Unmarked

Miranda woke to silence.

Not the kind of silence that came from peace—but the heavy, padded quiet of isolation. A soundproof room. Climate-controlled. No scent of fresh air, no sun, no stone circle. Just the cold hum of artificial ventilation and the faint beep of a monitor reading her vitals. When she tried to move she noticed she couldn’t move her arms. She tried again but nothing happened. Her legs, too.

Restrained. Padded hospital cuffs locked her to the bed at wrists and ankles. She was dressed in a soft tunic—too clean, too clinical.

Then she heard someone coming closer—Footsteps. He clicking of heels against stone floors. Miranda’s breath hitched as the door opened, and Evelyn Sharp stepped through. Flawless. Unhurried. Dressed in tailored black like a mourner at a funeral.

Her funeral.

Miranda’s voice was hoarse. “You…”

Evelyn smiled, faint and terrible. “I see the sedative wore off.” She crossed to the edge of the bed, looking down with the detachment of a collector inspecting her newest prized item.

“You’re exactly as I imagined,” Evelyn murmured. “Even with the fear. The restraints. And pregnant’’ she spat like it was supposed to be an insult. “Still trying to stare through me like I’m beneath you.”

“Because you are,” Miranda rasped. Evelyn’s smile didn’t waver.

“I cant help but wonder if you looked at her that way…” Miranda looked at her confused, unsure of who Evelyn was talking about.

“You don’t remember her,” she said suddenly. “You wouldn’t. She was one of hundreds. One of thousands. A nobody with a dream and too much fragility to survive your world.”

Miranda blinked, still confused—until Evelyn reached into her coat and pulled out a worn photograph.

A girl, maybe twenty. Big eyes. Soft features. Arranging Runway clippings like a mood board of dreams.

“She wanted to model,” Evelyn whispered. “She wrote to Runway. Twice. Showed up at a casting call in a dress she made herself. She was told—by your team—that she didn’t have the face, the body, or the pedigree to ever make it on stage.”

She stared at the photo for a long moment before slipping it away.

“She was twenty-three when she killed herself.” Miranda’s lips parted.

“Julia was her name, Julia Moore. She was my mate, the love of my life.”

Evelyn stepped closer, now eyeing her like she was trying to figure out what to do next.

“For years, I didn’t blame you. I blamed her. Weakness. Rebellion. The classic Omega tragedy. Wanting something she could never have. And you the all powerful Alpha fashion queen who had every right not to deject someone so clearly beneath her.’’

She leaned in. “But then I found out what you truly were, a good for nothing lowlife of an Omega!” she spat.

“If you had stayed in your place or given a damn about the people around you this would never have happened. Her killing herself would never have happened!” Evelyns face had turned red and the anguish could be clearly seen in her features.

“She died because she thought she had to be good enough for you.” Evelyn said, now nothing more than a whisper. “And when she wasn’t, well…” she looked away.

Miranda felt her stomach twist.

Evelyn’s voice softened, cruelly gentle. “And now, I’ve taken the symbol of everything that killed her. Everything that poisoned our world. And I’ve made you mine.”

Miranda yanked at the cuffs, panic surging. “You won’t get away with this.”

Evelyn touched her cheek with the back of her fingers. “You’re not a threat anymore. You’re a projects that can do with a few life lessons. Many I plan to teach thoroughly.”

She stood, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve.

“Rest up, darling. We’ll begin your reconditioning tomorrow.”

And then she left Miranda in the still, sterile quiet. Alone. Bound. And more terrified than she had ever been in her life.

**-

Andrea sat in the war room of the Elder Council, surrounded by stone walls and silent witnesses. Her skin still smelled faintly of candle smoke and jasmine—remnants of a ceremony turned battlefield.

She hadn’t changed out of her robe. Her face was tearstained. Her hair undone. She looked like death warmed over. And she couldn’t stop pacing. Sasha stood in the corner, arms folded, jaw tight.

One of the Elders had taken the twins aside, away from the grief and rage, their small hands still clutching the flower crowns they had made for the Rite.

Andrea turned toward the council table.

“This is your fucking fault.”

Elder Toma, the youngest among them, didn’t flinch. “We didn’t foresee—”

“You didn’t protect her!” Andrea’s voice broke. “She was in the middle of the sacred rite. You were supposed to have watchers. Wards. Anything!”

