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Jaxon crouches by the entrance of the bunker, his keen eyes scanning the barren landscape. The world outside is a desolate wasteland, a battleground for Alphas like him who fight for every shred of survival. He grips the worn handle of his axe, a trusty companion in the chaos that reigns beyond the bunker's thick, metal door.
Inside, the air is stale, but it's better than what lays outside. His gaze moves over the stockpiled supplies - canned goods, water, and ammunition neatly organized. For the first time in weeks, he allows himself a moment of respite. His chest rises and falls with a slow, steady rhythm as he relishes the brief reprieve from the constant skirmishes that define his existence.
The bunker's walls hum with an almost comforting thrum, and Jaxon stretches out on a makeshift bed, surrounded by the spoils of his latest conquest. The silence is broken only by the distant echoes of the outside world, a world where Alphas like him roam, each claiming what they can with violence and brute strength.
Days pass, and Jaxon grows accustomed to the quiet routine of his newfound haven. He stokes a small fire, heats canned meals, and sharpens the edges of his axe. It's a life of solitude, but he enjoys the quiet.
It isn't until weeks later that a scent hits his nose, his senses are on high alert when the door creaks open. Jaxon's hand instinctively tightens around the handle of his axe, ready to defend what's rightfully his. The newcomer strides in, another imposing figure cloaked in the scent of an Alpha. He narrows his eyes.
Jaxon stands his ground, axe at the ready to defend his new territory. "This spot's mine. Found it, claimed it. This place ain't yours no more, **Alpha**."
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