Page 42 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

The wheelchair sits waiting, a throne I never wanted for a kingdom of diminishing returns. Each transfer into it feels like admitting defeat, even as I recognize the necessity.

Another dark chuckle that escapes me as I settle into the familiar contours echoes off bathroom tiles with bitter irony.

"From pack enforcer to invalid," I mutter to the empty room. "What a fucking journey."

Might as well throw me into the circus for I’d be able to make Alphas far and wide laugh at my predicament.

At least this isn't the final destination.

No, that honor belongs to the hospital bed I know waits in my future, where I'll lie counting breaths until even that simple autonomy deserts me.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

My wheels whisper against hardwood as I navigate the familiar path to my desk.

Earlier conversations drift back, fragments of Atlas and Kieran's discussion about their next mission filtering through memory.

Patient 495 – the number sticks in my mind like a burr, demanding attention. Something about her retrieval being a priority, with termination authorized if extraction proves too difficult.

What makes one omega so important that they'd risk a full infiltration? And why the kill order if she can't be taken alive?

In my experience, omegas are either valuable or they're not. This both-or-neither approach sets off warning bells in the tactical part of my brain that still functions at full capacity.

The thought of omegas brings its own bitter taste.

These days, they exist in my world only as theoretical entities or as whispered offers in medical facilities.

"Comfort omegas," they're called – professionals paid handsomely to service dying alphas who'll never know true mating. The universe's last cruel joke for those of us circling the drain.

My hands clench on the wheelchair's arms as an unwanted image rises: sterile hospital rooms, pitying smiles, the mechanical exchange of pleasure for payment. The fantasy of connection without the reality of it.

A pale imitation of something I'll never have.

Enough.

I have to tell myself firmly, wheeling up to the command center I've created at my desk.

If I don’t get out of my own head, the thoughts will keep spiraling down, and it would make a long night of nightmares and broken expectations.

Three monitors glow to life at my touch, each one a window into the digital world where my disability means nothing. Here, in the realm of information and strategy, I can still be useful.

My fingers move across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, pulling up databases and search algorithms I've spent years perfecting.

If they need information about this mysterious Patient 495, I'll find it. If there are patterns to uncover, secrets to decode, or strategies to formulate, I'll be the one to do it.

My body may be failing, but my mind remains sharp as ever.

Let the others handle the physical aspects of the mission. My battlefield is here, among the ones and zeros, in the shadow realm of data where I can still fight without legs that work or a future that extends beyond the next few years.

The screens fill with information as my searches begin their relentless hunt. Somewhere in this digital ocean lies the truth about Patient 495, about why she matters enough to risk my pack's lives.

The dark web opens before me like a labyrinth of shadows, each path promising secrets for those brave or foolish enough to seek them.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, breaking through surface-level security like tissue paper. Ravenscroft's outer defenses fall just as easily – amateur work meant to deter casual hackers and curious journalists.

But beneath that superficial protection lies secrets desperate to not be found by someone as smart as me.

The first real firewall hits like a slap to the face, elegant and vicious in its complexity. This is military-grade security,the kind that whispers of government black sites and classified operations.

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