Elder Siran, gentler, stepped forward. “Andrea, we’ve sent scouts. We’ve mobilized our informants. If Evelyn Sharp has her—”

“She does have her!” Andrea shouted. Her fists slammed onto the council table. “You think this is about if?” Her voice cracked open into hysteria.

“She was taken. From me. From us. From the soil that just claimed our bond. This land is sacred!” Andrea staggered back, hands in her hair, gasping like she was drowning in the air.

“Something was awakened tonight,” she whispered, broken. “And it was taken before it had a chance to root.” A heavy silence fell.

Sasha stepped forward then, slowly. “We know Evelyn’s methods. She has a second facility. We’ve suspected it. We just couldn’t prove it.”

Andrea looked up, eyes hollowed with grief and rage. “Then we burn every piece of ground she’s touched until we find Miranda.”

No one responded. Andrea turned back to the Elders. “This is unforgivable,” she said, quieter now, but no less furious. “I don’t want negotiations. I don’t want mercy. I want to see blood spilled for this.”

Elder Toma finally nodded once, solemnly. “Then the Council grants you full sanction,” he said. “You’ll have our support. Whatever you need.” Andrea didn’t thank them. She just turned to Sasha, voice shaking.

“Get me Ghost. Get me Milo. Get me every person who owes us a favor.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“We have to find her.”

**-

There was no window, no clock and no way to measure the time except for the soft clicks of the ventilation system, the artificial shifts in light temperature, and the gentle ping that preceded every action: the meal tray sliding through the lower slot in the wall. The voice crackling through the intercom.

"Miranda Priestly. It's time to wake."

The lights had risen to an almost natural glow—warm like late morning sunlight, though she knew it was still deep in the night outside. She sat on the narrow bed, wrists still locked to the padded straps, though now loose enough for her to move a few inches. Her ankles were similarly restrained.

Miranda stared forward, unmoving. She hadn’t spoken since Evelyn left. She’d waited—for noise. A guard. A nurse. A camera she could catch moving. But there had been nothing, just the soft hum of automation. The absence of scent. The utter erasure of stimulation.

And the voice.

"Would you like music today?"

She didn’t answer.

"Selected calm suite will begin in ten seconds."

Music filtered into the space—soft, orchestral, subtle enough to keep her from grounding in silence.

Another ping. A panel in the far wall clicked open. Inside, a tray: perfectly arranged breakfast. Fruit, white toast, herbal tea. Her stomach turned.

The screen above the bed blinked to life. Evelyn’s voice, smooth and clinical.

“Good morning, Miranda. You’re looking well today.”

The message wasn’t live. It had been recorded. But Evelyn had stared directly into the camera, as if she knew how to worm into her without needing to be present.

“I hope you’re starting to understand how much simpler this could be.”

Miranda closed her eyes. Breathe. Focus.

“We’ll continue your evaluation soon. Let’s see how long it takes you to speak today.”

The screen went dark. Miranda bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. But the room—perfectly crafted—was already beginning its work.

Everything about it was designed to strip her down quietly. No violence. No punishment. Just... stillness. Isolation. Overstimulation. Understimulation. Control. All wrapped nicely together

And if Evelyn’s patterns followed true—This was only the beginning.

**-

Time blurred in the artificial rhythms of the cell. Miranda had no idea if it was the same day, or the next. She hadn’t eaten. She hadn’t spoken.

They’d loosened the ankle restraints slightly—enough to pace the limited length of the floor between her bed and the panel wall. Her body was sore, her head ached, and her stomach turned with every sip of recycled air.

She was still barefoot when the lock of the door clicked open and a man entered.

Not masked. Not armored. He wore white—clinical scrubs, spotless. A data pad in his left hand, latex gloves already on. His eyes never left her, but they didn't register her as a person. Just a living object he was assigned to monitor.

Miranda stiffened. “You’re not Evelyn.”

“No,” he replied simply. His voice was mid-range, boring and mechanical sounding. “I’m Lead Compliance Officer Hessel. I’m here to administer your physiological assessment.”

He crossed the room and set the pad on the tray table.

