MY DELIGHTFUL CALAMITY: CHAPTER ONE
— English is not my first language.
THE PRICE OF INNOCENCE: 01
Synopsis: Accused of a brutal murder after waking up next to a mutilated corpse, you are coerced into accepting a desperate escape from justice: infiltrating a maximum-security men's prison under a false identity to avoid conviction. Your job is to spy on seven highly dangerous inmates, but the true test of survival will be concealing your most lethal secret: you are a woman infiltrated into hell, and your omega biology is about to betray you.
Warnings: Yandere!BTS x Omega!Reader, omega scarcity, ABO universe, ABO dynamics, mentions of violence, abuse of power, abuse of authority, harassment, story set inside a prison, drama, suspense, anguish, stranger to lovers, enemies to lovers, more to be added…
NOTE: All copyrights to this fanfic belong to NAMKKIL. I do not accept translating or posting my ideas without AUTHORIZATION. Please be respectful
April 3, 1998: Present Day
“Inmate 007, Elio Miller. Cell 347.”
The violent clang of the cell door swinging open echoed through the corridor, dragging me back into the cold, bleak reality of that prison cell. Hearing those words spoken so matter-of-factly almost sent me into another nervous breakdown.
Below, the central yard lay submerged in tense silence. A suffocating stillness, broken every few seconds by the rhythmic echo of footsteps, the metallic jingle of keys, and the intimidating sound of batons striking the iron bars.
The guards made a point of ignoring me with almost surgical contempt, and the few I crossed paths with that night knew exactly who I was: the ones assigned specifically to my "special case."
Well, not exactly a special case: a special assignment.
Who would have thought that a degree in journalism would become my only lifeline against such a vile and humiliating accusation? Who would have imagined that my "qualifications," as they called them, would drag me into the largest and most dangerous maximum-security prison in the country as an undercover operative?
The Albatross.
Before I could sink any deeper into my own thoughts, I felt a sharp, painful jab to my hip as the guard escorting me shoved me forcefully into the newly opened cell. The strong, sour, artificial scent of pine clinging to him made me dizzy and nauseous for a moment.
I forgot to mention that the prison's administration and command are, for the most part, made up of pure Alphas.
“Don't get used to staying out of your cell late, kid. Lockdown is at exactly 9:00 p.m., and doors open again at 6:00 a.m. You'll have exactly ten minutes to make your bed, gather your belongings, and head to the communal bathroom to wash up.”
The iron bars groaned once more as the cell door slowly—and infuriatingly—slid shut.
Before my eyes could adjust to the darkness of what would now be my new home, the guard delivered one final blow through the food slot in the door:
“Welcome, rookie. Good luck making it through tomorrow in one piece.”
March 17, 1998: Flashback
One, two, three, four, five, six…
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
I repeat the numbers like a mantra in my mind, a lifeline so that it doesn't feel trapped like my body is now.
The surrounding lights dimly illuminate the room, a contrast that matches the opaque walls that have been suffocating me for I don't know how many hours… maybe days, weeks. I've been thinking so much about the recent events that brought me to this moment that I barely noticed the time passing.
But, glancing again at my bloodstained clothes, I know that not even twelve hours have passed since my arrest.
Yes, arrest.
I should be laughing at this, maybe even shouting at the top of my lungs that the prank was truly sensational, so believable. I should be looking for a camera, something that could contradict my imminent misfortune.
However, when I close my eyes, all I can see is the mutilated and unrecognizable body beside my bed. A scene so grotesque and real that my insides churn, begging to be freed. The blood, the knife, the stained sheets, the guards breaking down my door with such violence and determination so early in the morning…
My lips tremble again, and tears stream down my face. The only thing I can think amidst the repeated numbers is: why? Why did this happen? Why now? Why me? Before I can further hammer away at the remaining sense of reality, I hear footsteps approaching the room where I'm sitting.
As if a bucket of cold water had suddenly fallen on me, acting instinctively, I abruptly rose from the chair where I had been paralyzed until then. The footsteps grow louder and more resounding as the seconds pass. The heavy metal door opens, illuminating for milliseconds the interrogation room into which I've been thrown.
The light projects two shadows that enter the room, like ghosts rather than living beings.
The click of the lock closing behind them sent a shiver down my spine.
Neither of the two betas standing before me acknowledges recognizing me until they pull out their chairs, the scrape of metal against the floor echoing through the cold room.
They settle into their seats with careless ease, stacking thick, barely worn folders—confidential files carrying the weight of my fate, I presume.
Then they look at me.
There's a mixture of malice and mockery in their gazes, a silent power play that pretends to ignore the obvious: I'm still standing, every muscle locked in a defensive stance.
"Don't worry, Miss (Y/n), we won't make you relive your crime," the one on the left—the taller of the two—says with a false kindness that turns my stomach. "You've already proven yourself cruel enough on your own."
