Page 28 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

That I must remember the number of who she is to have some form of identity.

My wrists strain against the metal cuffs, the restraints cutting into flesh that never gets a chance to heal.

Blood clouds the water around my arms, a crimson dance that makes the shadows sing louder.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, so violent I'm amazed it hasn't shattered my ribcage and burst straight through my chest to paint the glass with its fury.

Just when black spots start to consume my vision, when my body begins to betray me with involuntary attempts to breathe, the water level starts to drop.

Thank God!

Sweet, burning air rushes into my lungs as my head breaks through the surface with a loud gasp of breath. Each inhale is agony, my throat raw from screaming during earlier trials, but it's a pain that proves I'm still alive.

Still fighting.

As the mist begins to clear from the glass, I see them – my tormentors in their pristine white coats, untouched by the suffering they inflict.

They stand in their usual semi-circle, an audience to their own cruelty, scratching observations onto charts that probably detail how long I lasted this time, and how much abuse this broken body can take before it gives out.

Remember their numbers.Add them to your list.

My eyes lock onto their identification tags, burning each number into my memory. These aren't names – they don't deserve names. They're just figures to be tallied, debts to be paid in blood and screaming.

Each one gets added to my mental ledger of vengeance:

Subject 89 with his clinical smile and dead eyes.

Subject 156 who takes such detailed notes of my pain.

Subject 223 whose hands never shake when he cuts.

Subject 471 who watches with barely concealed excitement.

The remaining water drains away, and for a moment I almost feel relief – until the familiar mechanical whir signals the next phase of torment. The floor drops out beneath me without warning, and a shriek tears from my raw throat before I can stop it.

My body dangles from the restraints, all my weight suddenly hanging from wrists already mangled by countless similar trials.

Don't let them see your pain!Never let them see you break.

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches, squeezing my eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall.

My shoulders scream in protest as the position strains muscles and tendons already pushed far past their limits. I've seen what happens if you hang too long like this – the slow death of circulation being cut off, nerves dying from lack of blood flow, and the eventual dislocation of shoulders that can't take the strain.

Think.

I have to think through the pain.

To act before the numbness starts and my hands lose all feeling — unit I can't grip anything anymore. It’s a ticking time bomb before the muscle death sets in and parts of me start to die while I'm still conscious enough to feel it.

No.

I didn’t survive this long to ensure such an agonizingly slow death.

With trembling muscles, I force my legs up, using my core strength and fighting to time my breaths so I can lift them enough to press my feet against the glass cylinder.

The movement tears open barely-healed wounds from yesterday's trials with scalding water, fresh blood joining theconstellation of scars that map out my torture. But it takes some weight off my wrists and gives me a chance to catch my breath while they document my desperate bid for survival.

Through the glass, I watch them observe me.

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