“I will check blood pressure, draw a small sample for hormone analysis, and perform an abdominal scan.” Miranda backed away, wrists balling into fists. “You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

He didn’t react. “I’ve been authorized to proceed, cooperative or not.”

He took one step closer. Miranda moved again—sharper this time, putting the bed between them. “I’m pregnant.”

“I’m aware,” Hessel said. “That is why monitoring is essential.”

She picked up the tray with one hand and flung it. It crashed across the floor—porcelain shattering, tea spraying. His face didn’t change. But he moved fast.

Within seconds, he’d crossed the distance and seized her wrist. Not roughly—not at first. “I do not wish to use restraints during this process.”

“Then don’t touch me.”

“You are delaying required scans.”

“Get out,” she snarled. His grip tightened. The calm left his face like a mask falling.

“You will learn quickly,” he said coldly, “that resistance in this facility is not honored. And your status as a breeder does not excuse disobedience.”

He let go only to reach for something clipped to his belt. A short, flat baton. Miranda backed up—but not fast enough.

A shock snapped against the side of her thigh. She collapsed to her knees with a strangled cry, not from pain alone—but from fury. The jolt wasn’t strong enough to cause permanent harm—clearly calculated—but it warned her not to test him further.

“You will now sit,” he said, stepping over the mess. “You will be scanned. And if you scream again, I will sedate you.” Miranda’s breath shook. She did as she was told, because she had no choice.

But she didn’t look at him either. Didn’t flinch when he approached.

He retrieved a compact scanner and moved with mechanical precision, as if Miranda were a lab specimen instead of a breathing, sentient person. “Extend your arm,” he said.

She didn’t move. He reached for her forearm, pressing her wrist down to the bed rail. He swabbed, drew blood—quick, efficient, emotionless. Her fingers curled, but she didn’t jerk away.

Next came the cuff. He wrapped it around her upper arm with practiced ease, began the blood pressure test. “You’re hypertensive,” he muttered. “Likely due to your agitation.” Miranda kept her eyes on the wall.

Then came the scanner—a smooth wand he passed over her abdomen.

She clenched her jaw. “How far along?” he asked.

She said nothing. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured, making a note on the pad. “Still within window.”

Window. Her stomach churned, she didn’t know what he meant by that but she was not keen on finding out either.

The wand beeped softly, and Hessel stepped back, stripping off the gloves. He didn’t meet her eyes when he spoke again.

“You have demonstrated uncooperative and aggressive behavior during a mandatory medical scan. Under Directive that qualifies for corrective review.” He walked to the comm panel embedded in the wall and pressed a button.

“This is Lead Officer Hessel. I need reinforcement. One guard and a Nurse Practitioner to prep Subject Priestly for transport to Correction.”

Miranda felt her breath catch—but her rage didn’t dim. “You think you can break me?” she whispered.

“I don’t need to break you,” Hessel said. “I just need to reprogram you, that is the only think I get paid to do.” The door clicked open again.

Two entered—one in crisp medical whites, the other in matte gray tactical gear. The nurse approached with a sedative while the guard unlatched the ankle restraints.

Miranda surged once—an instinct.

It earned her another crack from the baton, this time lower, across the calf. Not enough to hurt. Enough to humiliate. The nurse pressed the sedative to her neck. Cool. Sharp. Blooming ice down her spine.

Her limbs went heavy fast—too fast. She was barely aware of the straps being replaced, this time on a narrow gurney. She floated.

And then—The lights above her shifted, signaling movement. She was being wheeled through the halls. To the place they called Corrections.

**-

It had been four days since the Rite of Harmony was shattered. Since Miranda was ripped out of Andrea’s hands and into Evelyn’s. And they still had nothing.

No scent trail. No digital trace. No coded message left behind. Nothing.

Andrea stood in the center of the strategy room, surrounded by digital maps, half-drunk cups of coffee, and stacks of files she'd torn through again and again. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her knuckles bruised from slamming her fist into the desk hours earlier.

Sasha leaned in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly, watching with a mix of sympathy and fear. She hadn’t seen Andrea sleep since it happened. She wasn’t even sure Andrea had sat down since the first night.

“Andy—”

“Don’t,” Andrea said without looking at her.

