Page 114 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

The mention of his child makes Atlas's jaw tighten before he hurls the man into the open chamber. The researcher's cry of pain as his wounded leg hits the floor echoes off sterile walls.

"A daughter at home," Atlas's voice carries deadly quiet. "Yet every day you badge into this facility, proud to be amongthose who torture omegas and serve them to death. How many daughters have you watched die in these chambers?"

Terror replaces the researcher's usual clinical detachment as Atlas levels the rifle.

"It's tragic your daughter will grow up fatherless," Atlas continues, "but perhaps it's mercy. If she presents as omega, at least you won't be here to throw her into these chambers yourself."

"No! I work here to prevent that!" The man's desperation grows. "She won't be an omega…she can't be!"

Atlas's shrug carries terrible finality.

"Well, you won't be around to find out, will you?"

The gunshot punctuates his words, the bullet finding the researcher's other leg. His screams of agony bounce off chamber walls that have witnessed so much suffering.

As Atlas seals the chamber, he turns toward the control panel with unerring accuracy, sensing its looming presence.

"Would you like to do the honors?"

I fight back an inappropriate smile, knowing I shouldn't take pleasure in this revenge. But after years of powerlessness, the opportunity for justice feels like redemption.

The shadows hum with anticipation, their song carrying notes of satisfaction rather than their usual warnings. They recognize this moment for what it is — not mindless violence, but balanced scales.

Not cruelty, but consequence.

Looking at the man who recorded my torture with such scientific detachment, who treated my pain as data points in his endless research, I feel no pity. His fear now mirrors what so many omegas felt in this chamber. His desperate pleas echo those he ignored day after day.

Atlas stands beside me, his presence solid and reassuring despite the violence we're about to unleash. His hand finds mine with perfect accuracy, offering support without taking control.

Letting me choose how to balance these scales.

The control panel glows with familiar lights. I've watched them manipulate these controls countless times while fighting to survive their trials. Now I understand their sequence intimately and know exactly how to recreate the torture they so carefully designed.

The researcher seems to recognize his fate as I step toward the controls. His clinical facade crumbles completely, replaced by the raw terror he's documented in so many test subjects.

This is more than revenge - it's justice served through perfect symmetry.

He'll experience firsthand the trials he designed, feel the panic he studied so dispassionately, and face the consequences of his carefully crafted torments.

The shadows sing louder, encouraging this moment of reckoning. They understand, as I do, that some debts can only be paid in kind. Some lessons must be learned through personal experience.

Atlas's presence keeps me anchored, preventing this moment from becoming mere cruelty. His strength reminds me that this isn't about enjoying suffering — it's about ensuring consequences for choices freely made.

The researcher's whimpers grow more desperate as I reach for the controls, recognizing that his carefully constructed experiments are about to become his reality.

Justice, it seems, has a perfect sense of irony.

My fingers find the familiar sequence of controls, each button press bringing the chamber to life. Water begins to fill the space, and the researcher's panic escalates to shrill screams.I realize I don't even know his name — a fitting irony since my identity never mattered to him beyond "Patient 495."

Now he pleads about his daughter waiting at home as if parenthood should grant him immunity from consequences.

The audacity of it burns in my chest.

How many parents waited for omegas who never returned from their experiments? How many families did he destroy while carefully documenting their loved one's final moments?

The water rises with mechanical precision, just as it has countless times before. But now I stand on the other side of the glass, watching someone else's desperate struggle for survival.

The researcher takes that final gasp of air before the chamber fills completely, and I know with clinical certainty that he won't last nearly as long as we were forced to.

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