Page 100 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

Vulnerable to bullets.

Capable of being overwhelmed by superior numbers.

All their experiments, enhancements, and careful programming – none of it changes the fundamental math of survival.

I'm alone, outnumbered, in unfamiliar territory, with enemies on all sides.

The tears continue to fall as I face this truth.

They've made me strong, deadly, and nearly indestructible in some ways – but I'm not invincible. Not immortal. Not immune to the simple physics of lead meeting flesh at high velocity.

I stare at the communicator's screen until the words blur, until "dead or alive" becomes a smear of light through my tears.

All this time, I've fought so hard to stay alive, to maintain some core of self beneath their experiments and conditioning.

But what self is there really?

What am I beyond their carefully crafted weapon?

I don't even know who I was before this place.

Don't remember having a family, a life, or any existence beyond these walls.

The fragments of memory that sometimes surface –the mirror image with different eyes, the woman with the hidden face, the lullaby that haunts my dreams, or even the man with blue eyes– feel more like fever dreams than actual history.

More tears fall, and I let them.

Let myself have this one moment of weakness, a brief acknowledgment of how thoroughly they've stripped everything from me. My past, my identity, my very nature as an omega – all of it sacrificed to their endless experiments and trials.

All for what?

The sound of distant gunfire reminds me that I don't have the luxury of breaking down completely.

The truth remains, heavy as chains:I can't do this alone.

As I wipe the tears from my face, I realize I have to make a choice. Try to fight my way out alone and probably die in the attempt, or...

Or what?

What other option is there for something like me?

My gaze drifts to the guard's waist, where the holstered glock rests like a dark promise against the black fabric.

The sleek metal catches what little light filters into this room of death, gleaming with devastating possibility.

A simple tool, really – just metal and mechanics designed to deliver swift endings. My lip catches between my teeth as I contemplate its brutal simplicity.

One squeeze of a trigger, one explosive moment, and everything just...stops.

The temptation that’s hauntingly satisfying to dare think about. The weight of my reality presses down with suffocating force as I examine my place in this broken world.

No true memories anchor me to any sense of self – just fragments that dance like smoke, always dissipating when I reach for them.

The lullaby echoes in distant corners of my mind, a melody that might be memory or madness. Those shadowed faces blur and shift, refusing to resolve into anything concrete. Even the possibility of a twin sister feels more like a desperate dream than truth; a story I've told myself to feel less alone in the endless white halls of my prison.

What pack would ever want something like me?

The thought brings fresh waves of anguish as I acknowledge my fundamental wrongness.

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