Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Betas are boring.

The car was warm from the sun when they slid inside, Mia in a yellow cotton dress that flared around her knees every time she moved too quickly. She had insisted on bringing a bag ’just in case the clinic gets boring,’ which Chris knew meant she’d stuffed it with sweets she wasn’t supposed to eat before noon.

Chris sighed but let her do her thing. She wasn’t a bad or spoiled child, just eleven and still patching herself together in ways no one could see. Of the three of them, she had taken the most from their parents’ death. One day they’d been laughing in the park, fighting over who had stolen the last sweet, and the next Andrew had come home and told her she would never see them again.

It had been an accident. A truck driver, forced into too many hours with too little sleep, had closed his eyes at the wheel. Their mother’s car had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. All three, both parents and the driver, died instantly, the highway swallowing their lives in one blink. The company that hired him had paid compensation, almost too quickly, as though they’d known exactly how many laws had been broken to push that man onto the road in the first place.

The money had been enough. Enough for Andrew to keep the house, to keep them safe, and to raise two siblings without falling apart himself. But no amount of figures on a statement could fix the echo of that night or the sharp memory of absence that never really faded.

Chris rested his hand on the worn steering wheel, black eyes flicking to Mia’s reflection in the window as she unwrapped a sweet with exaggerated secrecy. She had been a child that day. She still was. But she had grown up all at once when Andrew told her the truth.

So he let her eat sugar before noon. He let her choose the biggest dress she owned. She deserved that much.

“Seatbelt,” he said, starting the engine.

Mia huffed, snapping it in place anyway. “You sound like Andrew.”

“That’s the point.” He glanced at her braid, already loose again. “And fix that before we get there, or the nurse will think I dragged you out of bed without warning.”

She stuck her tongue out at him but smoothed her hair obediently, her reflection pouting back at her in the window.

The drive wasn’t long. Their father’s old car rattled when he shifted gears, but it moved steady and loyal, carrying them down familiar streets. The city in summer was half-asleep: shops opening late, buses half-full, sidewalks glinting with heat that hadn’t even settled properly yet. Chris kept one hand loose on the wheel, black eyes fixed on the road, the other resting casually on the window frame.

He didn’t feel nervous about his secondary gender evaluation. He knew what he was and was already hiding it from Andrew. His older brother deserved peace for a while.

By the time they pulled up in front of the clinic, Mia was humming under her breath, swinging her legs in impatience.

“Come on, come on,” she chirped, tugging his sleeve the moment they stepped inside.

The building was cool, a relief after the heat outside, but the air smelled of antiseptic, making Mia’s nose scrunch. The waiting room was lined with pale chairs and framed posters reminding citizens of the importance of early registration. Chris scanned the desk, gave his name, and was handed a number card.

Mia slumped beside him, immediately fishing a lollipop from her bag.

“You can’t eat that here,” Chris said automatically.

“Watch me,” she muttered around the stick, grinning up at him with sugar already staining her mouth.

He rolled his eyes, leaning back against the chair. The minutes ticked by. Nurses called names. Alphas went in nervous and came out smug. Omegas went in with pale faces and came out with hands clenched tightly around their cards. Betas walked out looking relieved, like they’d dodged something they couldn’t name.

“Malek, Christopher,” a voice finally called.

He stood, smoothing his shirt unnecessarily, and Mia hopped up behind him like a shadow.

The exam room was colder than the lobby, with white walls and cabinets stacked with kits. A doctor sat at a small desk, middle-aged and tired in the way people get after too many years of hearing the same questions.

“Sit,” the doctor said simply. “We’ll start with a blood draw and a scent panel.”

Chris sat. The tourniquet bit against his arm, the needle slid in, and crimson filled the vial as if it were in a hurry. He didn’t look away.

“Routine,” he told himself, out loud this time.

Mia, perched on the extra chair, kicked her feet and squinted at the machine. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Chris said, though the sting lingered. “Don’t even think about fainting for drama.”

She huffed, unimpressed, and went back to sucking her lollipop, swinging her braid.

The nurse labeled the vials, carried them to a sleek analyzer on the counter, and pressed a sequence of buttons. The machine whirred, lights flickering in a steady rhythm. Chris tapped his fingers once against his knee, then stilled them.

The machine hummed, a steady low rhythm like a heart that didn’t belong to him. Chris sat very still, his black eyes fixed on the blinking lights until the nurse returned with a small printout clipped neatly to a chart. She handed it to the doctor with the indifference that came from seeing a hundred names a week.

The doctor scanned the page, his frown folding into something annoyed but not alarmed. He tapped the screen twice, muttered under his breath, then looked up at Chris.

“Well. That’s irritating.”

Chris arched a brow. “What is it?”

The doctor sighed, setting the tablet down. “The analyzer flagged dominant omega.”

The words landed with the quiet sound of a boulder. Mia, oblivious, was twirling the stick of her lollipop between her teeth, but Chris felt his whole body go still.

The doctor, however, shook his head with the weary calm of someone who had seen this before. “It’s not accurate. The model we’re using is outdated; six months from now we’ll be rid of it entirely. Until then, it likes to throw up false positives. You are the forth this week alone,” He flicked the chart closed, already dismissing it. “Given your presentation, it’s most likely a calibration error.”

Chris swallowed, his throat dry, but kept his voice steady. “So…?”

“So,” the doctor said, already pulling a fresh card from the drawer, “I’ll mark you as beta. Your labs are within normal limits, and there are no concerns that would warrant verification by a newer model in the capital. If you notice anything unusual, such as strange shifts or irregular scent responses, schedule a re-evaluation in six months when the new machines are in place. But frankly, I doubt you’ll need to.”

Beta. A single word, stamped across his life like a shield.

Chris managed a small nod. “Understood.”

Mia perked up in her chair, swinging her legs. “So, what is he?”

The doctor glanced at her, faint amusement flickering across his tired features. “Officially? Beta. Congratulations, young man.”

Mia made a dramatic little sound of disappointment, as if she’d been hoping for something more exciting. “Told you betas are boring,” she muttered.

Chris smirked faintly, though his hands were curled too tightly in his lap. “Boring’s the dream, remember?”

The nurse returned with the printed registry card, neat black letters declaring Malek, Christopher: Beta. She handed it over, and Chris slipped it into his wallet with careful fingers, the plastic already warm from her grip.

The doctor was already moving on, shuffling papers, and calling for the next patient. “You’re free to go. Take care of yourself.”

Chris stood, his limbs unfolding with the ease of a man fleeing from execution. He placed a hand briefly on Mia’s shoulder, steering her toward the door before she could ask anything else.

In the corridor, the cool air smelled less of antiseptic and more of dust. Chris walked steadily, one hand in his pocket, the other still curled around his wallet. His pulse had slowed, his face was calm, but the word lingered like smoke behind his teeth.

Dominant omega.

Dismissed as error. Labeled as beta.

’Six months,’ the doctor had said. ’If anything feels odd, come back.’

Chris already knew he wouldn’t.

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