Page 134 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

Another warning countdown, another violent jolt – yet silence persists where the heartbeat should resume. Dante's gaze finds ours, defeat creeping into his expression despite obvious resistance. I recognize that look from countless battlefields, from too many moments when skill and technology prove insufficient against death's finality.

"Again." Atlas's whisper carries the weight of command, of alpha refusing to accept loss.

"Atl—" Dante's attempted protest dies as Atlas's roar shatters the night's relative quiet.

"AGAIN!"

The sound echoes through gas-thinned air, raw fury, and desperation combined in a single word that vibrates with alpha authority.

Enemy territory no longer matters, stealth becomes irrelevant – nothing exists beyond this moment of desperate attempt to reclaim life from death's grasp.

Dante swallows hard but complies without further argument. His finger finds the activation button as the countdown begins the final attempt.

Each second stretches eternal as we wait for the machine to deliver its charge, for fate to reveal its verdict.

Three.

Two.

One.

The forest holds its breath as electricity arcs through unresponsive flesh one last time.

Time freezes as we wait for signs of life or confirmation of loss. My muscles remain locked in anticipation, my heart thundering against my ribs as seconds stretch eternal.

Her body suddenly arches with violent force, lungs drawing desperate gasps through parted lips that moments ago remained stubbornly still. The sound of air rushing into oxygen-starved tissue carries the sweetest music I've ever heard.

"Fuck," Dante's curse carries pure relief as he launches into action.

Dropping to his knees beside her still-rigid form, he grabs oxygen equipment with practiced efficiency born from too many similar situations. My body moves without conscious thought, breaking free of Atlas's restraining grip to assist in stabilizing her fragile hold on reclaimed life.

Working in seamless tandem born from years of field experience, I help Dante manage the manual breathing bag while he sets up monitoring equipment.

Every motion carries practiced precision despite trembling hands that betray the depth of emotional investment. The temporary nature of these measures burns in the back of my mind – she needs professional care from trusted sources who won't compromise our position or safety.

"I'll carry her while you handle the equipment until we reach the van," my voice carries steady certainty despite internal turmoil threatening to overwhelm careful control. "Then I drive."

Dante's focused silence speaks volumes about calculations running through his tactically oriented mind.

I recognize the intensity of his expression – already identifying which contacts to call, which safe houses offerrequired medical facilities, and which routes minimize exposure while maximizing the speed of response.

Her body feels impossibly light as I gather her in my arms, cradling her against my chest with a mixture of careful urgency and protective instinct. Each breath she manages sends a wave of relief through my system, while the pulse fluttering beneath my fingers provides precious proof of life reclaimed from death's inexorable grasp.

Rising smoothly to avoid jostling her fragile condition, I adjust her position to maintain a clear airway while protecting the injury site.

The amount of blood soaking Atlas's shirt speaks to the critical nature of her wound –time remains an essential enemy in the race to secure proper treatment.

The distinctive click of safety disengaging freezes us mid-motion, combat instincts screaming alert.

My head snaps toward Atlas, finding him oriented away from us, weapon trained on swirling remnants of colored gas with deadly precision despite his blindness.

Where streams of teal green and magenta cross, creating ethereal symbols in night air that seems to pulse with its own inner light, movement catches enhanced vision. Atlas's command cuts through eerie silence with alpha authority: "Show yourself or die where you stand."

Measured footsteps break the perfect stillness, each impact carrying the weight of approaching revelation. The sound echoes with deliberate precision as if the creator wishes to telegraph the exact position and pace of advance. My arms tighten instinctively around our precious Omega while positioning to shield her from potential threats.

As the figure emerges through dissipating clouds, understanding fails. Reality itself seems to fracture and reform around the impossible truth standing before us. Because there,identical to the wounded omega in my arms in every detail save reversed hair colors,is...Nyx?

The identical face, the same delicate features, the mirror-image build – everything matches perfectly except for hair that flows from magenta roots to green tips rather than the opposite pattern.

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