Page 33 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

Movement catches my attention – her head turning slightly in my direction as if sensing my scrutiny. The gesture is uncanny, too precise to be a coincidence.

But there's no time to dwell on it.

The white coats are moving toward the main desk, their charts clutched in eager hands. This is the moment where they decide our immediate fate – whether we've earned a brief respite or if we face another round of trials while our bodies still shake from the last.

My muscles scream in protest as I maintain my position against the glass, but I force myself to stay focused.

The white coats gather at their desk, comparing notes with excited murmurs. My heart pounds harder, knowing what comes next. Whether it's momentary relief or fresh torment, we're about to find out.

The blind one needs a name before I move on. Something to capture her ethereal nature, the way she exists between worlds.

Name her for what she sees beyond sight.

Luna.

Yes. Like the moon that guides even in darkness. The celestial body that pulls and pushes, that influences without being seen.

Movement from the final cylinder draws my attention, and the contrast between Luna's quiet survival and this one's raw defiance is stark.

The third survivor is chaos embodied. Her hair – a wild mix of blue and green streaked with premature white – speaks of a spirit unbroken by captivity.

Those white strands, probably stressed into existence by the horrors of this place, create an oddly beautiful pattern through the wet tangles. Like lightning through storm clouds.

Blood runs freely from multiple wounds across her tanned skin, mixing with the water that drips from her frame. She hasn't learned to conserve energy like Azurite and hasn't found inner peace like Luna. Instead, she burns with an intensity that should have killed her by now.

Count her marks. Absorb the potential in her inflicted story.

The tattoos and piercings paint a picture of who she was before – someone who lived loud and free. A silver ring adorns her bottom lip, matched by another through her left nostril. Multiple piercings line her ears like metallic constellations. The tattoos visible through her wet clothing suggest a canvas of rebellion, of choosing pain on her own terms before they forced it upon her.

She was someone out there.

An Omega who mattered and fought for rebellion.

Who’s still fighting.

Her fist slams against the glass of her cylinder, the sound muffled but significant. The white coats flinch at the display of defiance, but she doesn't stop. Keeps pounding even as shemaintains her braced position with powerful legs, multitasking between rage and survival.

She knows what's below.Knows about the pit.

We all do.

Have heard the screams of those who fall. The ones who slip, who can't maintain their position when the floor drops away. They vanish into that bottomless dark, their bodies never recovered.

Their screams echo until they don't.

But this one –this force of nature trapped in glass– refuses to give them the satisfaction of her fear.

Her blue eyes, which might once have sparkled with life and laughter, now burn with pure, undiluted rage. Every line of her body screams defiance, from the set of her jaw to the tension in her shoulders.

She reminds me of a bull seeing red, of a storm about to break, of everything wild and untamed that refuses to yield. Even now, she screams her frustration at the sterile air, unaware of how it makes her seem unstable.

Unsafe and uncontrollable.

Choose her sign.See her fire’s inability to be extinguished.

Only one fits.

One encompasses this level of raw power, of unstoppable force, of pure, concentrated rage.

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