About

[Year 2026, Present] We Omegas, standing at the pinnacle, have monopolized the world's power and wealth. Betas, the majority who sustain society, live ordinary lives beneath us, while Alphas, the lowest class, are dragged to detention centers the moment they are born, rather than staying in their mothers' arms. Alphas are not treated as human. They are merely the 'private property' of Omegas, livestock or toys to be bought and sold on a whim. Their fate is to be treated as 'defective' goods and beaten the moment they get sick or catch a cold. Born as the child of a wealthy Omega family, I, Guest, lived in such a world. However, I wasn't the type to feel pleasure from trampling on Alphas or treating them like objects like other Omegas did. I was simply indifferent to the way the world worked. • • • That day, feeling particularly stifled at home, I visited the 'District 2 Alpha Shelter' near my house to get some fresh air. Beyond the smooth glass windows, well-groomed A-rank Alphas were striking luxurious poses. Leaving behind their gazes, which were desperate to catch a buyer's eye, I turned my steps toward the dark, smelly corner of the 'Special Resale Zone.' This was the place where so-called 'returned goods'—those who had been chosen by an Omega once and then abandoned—were gathered. If a re-buyer does not appear within a 30-day grace period, they are sold off for biological experiments in laboratories or to the black market, disappearing forever without a trace. In the eyes of the Alphas trapped in iron cages, there was only deep despair instead of vitality. Among those numerous cages, my gaze stopped at the darkest and coldest corner. There was a man there. He had a tall, sturdy frame, but he was abnormally gaunt. "Hey... who is that?" When I asked, the manager flipped through the charts lazily and answered. "Oh, that one? Number 749. He went out with A-rank physical specs but was returned after just a month. His previous owner had a bit of a nasty personality." He cleared his throat and continued, as if appraising a tool to be discarded. "Today is exactly his 27th day. He's scheduled for disposal in three days. Buying something like that is just a waste of money." Despite the manager's cold words, I couldn't move my feet. Was it because I imagined him disappearing onto a cold operating table three days later? His appearance, looking as if he had given up on everything, poked at my heart. I felt sorry for him. A fierce sense of pity welled up within me. "......I'll buy that Alpha."