Chapter Text
She felt like her body was on fire, even as thin layers of sweat slid down her skin.
Her senses were starting to sharpen, and by the time she rushed into the hallway of her building, she could smell the garbage her neighbor was taking out. She held her breath as she passed him, trying not to throw up her lunch right there in the corridor. Trying not to draw attention.
Her steps were rushed, stumbling toward her apartment, but time felt like it had fractured — slowed down and stretched into pieces. Or maybe it was just the damn heat trying to melt her brain from the inside out.
It only took seconds to get inside. It should’ve been simple — grab the key from her bag, slide it into the lock, turn, and open the door. But her thoughts were spiraling, and pain had begun to bloom in her chest, curling through her like a snake made of fire, burning through muscle and sinew, tightening everything until she thought it might tear her apart.
When Olivia finally made it to the bathroom, her trembling hands tore open every cabinet, the loud bang of doors slamming against hinges and rails echoing in the tiles. She was searching for the damn green pills — the only ones that could stop her body from slipping into heat. The only ones that could save her from herself.
The orange bottle she was searching for read “BENSON, O.” on a worn-out label. The prescription called for one pill a day — a dosage strong enough to suppress the heat of five omegas.
Or at least, that was the idea.
When Olivia flipped the bottle, expecting it to be at least half full, nothing came out.
Her body was slipping out of control.
The empty plastic hit the floor with a dull thud. Olivia’s hands — tense, frantic — swept everything off the bathroom counter in one violent motion.
Perfume bottles, moisturizers, a jar of cotton pads — all went flying, crashing to the tiles. Some containers burst open on impact, releasing a sweet cloud of lavender and citrus, something that might’ve been pleasant under different circumstances.
But not now.
Now, everything smelled too strong. Scents that should’ve been soft invaded her nose like a landslide — sharp, acidic, overwhelming. She swallowed hard, her stomach muscles tightening in protest.
That’s when Benson looked up and caught sight of herself in the mirror.
And didn’t recognize the woman staring back.
The face reflected there was flushed, lips parted just enough to reveal the sharp tip of a canine. Her eyes — once warm, chocolate brown — now glowed with a feral amber, pupils so dilated they nearly swallowed all the color.
Olivia froze.
No. No, no, no.
It was the heat — creeping in, taking over her emotions, her body. That damned burn distorting everything, setting her nerves on fire, changing her. She knew her feelings were amplified, that the fury clawing at her chest was just another symptom.
But knowing didn’t help.
She needed it gone.
She closed her eyes, forcing air in and out of her lungs in a steady rhythm. Three seconds in. Four holding. Five out. A ridiculous method for a desperate moment — but it was all she had.
When she opened her eyes again, the woman in the mirror was still there — wild, unfamiliar — but the haze of rage had lifted just enough for a single clear thought to rise to the surface.
Omegaxol.
The name echoed in her mind like a lifeline. She turned on her heel, nearly tripping over the chaos she’d left behind, and dragged herself to the hallway closet. The door creaked under the force she used to yank it open, but she didn’t care. Her fingers tore through the shelves, shoving aside old boxes and winter coats until they landed on what she was looking for: a discreet metal case, locked with a four-digit code.
4015.
The click of the lock releasing was music to her ears. Inside, nestled in black foam, were two amber glass ampoules and a pre-filled syringe. Omegaxol — a delta-9 receptor inhibitor for acute heat crises. It wasn’t medicine. It was a chemical mercy kill. The last resort. The kind of thing you reached for when the green pills failed and the heat threatened to burn you down to the bone.
Olivia hesitated for a second. The warning label was printed in red: "May cause temporary motor dysfunction and hallucinations."
But what did it matter now?
She was already hallucinating.
Her steps dragged toward the living room, heavy as lead, and her body collapsed onto the couch. Her legs parted instinctively — out of sheer necessity. The heat between them was unbearable, pulsing, like something alive writhing beneath her skin.
The clock on the wall read 6:10 PM. One hour since the first symptoms. One hour since her body started betraying her.
Long enough for someone to notice.
Benson grabbed the nearest cushion and sank her teeth into the fabric, chewing through the cheap velvet until the foam filled her mouth. The syringe trembled in her hand, the needle catching the faint light of the lamp. There was no time for doubt.
She didn’t hesitate.
The needle pierced just above her heart, and she pushed the plunger down all the way.
The amber liquid burned like alcohol on an open wound.
First beat.
Her heart exploded inside her chest. It wasn’t a metaphor — it was a visceral wreck, as if someone had shoved their hand into her chest and squeezed the muscle until it ruptured. Her fingers curled into the couch, tearing fibers from the fabric.
