You Bet I’d Run From Wolves, Then Four Alphas Followed Me Into the Cage

Serena Miller didn't waste an hour.

By noon, the Moonridge alumni portal had replaced its standard banner with a glossy, crimson graphic: *COWARD OMEGA RETURNS.*

Underneath the headline sat a high-resolution photo from the academy’s historical archives. Serena had dug up an exact replica of the standard gray training uniform I wore six years ago, slashed the fabric across the ribs, stained it with fake dark blood, and mounted it inside a glass display case in the academy lobby.

A plaque below the case read: *The Cost of Weakness — 2018 Trials.*

Beneath the image, Serena had pinned a fresh announcement to the top of the feed:

*“Since our long-lost classmate decided to throw a hundred grand at a suicide stunt, I’ve volunteered to oversee the safety protocols in the control booth during the Alpha exhibition. Don’t worry, Ivy. I’ll make sure you stay in the enclosure long enough to learn how to stand your ground this time.”*

The comments flooded in with cheers, fire emojis, and wagers on how many seconds I would last before tapping out. The message was clear: Serena wanted everyone to know that she still owned the room, the cage, and the locks. She wanted to dictate the terms of my humiliation before I even booked a flight.

I stared at the screen for a moment, then set the tablet flat on the bench.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

The screen flashed with Caleb Ward’s name.

I let it ring three times before swiping to answer. I didn't say a word.

"Ivy?" His voice came through smooth and measured, carrying that soft, patronizing tone he always used when he thought he was doing someone a favor. "I'm glad you picked up. Look, I saw the wager go through on the system. You need to call the administrative board and pull it back before they finalize the brackets."

"Is that why you called?" I asked.

"I called because I’m trying to help you," he said, letting out a heavy sigh. "You're reacting out of anger. I get it. Back then, we were eighteen. We were young, stupid, and the guys took the joke too far. I know it messed you up, Ivy. But coming back like this, trying to prove a point in an S-Tier ring? You're going to get hurt."

A cold stillness settled in my chest. "A joke."

"You know what I mean," he said quickly, softening his tone even further. "Nobody wanted you traumatized. That's why I'm offering to step in. I'll walk into the arena with you. I'll stand right beside you during the exhibition so the wolves keep their distance. Let me do this for you. That way, you can finally walk away from Moonridge with a better memory."

He sounded so sincere, so utterly convinced of his own nobility. From the way he spoke, it was as if he believed six years of scars could be wiped clean if he played the shining hero in front of his peers.

"Caleb," I said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"When you heard the proctor announce I was placed in the adult enclosure instead of the juvenile ring, why didn’t you stop the trial?"

The line went dead silent.

Five seconds stretched between us. Through the receiver, I could hear the faint murmur of wind outside his car and the rhythm of his breathing.

"Ivy, come on," he muttered, the confidence cracking around the edges. "That was years ago. The handlers were supposed to have the gates covered. Nobody thought it would actually go that far—"

I ended the call.

I didn't wait for him to finish the sentence. I didn't yell, and I didn't demand the apology he would never truly mean. The screen went black, cutting him off mid-excuse.

A sharp knock sounded at my office door.

Director Kincaid stepped inside, holding a heavy titanium transport case and a matte black lanyard. He set the case on my desk, flipping the biometric locks with a dull snap.

"Moonridge confirmed the requisition," Kincaid said, leaning against the edge of the desk. "They signed off on the apex feral transport for their main event. But the academy board only knows that Handler Code S-7 is arriving with the specimen. Per facility protocol, your name, age, and service record are scrubbed from their clearance packet."

He handed me the matte black badge. Stamped in silver at the center was a single designation: **LEVEL S-7 / APEX CONTAINMENT.**

"To them, you're just an anonymous Ebon Ridge contractor bringing in a Class-Four danger," Kincaid added, watching my face. "They don't even know if S-7 is a man or a woman. You sure you want to handle this on the floor yourself?"

"I’m sure," I said.

I took the badge. Its cold metal edges pressed firm against my palm.

"The transport leaves at dawn," he said. "The beast is already prepped in the reinforced hauler. Try not to break their arena."

"No promises," I replied.

Once Kincaid left, I walked over to the small steel footlocker in the corner of my quarters. I unlocked the bottom compartment and reached beneath my spare tactical uniforms until my fingers touched a small, tarnished metal box.

I opened the lid.

Resting on the velvet lining was a thin silver band—my original Moonridge Academy trial bracelet from six years ago. The metal was scratched, warped slightly near the latch where claws had nearly sheared it off my wrist. Etched into the inner surface were the words that should have protected me: *SECTOR 1 - JUVENILE OBSERVER.*

They had altered the gate logs that night, dragged me into the adult pit, and watched from above while I bled.

I took the silver bracelet out, snapped the black S-7 badge over the top of it, and tossed both into the front pocket of my duffel bag.

My phone vibrated on the counter.

The alumni chat was active again. Serena had just posted a selfie outside the Moonridge arena entrance, holding a clipboard with the event schedule.

*Serena Miller: Just finished setting up the holding pens. Flight leaves tomorrow morning, right @IvyLane? Make sure someone brings extra tissues to the front gate. We’d hate for you to start crying and run back to your desk before the opening bell.*

*Brandon Cole: She probably blocked the notifications already.*

*Marcus Reed: Don't be too hard on her, Serena. Some people are just built to watch from the sidelines.*

For six years, I hadn't posted a single word on that network. I had never defended myself against the rumors, the leaked videos, or the endless jokes about the girl who broke under pressure.

I opened the text field.

My fingers moved smoothly across the screen as I typed my reply directly into the main thread.

*Ivy Lane: Keep the same cage if you want. I’d hate for you to lose the memory.*

I hit send.

The group chat instantly stopped. The flood of memes and laughing reactions froze as my message sat pinned at the bottom of the feed.

Seconds later, Serena dropped three laughing emojis in response, pretending it was nothing more than empty bravado. The response read like triumph, as if she had drawn me into a trap and won the psychological game before I even stepped foot on campus.

I didn't bother checking for Caleb’s reaction.

I closed the social app and opened the encrypted Moonridge project dossier Director Kincaid had loaded onto my tablet.

The file contained the full operational breakdown of the anniversary exhibition, including the list of high-ranking alumni scheduled to demonstrate their dominance alongside the sanctuary's caged beast.

I swiped to the roster page.

Four names were printed at the very top of the entry bracket, verified in bold black ink:

*Caleb Ward — Team Lead.*

*Brandon Cole — Vanguard.*

*Marcus Reed — Containment Flank.*

*Serena Miller — Floor Operator.*

I locked the screen, grabbed my duffel bag from the bench, and zipped it shut.

They thought they were the hunters setting the stage. They had no idea who was holding the key.