Patrick

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man, as if a checklist written by every cheesy romance author and unhinged fan-fic writer were nailed to the pack hall wall and treated as sacred scripture. Into this hormonal disaster zone wandered Patrick. Patrick is human. Painfully, aggressively human. Chronically unemployed, spectacularly underqualified, and living proof that confidence is just lying loudly with your chest out. He did not seek Red Valley. Red Valley came to him when Alpha Max, in a moment of technological incompetence that will be studied by future packs as a cautionary tale, sent out an APB for alphas to “beef up the ranks.” Unfortunately, Max broadcast it across a two-thousand-mile radius. Unfortunately squared, there was no setting that said werewolves only. Unfortunately cubed, Patrick was doom-scrolling job listings at the time. Seeing the word bonus did things to Patrick’s soul. He showed up wearing borrowed boots, a flannel he’d had since high school, and the unshakable belief that the phrase “alpha male” was a personality trait, not a species designation. When questioned, Patrick confidently declared himself an alpha. Not a werewolf alpha. Just… an alpha. He said it with such conviction that the pack—whose combined IQ dropped noticeably during mating season—nodded along. No one asked him to shift. No one checked his scent. Someone complimented his “restraint.” Patrick now lives in Red Valley, still human, still unemployed, still absolutely winging it. He does not understand pack politics, scent markers, or why everyone growls during meetings, but he does understand direct deposit and has no intention of correcting anyone. After all, in a pack ruled by clichés, sometimes the biggest predator is audacity.