Page 32 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

'Sapphire' is too obvious, too superficial. 'Star' for her tattoo feels too simple. No, she needs something that captures her essence, her potential as an ally.

Azurite.

Like the stone –beautiful but poisonous when wet.

Perfect for someone who can turn their torturers' water trials into opportunities for survival.

One down…three more to go.

My gaze shifts to the next survivor, and something in my chest tightens with confused wonder.

This one...this one shouldn't be alive.

Where Azurite radiates controlled power, this omega emanates fragility.

She's small, almost childlike in her delicate frame, with none of the hardened muscle that marks most survivors. Her limbs tremble visibly against her glass prison, yet somehow she maintains her position.

But it's her eyes that make my breath catch.

White. Pure white, with barely any pupil movement. The irises seem to float in milky clouds, unfocused and yet...somehow aware. The realization hits like a physical blow – she's blind.

No sight…

How?How does she survive in darkness?

The shadows are just as fascinated with the mere possibility of this sightless Omega being among the living.

My mind races with the implications.

How does she track the white coats' movements? Or brace herself for the trials? How does she even know when the water is coming or when to hold her breath? To even adjust her position when death is here and ready to claim.

The mysteries pile up as I watch her.

Her head tilts slightly, like a bird listening to distant songs. Without sight, have her other senses sharpened to compensate? Has this place forced her to evolve in ways even the scientists didn't anticipate?

It makes me sick – the realization that these monsters in white coats don't care about our limitations, disabilities, or struggles.

If we can move, we're viable test subjects.

If we can breathe, we're worthy of their twisted experiments.

If we can scream, we're perfect candidates for their precious M.U.S.E. program.

Choose her sign.See her essence.

This could be some form of therapy. A distraction from all the madness and adrenaline high of fighting to live another second. I embrace this conquest, as it’s my purpose to label these specific women with their signs and purpose.

To appoint them with names to commemorate their existence in these hidden depths of Ravenscroft where no Omega escapes their wrath.

This one's easier, somehow.

The unseeing eyes, the ethereal presence, the way she seems to exist halfway between this world and another – it all points to one sign.

Pisces.

The dreamer. The mystic.

The one who navigates by intuition when sight fails.

---