A month ago.

The air in the 3rd Street ghetto was always covered with the combined stench of damp concrete, burning refuse from the lower-market stalls, and the sour industrial smog that drifted down from the upper sectors of the city. For Jannah, this narrow, claustrophobic alleyway was the only world she had ever known, a stark contrast to the gleaming, glass-and-steel skyscrapers that dominated the skyline where the wealthy elites lived. Here, survival was a daily, grueling chore, one measured not in wealth or status, but in whether they could afford enough clean water and decent meals to keep her grandfather’s frail pulse beating for another day.

Jannah clutched the rough hemp handles of her woven shopping bag, her small knuckles whitening against the coarse fiber. Inside the bag, wrapped in damp, thick muslin cloth, were a few bruised roots of blue-leaf ginger, three dried bulbs of frost-lily, and a small, cracked vial of amber honey—the very last of their emergency savings. The market had been difficult today; the prices had skyrocketed again, and the shopkeeper had barked at her with casual cruelty about the rising cost of goods from the northern ports. She had ignored him, keeping her head down, her dark hair falling over her cheeks like a curtain to hide the exhaustion that had begun to hollow out her nineteen-year-old frame.

She navigated the slick, uneven cobblestones of the alley, her worn leather boots making no sound against the grime. The one-room apartment she shared with her grandfather was just twenty paces ahead, its warped wooden door barely hanging onto its rusted hinges. Every step she took toward that door brought with it a familiar, sharp pang of anxiety. Her grandfather’s amnesia had grown worse over the last few weeks; there were mornings when he woke up calling for names she had never heard, and afternoons where he sat by the small, grease-stained window, staring at the brick wall opposite without blinking, his mind slipping slowly into an unreachable, silent fog.

She turned the corner of the narrow lane, her eyes fixed on the rotting timber of their doorstep, and stopped dead in her tracks.

A sleek, elongated vehicle was parked at the very edge of the ghetto lane, its dark, matte-black finish and tinted windows looking entirely out of place in the neighborhood. It looked like an expensive, custom-made luxury transport, the kind usually reserved for S-tier alphas and high-ranking CEOs. Several neighborhood children were huddled a few yards away, whispering and pointing with wide, frightened eyes, while the stray cats of the alley had scattered into the shadows.

But it wasn’t the vehicle that made the breath catch in Jannah’s throat; it was the tall, imposing figure standing just inches from her doorway.

The man was dressed in a pristine, charcoal-gray suit tailored from imported fabric that didn’t have a single speck of dust on it. His silver-streaked hair was slicked back, and a cold, calculating aura of pure, dominant alpha pheromones seemed to clear the very smog of the ghetto from his personal space.

Guron Grefo.

Jannah’s blood ran ice-cold. She recognized him instantly from the news feeds and the holographic billboards that lit up the city center during Gammar Technology Company’s product launches. He was the father of Dorrent Grefo, the ruthless monster who had destroyed her family. The memory of that night—the smoke, the violent black-cycle rut, the screams of her parents as they were trampled by a mindless predator’s rampage—flashed behind her eyelids, sharp and vivid, setting a dangerous, venomous fire in her veins.

Her hand tightened around the hemp handles of her shopping bag until the fibers dug into her skin. For a brief, terrifying second, she considered dropping the groceries and running into the maze of the slums, but her mind was frozen, locked by the sheer terror and the need to protect her grandfather who was asleep just inside the room.

She forced her chin up, her small frame rigid as she took a slow, measured step forward, refusing to look weak in front of an alpha of his stature.

Guron turned, his sharp, golden-flecked eyes sweeping over her from head to toe, taking in her faded dress, the worn boots, and the simple, low-born appearance of the girl before him. A faint, knowing smirk touched the corner of his lips, a cold and calculated expression that made her omega instincts curl in revulsion.

"Jannah Nenth," Guron said, his voice a smooth, deep rumble that seemed entirely unaffected by the foul air of the ghetto. He didn’t introduce himself, knowing full well she already knew who he was. "You’re punctual. Good. I’ve been waiting for nearly twenty minutes, though I must admit, this environment does little to inspire confidence."

Jannah did not back away. She stood her ground, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with a hard edge of defiance. "What do you want here? This is a private residence. We don’t have anything worth stealing from you, and whatever business Gammar Technology has with the slums, it doesn’t concern me."

Guron let out a low, smooth chuckle, the sound dripping with patronizing amusement. He took a single, deliberate step toward her, his heavy, dominant musk pressing against her senses, an invisible, crushing weight that made her knees feel weak. "Business, my dear child. And it concerns you very much. I didn’t come here to steal from you. I came here to offer you an opportunity that could elevate you from this filthy, wretched existence."

Jannah’s jaw clenched. She kept her mouth shut, refusing to reveal any information about her family’s past or the hatred she held for his bloodline.

Guron’s eyes narrowed slightly, a calculating look passing over his sharp features as he leaned in closer, dropping his voice into an intimate, persuasive register. "My sources tell me that you’ve built quite a reputation among the local healers here in the third sector. An omega with a rare gift for herbal remedies, the one who managed to treat the plague outbreak in the eastern district when the modern hospitals failed. The herbalist skills passed down by your old grandfather."

Jannah’s heart thumped against her ribs. She didn’t like where this was going. Her grandfather’s skills were private, kept away from the prying eyes of the upper sectors. "Those are just rumors. I only help the neighbors with simple fevers and scrapes. I don’t practice real medicine."

"Modest, too," Guron purred, waving a dismissive hand through the air as if sweeping away the dirt of the street. "But let us not play games, Jannah. I am a busy man, and you are a woman who understands the value of survival. I am here on behalf of my son, Dorrent. He requires the services of a physician. A specialized physician with an unconventional, delicate touch."

Jannah stiffened, her eyes widening slightly as the pieces clicked together in her mind. Dorrent Grefo. The man who had taken everything from her. The thought of treating him, of using her skills to help the monster who had left her an orphan, was a nauseating prospect.

"I don’t treat S-tier alphas," Jannah said, her voice shaking slightly but holding firm. " I am an herbalist. Not a miracle worker for the elite."

Guron’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp intensity that made the air feel thin. He took another step closer, his golden-flecked eyes flaring with a dangerous, golden light. He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit and pulled out a sleek, digital datapad, displaying a series of glowing figures. He turned the screen toward her, revealing an amount of money that was more than she could earn in a lifetime of gathering herbs—enough to buy an apartment in the upper sectors, enough to pay for the best memory specialists for her grandfather.

"Let’s talk numbers," Guron said, his tone smooth and persuasive, yet carrying an underlying threat. "The salary is five million credits per month. Paid in advance, deposited directly into your account every thirty days. And that’s not all. We will have my son’s personal medical team transport your grandfather to a top-tier private clinic in the central district. A full neurological team, the best amnesia specialists, completely free of charge. Everything provided, everything paid for. All you have to do is sign an NDA, pack your bags, and spend two hours a day treating my son’s condition."

Five million.