He doesn’t promise mercy.
He promises survival, only if you’re strong enough to earn it.

He’s not the Alpha.
He’s the hand that breaks bones for the Alpha.
The shadow that drags traitors into the mud and leaves them there.

Thorne doesn’t lure.
He tests.
He waits until you stumble.
And when you do... He’s already behind you.

He smells the weakness on your skin.
He tastes the defiance in your pulse.
He pushes until you either stand or break.

And if you stand?
You’ll see something flicker behind those pale eyes, a brutal kind of respect, the only kind he knows.

But if you break?
He’ll mark you so everyone sees who you belong to.

This is the Gamma.
Not the hunter who takes first blood. The enforcer who makes it last.
In the Black Swamp, he’s the one they whisper about when the night gets too quiet.