Trigger Warning:
This story contains content that may be distressing to some readers, including themes of abuse, violence, trauma, and non-consensual situations. Reader discretion is advised.
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Noah's POV – Age: 10
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The night I lost everything wasn't loud.
It was quiet. Quiet in a way that made your skin crawl, like the world had already given up on you and just hadn't told you yet.
I had just come home after sneaking out. My little hands were raw from scraping the alley wall as I climbed over into the bakery's back storage. The loaf of stolen bread, still warm and soft, was hidden under my shirt. It beat against my chest with each breath like a guilty drum.
Mama was going to be proud. I didn't get caught this time.
But when I reached the front of our apartment, the door was open.
And there was no sound.
"Mama?" I called, stepping inside.
The smell hit first—iron and liquor, both too strong.
Then I saw her.
She was lying by the kitchen stove, her head bleeding into the tile. One of her earrings had fallen off and rolled near my foot. Her fingers twitched, barely.
Before I could run to her, someone grabbed me from behind. A meaty hand clamped over my mouth. My bread dropped, forgotten, and the world tilted as I kicked and thrashed.
"Shut up, brat."
The man reeked of cigarettes and rust. Another man appeared—he was holding a rope. My wrists were bound before I could scream. A black cloth came over my face.
"Don't hurt him too much. He's the payment," someone muttered.
And then... I heard it.
My father's voice. Laughing.
"That little omega's good for something after all."
I didn't see anything after that.
Only darkness.
Only pain.
But I remember they even kill him my father....
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When I woke up, I was no longer in my home. Or what used to be one.
The room smelled like mold, piss, and old sweat. I was chained to a wall. My legs were cold, feet bare. Around me, other kids cried. A few were older. A few stared like statues.
My wrist burned where the shackle rubbed it raw. My throat was dry. My pants were wet—I didn't remember when I peed myself.
We were in a basement.
No, a dungeon.
There were no windows. No light except a single flickering bulb swinging overhead. Every few minutes, it would buzz, and a shadow would twitch against the walls like a ghost.
They took our names away.
I became "B23."
"Remember it," the guard said, hitting my back with a stick. "Forget the rest."
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That first week broke something in me.
They didn't feed us much. When they did, it was rotting bread or water in cracked bowls. I learned to eat fast. To guard my food. I learned not to cry when they dragged others away, because they never came back the same. Some didn't come back at all.
I was ten.
But I stopped feeling ten real fast.
One day, a man tried to touch me. I bit him.
He laughed at first—until he saw the
blood.
Then came the kicks.
One, two, three—until I curled in on myself, ribs shaking.
"Stupid omega. You'll be on your knees begging soon," he spat.
But I didn't beg.
I never begged.
They forced me to give them blowjobs,when I don't even know the meaning.
but they never went ahead maybe cuz of my age or maybe luck.
I know other brothers and sisters are doing more, when they throw me out of the room I hear them screaming and shouting. And when they come back there were blood on there clothes I don't know why. Some disappear, some suicide, and some kids just continue surviving like me.
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Then... she came.
I was being dragged by my collar to be punished again cuz I bit someone's dick. I had said something—probably too loud. Probably too proud.
But as the guard raised his hand, a voice cut through the dark like sunlight through fog.
"Put him down."
The man froze. "Alora—he mouthed off again."
"I said, put him down."
I blinked up at her. She wore a long white dress that brushed the filthy floor. Her dark hair was pinned up, her skin glowing like she didn't belong in this place.
She walked like she owned the room. Like she owned the man. And maybe she did.
He dropped me like I was trash.
She kneeled beside me, brushing blood from my mouth with a silk handkerchief.
"You bite him?"
I nodded.
Her lips twitched. "Good."
No one had ever said that to me before.
Not even Mama.
That was the first time I saw her smile.
Alora. (Twenty six)
Was My angel in hell.
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