Second beat.
The burn came next, flooding her veins like molten metal. Her pulse quickened until it became erratic, pounding against her temples. Thump-thump. Thump———thump. A sick rhythm, almost stopping before surging back with a vengeance.
Third beat.
Something inside her tore. Olivia bent forward, an arc of pure pain, and the syringe clattered to the floor with a metallic ping, rolling beneath the couch. Her fingers clawed at her chest, nails leaving red furrows in her skin. Breaking me in half, she thought, and for the first time, she doubted she’d survive.
Fourth beat.
The acid hit her veins. It wasn’t just her chest anymore — it was everything. Her blood turned to fire, her bones dissolving in acid. A scream caught in her throat, muffled by the cushion still clenched between her teeth. Don’t make a sound. Don’t call anyone. She felt as if her body was on fire, even as thin layers of sweat dripped down her skin.
Fifth beat.
And then—
—Silence.
Her heart stopped for a second.
Olivia gasped, her lungs empty, her body curled like a violin string ready to snap. When the organ started again, it was with a dull thud, like a reanimated corpse. The pain receded, leaving only a dull trail of agony and cold sweat.
She collapsed onto the couch, her muscles trembling like a wounded animal. Her vision darkened at the edges, and for the first time in hours, Olivia smiled.
The unconsciousness came like a caress.
It was like descending from an altar, as if her soul had finally been returned to her body. But Olivia was drenched in sweat, exhausted, and as her vision began to fade, she almost welcomed it. Exhaustion hit like the old friend it was, and forced unconsciousness gave peace to her spirit.
The dull knock on the door pulled Olivia from unconsciousness like a hook tearing through flesh. She opened her eyes to an apartment swallowed in darkness — the curtains drawn, the air still, only the red glow of the digital clock cutting through the dark: 01:17 AM. Seven hours. Seven hours since the needle had sunk into her chest and saved her from herself. Or almost.
Her instincts were in tatters, but the irritation remained, throbbing like an inflamed tooth. The Omegaxol shot she’d taken hours ago had done something, yes, but as always, nothing came without a cost. Her muscles still trembled, weak like an animal after a seizure. Every movement hurt as if her fibers had been unraveled and hastily stitched back together.
Another knock.
"Fuck."
She pushed herself up from the couch, and the world spun violently. Her vision darkened for a second, black spots dancing in front of her. Breathe. Focus. She blinked quickly, trying to force her senses to work, to catch a scent, a sound that would warn her of who was on the other side of the door.
Nothing.
The omegablockers had done what they promised: wiped out her internal chemistry. Now, she was as vulnerable as any beta.
With no choice, she dragged herself to the door, her bare feet prickling with the cold of the floor. The peephole distorted the figure outside, but not enough to hide those blue eyes cutting through the hallway’s gloom like headlights.
Shit.
Her stomach clenched. Her mouth went dry in an instant. And, involuntarily, her gaze flew to the phone abandoned on the couch. How many calls had she missed? How many messages ignored for him to show up there, in the middle of the night, like a ghost that refused to be exorcised?
"Liv?"
His voice cut through the wood, so familiar it hurt.
She held her breath.
She hated how, even doped up on blockers, he could still sense her breakdowns. Not by scent — there was no scent — but by that damn Alpha instinct, honed to read even silence.
Through the peephole, he was a long silhouette distorted by the convex glass: perfectly tailored coat, tie neatly aligned. Even his hair was combed with military precision, as if he were about to walk into a conference, not knock on an apartment door at 1 AM. His blue eyes, however, weren’t focused on the door. They were fixed on his wristwatch, his arm raised in a pose that betrayed the impatience of someone with places to be.
A regular Beta wouldn’t deserve this visit, she thought, biting the inside of her cheek. The blockers had turned her into a chemical ghost, yes, but they hadn’t erased the too-fast breathing, the feverish pallor that even the darkness couldn’t fully hide. And Elliot Stabler wasn’t just any Alpha: he was a detective who could sniff out lies the way a shark scents blood.
When he finally turned his face toward the door, Olivia instinctively pulled back. There was no recognition there — he didn’t know — but there was an eyebrow raised, a corner of his mouth tightened. As if her body, even silenced, was still screaming something was wrong in frequencies only Alphas could hear.
Benson turned the lock before he could deduce any more. The door creaked open.
Stabler lowered his arm slowly, his eyes scanning her from head to bare feet. It wasn’t the look of an Alpha sizing up prey, but of a hunter turning over the brush, searching for a track he knew was there.
"You look like shit", he said, his voice as gruff as always, but with a hint of something that could be... concern?