She was scrolling through a classified list of Omega transport permits, hoping—praying—that Evelyn had made a mistake. That someone had used the wrong date stamp. That somewhere in the lines of redacted data, Miranda would be hiding.

But the list ended, and the screen blinked back to the main terminal. Still nothing.

Andrea shoved it away, dragging both hands down her face, letting out a raw sound—half-growl, half-exhale.

“This is impossible,” she snapped. “She didn’t disappear. She doesn’t get to just disappear.”

Sasha stepped forward cautiously. “Ghost and Milo are still working. The Bureau is watching Evelyn’s estate, but—”

“She’s not there!” Andrea roared. “We both know that. She had a second site. She moved her. And we’re sitting here picking over digital crumbs while Miranda—” her voice cracked, “—is out there somewhere.”

Her hands trembled as she slammed a folder shut, not even looking at what was inside. Sasha crossed to her and gently placed a hand on her back. Andrea stiffened, then slumped—bone-deep exhaustion hitting like a crashing tide.

“I can’t feel her anymore,” she whispered. “I used to feel her. In the bond. Even when she was angry or scared or far away... there was always this thread. But now…”

Sasha didn’t answer. She just stood beside her, grounding her. Andrea let her head fall forward, eyes closed. Then, quietly:

“If she’s already broken or killed… if Evelyn—”

“She’s not,” Sasha said firmly. “We find the facility. We get her back. And then we make Evelyn pay.” Andrea’s jaw clenched. Because right now finding her felt impossible.

**-

There was no name on the entrance. No signage. No designation. Just a reinforced corridor at the far end of the facility’s lower level, guarded by a biometric lock and a scanner that ran cold light down the length of each visitor’s spine.

Inside, the air was colder.  The floors were matte black—rubberized to muffle sound and minimize slipping. The walls were metal, lined with embedded loops and hooks, placed at standing height, kneeling height. Every surface was sanitized, scrubbed and sterile. But the scent that lingered beneath the antiseptic burn was something else: leather, sweat and fear.

Overhead, the lights were deliberately dimmed, casting long shadows between stations. Everything is meant to disorient. The Correction Center had been built with a purpose and it wasn't rehabilitation.

There were four units—each separated by security glass and steel partitions. Each one arranged like a station in a perverse ritual.

Unit One: "Posture and Presence"
A narrow space with mirrored walls on every side. At the center: a padded platform with leather cuffs embedded into the floor. Off to the side: rods, balance poles, and pressure plates. A voice recording looped overhead in a soft, calm tone: “You exist to be pleasing. You exist to be composed.”

Unit Two: "Obedience Response"
More clinical. A simple chair with straps for arms and ankles. Facing it, a large screen. Flashing lights. Recorded voice triggers. Electric impulse modules built into the arms. A scent diffuser in the ceiling set to Omega-reactive pheromone markers. This was where they rewired instinct.

Unit Three: "Discipline Conditioning"
A room that echoed too easily. Soundproofed to outsiders, but sharp within. A reinforced cross stood at the center, more symbolic than structural—Omega-sized. The floor bore scuff marks where too many had fought the restraints. Hooks on the walls displayed a variety of "tools"—each clean, each coded by color and purpose.

Unit Four: "Recovery and Reflection"
A padded cell, plain and silent. Bright light. No sound. Nothing to interact with. Subjects were left there post-conditioning to “settle.”

Staff wore no names. Just gloves, headsets and tables for notes. They didn’t speak to each other unless necessary. This was where they brought Omegas who refused to comply. This was where they brought Miranda.

A gurney rolled slowly down the black corridor, its wheels silent, pushed by two guards and flanked by a silent handler with a slate in his hand. Miranda lay sedated, but not unconscious—her eyes fluttering, unfocused, her limbs heavy with chemical calm.

They brought her through the first security checkpoint. Then the second. And finally, to the place that would become her hell.

**-

Unit One: Posture and Presence

The lights came on before Miranda opened her eyes.

Not sudden—just a gentle, growing brightness that crept under her eyelids, pulling her out of sedation. She was already upright when awareness returned, strapped at the ankles and wrists to a padded bench in the center of a mirrored room.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then fury returned. She strained against the cuffs—too thick to give, too tight to slip.

A chime sounded overhead. “Posture and Presence: Assessment Phase One.”

