Page 102 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

My head jerks up, eyes widening in shock, and in that moment everything I thought I knew about my broken existence shatters.

Because the scent that assaults my senses is unlike anything I've ever experienced – something that bypasses all their careful programming.

It awakens parts of me I thought long dead, ignites responses I believed impossible, and in that single breath, I understand what it means to be devastatingly alive.

A pinch of what it’s like to be an awakened Omega.

16

CHOOSING THE LIVING VERSUS THE UNFORGIVING DEAD

~ATLAS~

The scent hits me like a physical force -sweet and complex, layering through the sterile facility air like a siren's call.

Cupcakes, yes, but not just any simple baked goods.

This aroma carries depths: vanilla cream whipped to perfection, dark chocolate with hints of coffee, and caramelized sugar crystallizing into delicate patterns.

Beneath those sweeter notes lie deeper ones:rain-washed earth, night-blooming jasmine, something wild and untamed that defies description.

I shouldn't allow myself to be distracted.

Not here or now; during such a critical operation. But this scent bypasses all logic, all training, all carefully maintained control. It speaks to something primal in me, something that recognizes its significance even if I don't understand why.

"Continue the sweep," I tell the others, keeping my voice steady despite the way my pulse races. "I'll scout this section and catch up."

Kieran starts to protest - he knows better than anyone the risks of me moving solo through hostile territory. Yet I silence him with a gesture and head off before he can say a thing.

It’s a bad quality to assume a leadership role when I’m not capable of being in that executive position on missions like this, but those habits are far too hard to tarnish, which is why the others don’t bother correcting me.

The pull of this scent is too strong to ignore, too important to dismiss.

Moving through Ravenscroft's corridors while essentially blind should be suicide.

The silk wrap that covers my eyes offers minimal protection, the thin layer over my left eye allowing only the barest perception of shadows and light. It's enough to keep the damaged nerves from complete overload, enough to let me function, but hardly ideal for combat situations.

I've learned to navigate by other means: air currents that map spaces, echoes that paint pictures in sound, and scents that tell stories more detailed than sight ever could.

Right now, all those enhanced senses are screaming at me to move faster, to reach the source of that intoxicating aroma before it's too late.

Then another scent cuts through the sweetness - sharp and acrid that makes every hair on my body stand on end.

Fear.

Not the normal anxiety that permeates this place, not the expected terror of guards facing a superior force. This is deeper, primal, and more devastating in its purity.

Most people don't realize fear has a scent.

They can't detect how it changes the chemical composition of skin, how it alters the very air around someone in its grip. But to me, it's as clear as a scream in an empty room.

This particular fear carries notes of desperation, of finality, of decisions made in darkness with no hope of dawn.

The silk wrap filters the harsh facility lighting into manageable patterns of shadow and illumination. I can't see details, can't make out fine features, or read expressions.

As I burst into the room, the silhouette before me tells a story that makes my blood run cold.

A slender figure kneels on the floor, hands pressed together not in supplication to any god, but in preparation for self-destruction. The gun they hold catches what little light penetrates my wrap, its metal surface gleaming like a malevolent star.

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