Page 29 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

Subject 89 makes a note, probably about my adaptive responses to stress. Subject 156 nods along, always eager to please his superiors. Subject 223 maintains that mask of clinical detachment, while Subject 471 doesn't even try to hide his fascination with my suffering — that grin surely growing in length and curvature.

Soon.Soon they'll learn what true pain feels like.

I believe them.

Have to believe them.

Or what else do I possibly have if not hope?

The promise of vengeance is all I have left in this sterile hell, all that keeps me fighting when my body begs for the release of death. I'll make them pay for every scar, scream, and moment of agony they've inflicted.

Will hunt them down one by one until their precious reports are stained with their own blood.

But for now, I brace my legs harder against the glass, ignoring how my muscles tremble with fatigue. I focus on breathing through the pain, on staying conscious despite the black spots that dance at the edges of my vision.

Surviving one more trial of torment is possible for someone like me.

Because I am Patient 495.

I am their M.U.S.E.

I am the monster they created in their arrogance.

And someday, they'll learn just how complete their success really was.

The shadows sing their approval, their dark melody a counterpoint to the clinical beeping of monitoring equipment and the scratch of pens on paper.

They're my only allies here, the only ones who understand what I've become: what I need to be to survive in this hellhole.

So I hold position, pressing against the glass with legs covered in burns and lacerations. I endure the fire in my muscles and the screaming of my joints. I wait, adding each moment of pain to the debt that will one day be collected in full.

They can keep thinking they’re the rules of control.

Allow them to believe they’re the gods of my world.

I’ll force myself to play their games with my body and mind…

Because when the time comes –and it will come– I will paint these sterile walls with their blood. Will make them beg for mercy they won't receive, and show them exactly what kind of weapon they've forged in their hubris.

But for now, I survive.

Because victory is hidden in the realms of patience.

A harsh beep pierces the air, making my teeth clench as it echoes through the testing chamber. The sound reverberates off the glass cylinders, creating a discordant symphony of pain and machinery.

"Observation period concluded," a mechanical voice announces through hidden speakers. "Initiating retrieval of surviving test subjects."

Surviving.

The word echoes in my mind like a cruel joke.

I don't waste energy on relief – relief is for people who believe in hope, who think survival means something more than just prolonged torture.

Instead, I force my gaze to focus beyond my own glass prison, taking in the other cylinders that line the chamber in their perfect, sterile rows.

Twenty cylinders.

Twenty omegas.

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