Miranda’s eyes snapped upward. A voice—soft, female, distant—filtered in from unseen speakers. “You are being observed for alignment, breath, and balance.”

The mirrors showed her a full view of herself. Unflattering and most of all unforgiving. The tunic she wore was loose and colorless. Her hair had been combed but left unstyled. She looked… neutral. Dehumanized.

“Please correct posture. Sit tall. Chin slightly down. Shoulders relaxed.”

Miranda didn’t move. The voice continued. “You exist to be pleasing. You exist to be composed.”

A tone beeped. And the restraints tightened—not painfully, but enough to pull her posture into position. She gasped as her spine was drawn straight, head tilted just enough to match the diagram that flickered to life on the mirror’s surface.

“Good girl,” the voice said calmly. “Hold.”

Miranda seethed. “Go to hell.” No response.

Only the scent of lavender and vetiver, pumped in through the vents—something designed to soothe Omega nerves, to make them compliant. She bit the inside of her cheek and counted the seconds.

They didn’t speak to her again. But the voice kept playing. The mirrors dimmed. Then reset.

Again and again, until her muscles ached and her pride boiled just beneath her skin.

**-

The sun had risen but Andrea hadn’t seen it.

She sat hunched over a massive table in the intelligence room Milo had built into the safehouse basement—maps spread, digital pins clustered in red and black and violet, the glow from at least three monitors bleeding into the bruises under her eyes.

Ghost leaned over a second screen, silent as always. Sasha stood against the wall, arms crossed, chewing on her lip.

“There are forty-six properties linked to Evelyn’s family,” Andrea said, voice hoarse. “Fifteen private ones under shell companies. Twelve in the north. Nine within travel range of the Sharp estate.”

“None of them are flagged as suspicious” Sasha said.

“I don’t care how they’re flagged.” She ran her fingers through her hair.

“Miranda’s somewhere she can’t feel the sunlight. Somewhere where they treat her as nothing more than a number.” She didn’t say what she was afraid of. That Miranda was waking up every day in a place trying to erase her. Andrea turned back to the map.

“We keep going.”

**-

Unit Two – Obedience Response

She didn’t remember being moved. She woke strapped into a low chair, arms at her sides, ankles pinned, a thin band secured across her chest. The room pulsed with low white light.

A screen flickered to life ahead of her, displaying a phrase in soft script: Do you know how to obey? A voice—male, colder—began to speak in her ear.

“You will repeat what is said. You will listen. You will learn. Each failure will be corrected.”

Miranda spat on the floor. The screen brightened. “You exist to serve.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she hissed.

A sharp click—then a sudden, low-frequency pulse fired through the chest band. It wasn’t painful, but it jolted her spine and threw off her breath.

“You exist to serve,” the voice repeated.

Miranda shut her eyes.

Again.

Another pulse.

The screen flashed again: Repeat the phrase.

She stayed silent.

Again. Shock.

Her breath grew ragged. Not from pain—but from the humiliation of being played with like a machine. “You are not above nature,” the voice said. “You are part of the order. You are meant to submit.”

Another shock.

Her vision blurred. She screamed—not in pain, but in rage. And the lights dimmed. Reset.

**-

Midnight.

Andrea sat on the floor of her bedroom with Miranda’s coat in her arms. She hadn’t washed it. Hadn’t let anyone touch it. It still smelled like her—citrus and parchment and some sweet, expensive perfume she only ever wore to fancy dinners.

Ghost entered without knocking. “Report?”

Andrea didn’t look up. “You find anything?”

Ghost shook her head.

“No transport logs. No Omega registry changes. No digital ping on Sharp’s bio-trackers.”

Andrea clenched her jaw. “They’re not using tech. They’re hiding her using something else.”

Ghost nodded. “So we look using something other than tech.”

Andrea stared at the fire for a long moment. Then whispered,

“She doesn’t even know we’re still looking.”

**-

Unit Three – Discipline Conditioning

She barely had time to brace before the straps clicked behind her, this time in a standing position—arms pulled slightly overhead, legs apart. Miranda gritted her teeth.

Across the room, an enforcer stepped in—tall, silent, wearing dark gloves. They didn’t speak. Just selected a long, flat paddle from the wall.

She thrashed. “Don’t you dare—!”