If the stiffness in my body hadn't given me away, the air certainly did. The sharp, citrus scent masked by the suppressants I'd taken that morning tried—and failed—to smother the fear now seeping from my pores.
"I didn't kill him!" The words tear out of my throat like a skipping record, raw and desperate.
I slam my clenched fists against the tabletop, making the folders tremble. "I can say it a hundred more times if I have to: I DIDN'T KILL HIM!"
It wasn't me.
I didn't kill him.
I didn't kill my own husband.
But how do you argue against the absurd when they've already chosen their culprit? How do I prove my innocence when every piece of evidence points to me? His mutilated body lay cold and lifeless right beside my side of the bed.
It seemed impossible that only hours before that nightmare, we'd been exchanging endless vows of love, wrapped in the warmth of newlywed bliss. How could I ever prove that I would have gladly given my entire life to the man I chose?
Bu—
"And we can tell you a hundred more times that you're guilty," the other beta cuts through my thoughts, her voice as sharp as a razor blade. "After all, DNA tests don't lie."
The word echoes like thunder, sending a brief, bewildering short circuit through my mind.
DNA... They tested my blood. They knew.
"And speaking of lies... it must be exhausting hiding behind so much chemistry, isn't it, Omega?" The smirk accompanying those words does nothing to comfort me. The title reverberates inside my skull—too loud, too real.
The secret I'd kept under lock and key, buried beneath piles of pills and lies, exposed in such a vulgar way.
One... Omega.
Two... Omega.
Three... Ome—
"Cat got your tongue again?" The beta leans forward, resting her elbows on the table as she invades my space. "You should've expected this, (Y/n). With tracking systems this advanced after the sudden decline of so many of your kind, the real surprise is that you managed to stay hidden for so long. Now, on top of being a murderer, you're also an unregistered piece of State property."
With a dull thud, my legs finally give out, and I collapse into the chair without grace.
Yeah.
I am completely lost.
April 4, 1998: Present Day
The blaring, piercing wail of the sirens jolts me awake from the countless vivid dreams that have haunted me ever since I fell into the hands of the justice system.
I take a deep breath, drawing in the icy air beneath the thin, coarse blanket they gave me before gathering the courage to get up and organize my belongings.
Or rather, the things they gave me.
As I fold everything neatly into place and mentally rehearse my countless objectives once more, I try to figure out how I'm supposed to earn their trust.
Seven. Seven men.
They were all described in their official records as exemplary prisoners.
But who gets carried away by technical terms, right? What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't feel.
In my case, though, my eyes had seen far too much inside those files.
One... Get close.
Two... Survive
Three... Split them apart.
Four... I'll have to work out the rest of the plan later.
Honestly, I still don't know why I accepted this suicidal mission.
I run my hand through my hair — or what should be my hair — and feel the freshly shaved ends pricking my fingers like tiny needles.
I am a woman who has infiltrated a men's prison.
I'm an investigative reporter in a men's prison.
I am an infiltrated Omega, surrounded by hundreds of Alphas.
Tears blur my vision before I can stop them—for the hundredth time, without exception. I feel the hairs on my body stand on end, my throat dry up, and my voice simply fail me.
Should I-
!!BANG!!
A deafening, thunderous noise, like the roar of a cannon, violently rips me from the beginning of that downward spiral.
I hear screams and more screams echoing from outside the cells, a savage horde crying out for chaos, and with a sudden realization, I notice that the bars of my own cell are already open.
I go back and forth on whether I should leave the cell, and then I remember the words I heard before falling asleep:
"Good luck trying to make it through tomorrow in one piece."
Well, in order for me to remain whole and alive, I need to know what’s going on around here, don’t I? Holding a worn-out towel and a “hygiene” kit — or at least that’s what I hope it is — I take my first steps outside my cell.
And I discover a true uproar in the courtyard below.
Prisoners. Thousands of them, hitting each other, screaming, releasing aggressive pheromones, and hurling anything they could get their hands on.
But what catches my attention isn’t the violence itself.
It’s not the vandalism, or even the punches and slaps some inmates are throwing at one another.
What catches my attention is him.
Standing right there, only a few meters away from me, watching the chaos unfold with an expression of pure… satisfaction? I don’t have time to reason or process any other information before his eyes meet mine.
Tall, with an overwhelming physical presence, appearing to be in his early twenties. The youngest member of the gang I came here to investigate.
And even with hundreds of aggressive scents blending together in that stuffy courtyard — most of them extremely unpleasant — his scent hits me like a lightning bolt.
I hear order slowly being restored, the guards and their batons forcing everyone toward what is probably the prison bathroom. But nothing can hold my attention anymore except the deafening, instinctive howl echoing inside my own head, making my inner wolf bow:
“Companion, companion, companion…”
As if he could hear my thoughts, as if all of this were part of some twisted, carefully orchestrated plan, he tilts his head slightly. A smile revealing sharp, predatory canines is sent directly at me.
No, I'm not just screwed.
I am completely fucked.
