Page 92 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

But I can't focus properly.

Not with her floating there, not with death reaching for her with watery fingers. The memory of her scent –that perfect blend of childhood magic and pure possibility– haunts me more powerfully than ever.

My fingers move across the keyboard with increasing urgency, trying to regain control of my systems. I need to alert the teams, to redirect them to this new threat. But the intrusion is too thorough,too precise.

Every attempt to send messages fails, every effort to regain control is countered with frightening efficiency.

I’m going to have to radio in if I can’t take control.

The injector catches the low light of my monitors, tempting me with its promise of temporary mobility, like a golden ticket that can solve everything in this shrilled moment of scrutiny.

One shot. One chance to be what I used to be. To run to her rescue like I should have years ago.

But Atlas's words echo in my mind:

"I can't let you be captured. They'd torture you, probably kill you, and I won't watch you die."

My hands clench into fists as I watch the water rise higher in that distant room. The rational part of my mind knows I can't save her – not physically, not without risking everything.

But the alpha in me, the protector I used to be, screams in rage at my helplessness.

I try another approach to regaining control of my systems, but whoever's behind this intrusion seems to anticipate my every move. It's like they know my protocols, understand my methods, or I dare admit they can predict my strategies.

The footage continues playing, showing every detail of her peril with cruel clarity. I watch as she regains consciousness, another Omega of dark skin shaking her in desperation which triggers her wakefulness.

Relief rushes through me as I see her eyes blink in haste as realization and shock rushes through her facial features. Despite the distance from the camera lens and where they are, the sight immediately tames my wild beating heart so I can attempt to think straight.

Watching her swiftly dive into action leaves me in awe; her strength, even in such dire circumstances, takes my breath away.

But it's not enough.

The water keeps rising, and I remain trapped in my mobile command center, unable to help, let alone save her from the predicament at hand.

The guilt of that long-ago day in the valley crashes back full force. I'd told myself I was following protocol, being professional, doing what was necessary. But the truth was simpler and more damning:

I'd been a coward.

I'd let fear –of attachment, of vulnerability, of what it might mean to follow my instincts – stop me from doing what I knew was right.

Now, years later, I'm watching the consequences of that cowardice play out on my screens.

If I can just alert the teams, just redirect them to her location...

The code dances across my screen, beautiful and deadly in its complexity. Whoever created this isn't just trying to block me – they're trying to show me something. The footage keeps playing, keeps forcing me to watch as she and the others fight for survival.

And suddenly I understand.

This isn't just an attack on my systems.

It's a message.

A challenge.

A test of what I'm willing to risk to save her.

My hand closes around the injector as I make my decision. Because some choices aren't about logic or protocol or even survival.

Sometimes they're about redemption.

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