Page 91 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

On my monitors, I track their heat signatures as each subdivision splits off to their designated entry points with practiced precision. The synchronization is perfect, each unit moving exactly as planned.

For a moment, everything seems aligned.

The operation we've spent weeks preparing for unfolds with military precision. Even the facility's security patterns remain unchanged, guards moving in their predictable routes, oblivious to the predators about to tear their world apart.

Then my monitor chimes with a discrete notification.

The sound is barely audible, but it sends ice through my veins.

Because my systems don't generate notifications during active operations – not unless something has breached my carefully constructed security protocols.

A frown creases my face as I immediately recognize signs of intrusion. My fingers fly across the keyboard, initiating emergency protocols and strengthening firewalls. Someone's trying to breach my systems – someone good enough to get past my initial defenses.

"Not today," I mutter, starting the process of backing up critical data to my secondary device while simultaneously wiping the primary.

Years of experience have taught me to prepare for exactly this kind of situation. Every piece of vital intelligence, every scrap of data that could compromise our mission or our people – all of it begins transferring to secure storage.

But before I can complete the security measures, a coded message appears on my screen:

Your Omega dances with death. The shadows sing funeral hymns.

The cryptic words make no sense at first.

I'm too busy trying to regain control of my system, watching as unknown protocols override my commands with frightening efficiency. Whoever's doing this isn't just good – they're operating on a level I've rarely encountered.

Then my main screen fills with surveillance footage, and my heart nearly stops.

A tall room, rapidly filling with water.

Four figures floating near the ceiling, fighting for survival. But it's one particular form that draws my attention – one familiar figure that makes my world tilt on its axis.

I'd know her anywhere.

The omega from the valley.

The one who smelled of my grandmother's cupcakes.

The one whose memory taunted me right before this very mission.

Nyx.

She floats motionless, face-up in the rising water, and something primal inside me roars to life. The sight of her unconscious, in danger, potentially dying – it triggers every protective Alpha instinct I've ever possessed.

My hand moves unconsciously toward the injector beside my laptop, fingers trembling with the need to act, to move, to save what’s ours.

The cost of using it –the acceleration of my condition, the potential loss of months or years of life– seems insignificant compared to watching her die.

Because this isn't just any omega in danger.

This is her.

The one I let get away once before.

And now I'm watching through a screen as death reaches for her again.

My legs spasm violently, as if my body itself protests its inability to act. The pain is familiar but somehow sharper now, weighted with the agony of forced inaction while she's in danger.

I force my attention back to the technical aspects, trying to trace the source of the intrusion. The code is unlike anything I've seen – it moves like something alive, adapting to my countermeasures faster than should be possible.

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