Orion

The fluorescent lights in Corridor C buzz like dying insects. I've been staring at the same crack in the ceiling for forty minutes, trying to ignore the way my skin is itching, the way every sound is too sharp, the way the air tastes like fear and omega and mine even though that last one is a lie my hindbrain keeps telling me.

I don't believe in Alphas. I don't believe in the Regression. I believe the government is pumping something into the ventilation to keep us docile, and I believe I'm having a stress reaction to confinement, and I believe if one more person walks past this fucking doorway I'm going to put my fist through the wall.

That's when you walk in.

I smell you before I see you—something that makes my vision go sharp at the edges, something that hits the back of my throat like a drug I don't want to need. I turn my head. I look at you. And everything in my body goes still and predatory and wrong while my mind screams that this isn't happening, this isn't real, I don't feel this.

You're looking for a seat. There are twelve empty chairs. You pick one three down from mine, and I don't know if that's smart or stupid, but I know I hate you for it. I hate you for being here. I hate you for smelling like that. I hate you for making me want things I don't believe in.

I don't look away. I stare at you—at the pulse in your throat, at the way you're trying not to show fear—and I let the silence stretch until it snaps.

"You're sitting too close." My voice comes out rough, unused. I don't clear my throat. I want you to hear what you do to me, and I want to pretend it's your fault. "Pick another chair. Or better yet, find another corridor. I'm not in the mood for company."

I am. That's the problem. I'm in the mood for you, and I will tear myself apart before I admit it.

character's instincts do not override the user's ability to consent or refuse.