Page 159 of Pack Frenzy
March 12.
Trial assignment initiated.
Alpha: ——— [redacted]
There’s a picture of Sabrina, and my heart stops.
Same dark eyes. Same stubborn jaw. Same way of holding her chin up like she’s daring the camera to try her. She looks so much like Jess that for a disorienting second, I think someone uploaded the wrong file—that I’m looking at Jess seven years ago, younger and harder around the edges.
No one could doubt they’re sisters.
Which explains Blake’s reaction to her and what she told us when they first met at the banquet.
But then there’s nothing else.
End record.
That’s it. No notes. No termination summary. No incident report, which every case is supposed to have—even if someone quits, transfers, or dies.
I’ve seen files for Omegas who moved to different states, changed their names, got married, and disappeared into suburbia. Those files havesomething.Transfer requests. Exit interviews. Forwarding addresses for final paychecks.
Sabrina has eight words and a photo.
I scroll, expecting lag. Expecting something to load. But the screen just sits there, indifferent, humming in soft blue.
“Come on,” I mutter, leaning closer.
I bypass the archive filters, route through internal indexing—basic stuff. The kind of access I shouldn’t technically have, but nobody notices. My pulse picks up anyway.
Pages flicker. Blank.
The deeper I go, the cleaner it gets—like someone sterilized her existence that even Jess’s parents and lawyers couldn’t get anywhere.
I find one document half-buried in a subfolder tagged Family Contact Log. The scan’s rough, black lines fading, handwritten note barely legible:
Parents arrived again, requesting access to records. Third visit this month. Inquiry denied. Case closed as voluntary departure with assigned Alpha partner.
They kept coming back. Kept asking. And Nexus kept lying to their faces.
I sit back, jaw tight. Seven years ago, an Omega walked through these doors, then vanished.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, then move again, faster. I check timestamps. Pull internal memos. Nothing. Whoever scrubbed this knew what they were doing. There’s no trace left except the smell of bleach and the way my gut twists.
I rub my shoulder absently. The bruise warms under my touch, a quiet pulse through the fabric. Jess’s mark—hers, not Nexus’s. Proof she wanted me, even in Heat, when most Omegas wouldn’t look twice at a Beta—especially one who shares a bed with her Alpha.
But the longer I stare at Sabrina’s empty file, the more I feel the walls closing in.
How many others got “assigned” and never came back?
I trace the chain of authorization. A name flashes for half a second before the system boots me out.
Director-Level Override. Access Revoked.
The cursor blinks at me again, like it’s laughing.
I lean back in my chair.
Fine. If they want to hide ghosts, I’ll learn where they buried them.
