Page 98 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

"Half our unit is down," a guard says, his tone tight with fear. The tremor in his voice catches my attention –I've never heard these men sound afraid before.They've always been so confident in their power over us, so secure in their dominance. "They must be using the vents to move around."

"Let's activate the gas traps in sector seven," his companion replies, and I can hear keys jangling as he presumably reachesfor his radio. "That should take care of our little pest problem. No one survives that stuff."

Their footsteps move away with urgent purpose, but their conversation confirms what the chaos below suggests – someone is systematically dismantling Ravenscroft's security forces.

Someone powerful enough to make these usually unshakeable guards sound like frightened prey.

The ventilation shaft ahead ends in a solid wall, forcing a decision. With gas traps being activated, staying in the vents isn't an option.

I locate an access panel and test its strength – loose enough to remove without making too much noise. One solid kick sends it clattering to the floor below, and I follow with considerably more grace.

The room I drop into tells a story of violence.

Bodies lie scattered across the floor, their blood painting abstract patterns across what were once pristine white tiles. The scene should horrify me; trigger some basic human response to such carnage.

Instead, I feel nothing but clinical interest as I survey potential resources.

After all these years their experiments have left their mark – death doesn't shock me anymore. I've seen too much of it, and caused too much of it in their trials. The only difference now is that these aren't innocent omegas who couldn't survive their tests.

These are the guards who watched us suffer with indifferent eyes.

I move among the dead with practical efficiency, collecting weapons that might prove useful. The knives come first – they feel natural in my hands, like extensions of the weapon they crafted me to be.

Years of their combat training have made blade work instinctive, as natural as breathing. The guns I strap to my legs are more of an afterthought, a backup plan for situations that require distance rather than intimacy.

The thin medical gown they kept me in clings wetly to my skin from the earlier flooding, the material nearly transparent.

One of the fallen alphas wears a black tactical shirt that will serve my purposes better.

Guess he wouldn’t mind if I borrowed that…

As I strip it from his cooling body, recognition hits – this was the guard who used to taunt me about dying alone.

About never finding a pack to claim me.

"Not so smug now, are you?" I mutter, pulling his shirt over my head. The material is still warm, but I feel nothing but satisfaction at claiming this small victory from someone who took such pleasure in our suffering.

An odd thought strikes me as I adjust the stolen garment.

Normal omegas would be overwhelmed by an alpha's scent, their instincts triggering nesting urges and comfort-seeking behaviors. The medical texts they made us study were very clear about omega responses to alpha pheromones – the need for comfort, the drive to surround themselves with their scent, and the biological imperatives that make them susceptible to alpha influence.

But I feel nothing…

Catch no scent that’s supposed to make my hormones go wild.

I guess it’s another "gift" of whatever they did to make me scentless, but despite the numb reaction I display upon the surface, deep within — a tiny spec of the Omega in me — is disappointed with the acknowledgment.

I really am an odd Omega.

The shirt might as well have come from a store shelf for all the reactions it triggers in me. Just another piece of fabric, a tool to be used in my bid for freedom.

I've never experienced those omega instincts they write about so clinically in their texts. Never felt that primal pull toward alpha pheromones or the desperate need for pack bonds that's supposed to define omega existence. It's all academic to me, like reading about colors I can't see or music I can't hear.

Sometimes I wonder what they took from me along with my scent – what basic omega experiences I'll never understand. But right now, that emotional distance is an advantage.

I can't be distracted by instincts I don't possess. Can't be controlled by biological imperatives they burned out of me years ago.

Gunfire erupts in the hallway outside, much closer than before. I press myself against the wall beside the door, newly acquired weapons held ready. The shadows may be silent, but my enhanced senses -another "gift" from their experiments- pick up multiple heartbeats approaching. Steady ones, controlled.

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