

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