But the first strike landed across the back of her thighs—sharp, loud, humiliating. Designed for impact. Enough to send heat rippling through muscle and nerve. Another strike. Then another.

Each one followed by the soft voice from overhead:

“You are not in control.”

“You will learn your place.”

“This pain is temporary. The correction is permanent.”

By the fifth strike, Miranda’s body trembled with fury, breath hitching in protest.

But her mind—Her mind refused to bend.

Not here, never here.

**-

It was raining. Hard.

Andrea stood out in it, shoulders bare, steam curling off her as she trained with Milo behind the estate. Combat drills. Blunt weapons. Knife throws. Something. Anything to get her mind to focus again on the things that were important, are important.

Every time the staff reset a dummy target, she shattered it again.

“They’re hurting her,” she said flatly. “I know it.” Milo didn’t argue.

“Then we get more ferocious” he said.

Andrea lifted the next blade.

But inside her chest, something cracked.

“I should’ve scented them. Felt them. Stopped them.”

She threw the knife. It buried itself in the wood.

“And now they’re teaching her to kneel, like a good little Omega” she whispered.

She walked away before Milo could answer.

**-

The Recovery Unit

The lights in the Recovery Unit never fully dimmed.

Bright, white, and directionless, they bathed the padded walls in endless clarity. There were no shadows. No corners. No place to turn one’s back to the world and disappear. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was absolute.

Miranda lay curled in the center of the floor on a single thin mat. Her limbs ached. Her skin throbbed where punishment had landed, a slow-burning reminder etched in muscle and pride.

They hadn’t let her speak. They hadn’t fed her. They had simply left her here, like a malfunctioning machine cooling off in a white void.

She stared at nothing. Until—The door cracked loudly.

Soft footsteps approached. Heels. And a scent, jasmine and lemon. Miranda didn’t move, didn’t sit up—until the scent grew stronger and the voice followed:

“Hello, darling.” She closed her eyes tightly. Evelyn.

This time, she wasn’t dressed for command. She wore a soft gray wrap, silk at the edges. Casual. Relaxed. She carried a small tray with a delicate teacup, steam curling from the surface like the breath of something waiting to strike.

“I thought you might need something warm,” Evelyn said, kneeling beside her on the mat with feline ease. Miranda said nothing.

Evelyn didn’t force her to. She simply placed the tray on the ground and sat with her legs folded neatly beneath her.

For a moment, she didn’t speak at all. Then, gently, she reached forward and placed her hand between Miranda’s shoulder blades—soft, rubbing small, slow circles.

“There you are,” she whispered. “You’ve done well.”

The quiet broke something inside Miranda—just a crack. Not from comfort, from revulsion. But her body didn’t move. It couldn’t. Evelyn continued, her voice like velvet folded over a blade.

“I know it’s hard. I know it feels cruel. But what’s happening to you—it’s correction, not destruction. It’s healing. Eventually, you’ll see it too.”

Miranda’s voice rasped out. “I’ll never see it.” Evelyn smiled faintly, reaching for the tea.

“Oh, Miranda. You’re not mine yet. But you will be something better than what you were.” She held the cup just inches from her lips.

“This was your favorite, wasn’t it? Orange blossom and white pear. You used to have it flown in.”

Miranda’s heart skipped.

“You see?” Evelyn said. “I’ve been studying you for months. Your sharpness. Your grace. Your arrogance. It all made you magnetic. Unreachable. Sadly I found out what you were.”

She leaned closer.

“And I knew you just needed to be corrected. Not to be less—but to be right.”

Miranda shuddered beneath her hand, but Evelyn only stroked her back again.

“I lost my mate to a world you ruled. A world that only valued perfection. She wanted to be you. And when she couldn’t...” Her voice softened even more.

“I won’t let that happen to anyone else. So I’m going to make sure the world sees you as you should’ve been all along.”

Miranda’s teeth clenched. “You’ll never have my submission.”

“You’ll give it,” Evelyn said simply. “Not because I’ll force you. But because, eventually… you’ll need to.” She stood then, leaving the tea behind.

“I’ll come back tomorrow. I expect progress.”

And then she was gone. Leaving the scent of citrus and jasmine hanging in the air, and the echo of a promise Miranda swore she'd never fulfill.