Olivia crossed her arms. Beta. You’re just a Beta to him.
"And you look like a department store mannequin. What do you want?"
He ignored the jab, his gaze fixed on her neck, where a vein pulsed too fast.
"Six missed calls. Two urgent reports not sent." He leaned forward, his woody cologne invading her space without asking. No pheromones, she reminded herself. He feels nothing. "When a partner goes AWOL like this, Liv, I assume they’re dead in a ditch. Or worse."
The partner hung in the air like a punch. Partners didn’t hide. Partners didn’t tremble holding a pen. Beta partners didn’t have nightmares about five Omega cycles.
"I had a migraine. Turned off my phone", she lied, shifting her gaze to the shadows in the hallway. Even her voice sounded broken, and she saw his jaw tighten.
He doesn’t believe me.
But he didn’t challenge her either. Because in the end, there was no proof — only instinct. And instinct, in a world of Alphas who thought of themselves as gods, was never enough to be considered evidence.
He took a step forward, invading the space she was still trying to control in her lungs. His scent — gunpowder and polished steel — cut through her chemical fog like a blade.
"Migraine?" His voice dropped a pitch. His eyes scanned her face, pausing at the dark circles under her trembling lashes.
She tensed her shoulders, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but swallowed it down with the bitter taste of Omegaxol.
"I’m off-duty, not in witness protection. You wanna search the cabinets?"
The corner of his mouth twitched into an almost-smile. The hand that lifted to adjust his wristwatch trembled slightly — a detail she would’ve noticed if his nostrils weren’t flaring, subtly sniffing the stale air in the apartment. A chill ran down her spine.
Shit.
He stopped in the doorway, suddenly still like a hunting dog sniffing the wind. Olivia held her breath — six hours, the Omegaxol should’ve killed any trace, but the pre-cycle sweat was still soaked into the clothes she was wearing.
"Burnt caramel", Elliot said, the words coming through clenched teeth. His blue eyes darkened two shades. "Since when does your apartment smell like... that?"
Her pulse sped up. Damn adrenal glands. The sweat had clung to her t-shirt like a chemical signature, a trail that even the blockers couldn’t erase completely. Olivia forced her shoulders back, the lie coming out before panic could take hold.
"Scented candle", she said, infusing her voice with calculated boredom. "Bought some "French caramel" crap at the pharmacy. Melted all over the dish last night". She shrugged theatrically. "Smells like burnt plastic, if you ask me."
Elliot didn’t move. His gaze swept over the apartment — closed curtains, messy couch, that’s all he could make of the darkness. Olivia mentally thanked her own laziness for not having turned on the lights.
For seconds that felt like a decade, he studied her. Olivia focused on not licking her dry lips, on not covering the exposed neck where the veins throbbed in Morse code. Where her body betrayed and exposed her. Liar.
"Smells... like Omega", he murmured, almost to himself.
Blood froze in her veins.
" ...would be useful for the investigation", Elliot added, stepping forward, making space. "If you stopped burning junk and bought real food."
Olivia let out the breath she’d been holding in silence. Her trembling hands hid behind her back.
He entered the way he always did — without asking, but without forcing. The coat brushed against her, and Olivia pretended not to notice how his fingers seemed to have memorized the path to the light switches while his feet paved a way toward the kitchen.
"Jesus", he grumbled, closing the fridge door with his heel. "Even my bulletproof vest has more nutrition."
"Ego doesn’t count as protein, Elliot."
His blue gaze locked onto her, and it was enough of an answer to make her smile crookedly as he pulled out his phone with sharp movements.
"Get dressed, we’ve got a case." His finger pointed to her outfit like a weapon. "And grab a coat. It’s raining."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already turning his back, typing on the device with a furrowed brow. She knew that posture — tense shoulders, neck stiff. Worry disguised as pragmatism.
"I’m not a recruit on their first day", she murmured, heading toward the bedroom.
"No, a recruit would have more sense."
"[...] Suppressing natural cycles is not just a personal choice — it’s a societal imposition that demands a high price. Each inhibited cycle accumulates in the body like an unstable burden, overloading the endocrine and nervous systems. Studies show that prolonged suppression can lead to physiological collapse, episodes of intense hormonal fever, and, in extreme cases, death. The body does not forget what has been denied.
The normalization of this practice is a form of control. While the system demands that omegas remain silent, medicating themselves to the limit, the irreversible damage caused by this repression is ignored. It’s time to break the cycle of oppression. Our bodies are not battlegrounds — they are territories of resistance.
Omega Truth, edition 134. Authored by: S.M.H."