Page 8 of Omega on Fire

"Friday," Moses answers, his voice gentle in that way he gets when Joker's spiraling into one of his obsessive episodes.

We all know how this works. Joker gets locked onto a problem, and the rest of the world ceases to exist. Food, sleep, basic fucking hygiene—all secondary to whatever puzzle his brain is chewing on. It's what makes him brilliant, but it's also what makes us worry. His neurodivergent brain is both a blessing and a curse. Three days without sleep would make most people useless, but for Joker, it's just another day at the office.

"You smell like a fucking corpse," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. I've seen this before—his hands twitching, the way he keeps arranging and rearranging the items on his desk in perfect symmetry, thecompulsive way he types sequences into his computer. He won't stop until he cracks it or collapses. Whichever comes first.

"So, it's Friday," he mumbles, more to himself than to us. "Seventy-six hours, fourteen minutes since my Charlotte Matthews search began."

Teagan steps forward, his posture shifting subtly as he takes in Joker's state. "Moses says you've found something."

Joker's eyes light up, manic energy replacing exhaustion in an instant. "I have. Been following breadcrumbs. Digital ones." His fingers fly over the keyboard, multiple screens changing to show different satellite views, traffic camera footage, delivery schedules. "See these trucks?" He points to a grainy image of three unmarked vehicles. "They're making regular deliveries to the middle of fucking nowhere."

"Supplies," Moses says, leaning in.

"Exactly," Joker nods, his movements jerky and excited. "Food, water, medicine. But there's nothing out there. No building, no compound. Just mountains and scrub."

I move closer, my blood humming with anticipation. "Show me."

His fingers dance across the keyboard, pulling up a satellite view of an area that looks like the ass-endof Arizona or maybe New Mexico. "Watch this footage from six months ago." The timestamp in the corner confirms it's from half a year back. Three trucks move along a dirt road, disappearing behind what looks like a ridge.

"Now look at this," he says, switching to a more recent image. "Same location, different angle I found by hacking a military satellite—don’t ask, I don’t want to get Te in trouble again.” He zooms in keeping his gaze off Teagan’s scolding face, before pointing to what appears to be a rock face. "See it?"

I squint, then it hits me. "Holy shit. That's a fucking door."

Joker's grin is manic. "Bingo. It's built into the rock face. Completely hidden unless you're looking for it."

"They're underground," Teagan says, his voice dropping an octave lower.

"Like fucking mole people," I say, my heart rate kicking up. "You think that's where they're holding her?"

Joker nods rapidly. "I tracked the supply chain. These deliveries increased three months ago, coinciding with the rise in missing Omegas. More food, more medical supplies?—"

"For new captives," Moses says darkly.

"I cross-referenced with missing persons reports across neighboring states," Joker continues, flicking through a series of photos—all women, all Omegas. "Thirty in the last month alone. All gone without a trace."

"Underground," Teagan murmurs.

"Literally and figuratively," Joker says with that nervous laugh he gets when he's overtired. "I've found them. I've fucking found them."

I feel a dark smile spreading across my face. Finally, a target. Finally, something to destroy.

"Coordinates?" Teagan asks.

Joker taps a few more keys, and a string of numbers appears on the main screen.

"Pack your shit," Teagan says, already turning toward the door. "We're going hunting."

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

CHAPTER 4

CHARLOTTE

Cold. It’s the first thing I register. Numbing cold, seeping so deep I’m shivering, body shaking, teeth rattling, as the damp concrete bites into my bare skin. My bare skin. I’m naked—oh shit, I’m naked.

Shifting slightly, I wince, my body aches, yet I hold in a sob. A penetrating pain radiates from my neck down. I’m sore in places that make me want to scream, rage, and vomit. But my throat feels raw, voice stolen by days—fucking days—of pleading, begging, or maybe just silent seething through clenched teeth. I don’t know anymore.

I don’t want to open my eyes. If I open them, it makes it all real. So, I keep them shut, refusing to accept my reality. Maybe I’m still in that feveredhaze, lost in whatever nightmare that bitch of a doctor pumped into my bloodstream. But I already know.

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