Page 58 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Not a single scream penetrates our sealed doorway as electricity completes its assigned function.

ELEVEN

SHADOWS OF THE PAST

~JINX~

Darkness envelops us as we descend into the bowels of Ravenscroft, the "DOWNSTAIRS" door having led to precisely what its label promised—a downward path into institutional depths where light exists merely as suggestion rather than reality.

The tunnel stretches before us in oppressive monotony—polished concrete walls curving overhead to form an arch that channels sound in peculiar ways, making even our careful footsteps seem louder than they should.

Emergency lighting provides minimal illumination at measured intervals, creating pools of sickly green radiance separated by stretches of near-complete darkness.

Riot walks beside me in tense silence, her previously confident demeanor somewhat subdued since witnessing the execution that inaugurated our journey.

Neither of us has spoken since sealing the door behind us, the image of seven omegas convulsing in electrified water still too fresh to process through standard conversational exchange.

Death itself means little to me after years spent in operational environments where mortality represents merely another variable in tactical calculations.

But even I must acknowledge the particularly brutal efficiency of Press's opening performance—seven subjects eliminated within minutes of commencement, their terror and pain serving as both warning and entertainment for whatever audience observes this elaborate production.

"I'm detecting significant tension in your companion's biometric readings," Maverick observes through our secure connection, voice pitched low despite the privacy it maintains. "Her cortisol levels suggest acute stress response despite outward composure."

"Wouldn't you find it rather awkward after watching seven omegas perish before your eyes?" I murmur, voice barely audible despite the tunnel's tendency to amplify sound. "But alas, that's the life of the Parazodiac and the victims of its wrath."

The clinical detachment in my tone doesn't entirely mask the undercurrent of what might be interpreted as regret in another person. Not for the deaths themselves—their choices led directly to predictable outcomes—but for the necessity of such demonstrations within institutional methodology.

Riot comes to a sudden stop, forcing me to halt alongside her.

I turn with practiced efficiency, maintaining optimal positioning for potential defensive requirements despite the apparent absence of immediate threat.

Her face appears ghostly in the green emergency lighting, features sharpened by shadows that accentuate the angles of cheekbones and jaw. Something vulnerable breaks through her tactical facade—genuine emotion rather than the calculated presentation maintained during our previous interactions.

"It shouldn't be like this," she states quietly, voice carrying unexpected rawness. "To be able to find a pack should be better.Smoother. Destined. Like finding your fated mate after so long and being accepted into a pack with ease."

The sentiment surprises me despite years spent recognizing tactical advantages in emotional understanding. This omega—who moments ago watched others die without intervening, who navigates institutional horror with evident experience—still maintains romantic notions regarding designation dynamics that reality consistently contradicts.

I sigh, deciding a brief respite serves both practical recovery requirements and potential alliance development.

Moving to the opposite wall, I slide down to seated position with controlled movements that belie the fatigue beginning to manifest after extended periods of heightened alertness.

"Is that what you dream of?" I ask as I settle against cold concrete, hands resting on bent knees while eyes maintain environmental scanning despite apparent relaxation. "Fated mates and perfect pack dynamics?"

My question carries no mockery despite the inherent skepticism.

Genuine curiosity colors the inquiry—this omega clearly possesses tactical capabilities and survival experience yet simultaneously maintains idealistic perspectives that seem contradictory to her demonstrated functionality within institutional reality.

Riot doesn't answer immediately, her silence more revealing than potential verbal response.

The hesitation confirms underlying vulnerability despite tactical competence—emotion persisting beneath calculated presentation, hope surviving despite extensive exposure to circumstances that typically extinguish such luxury.

A laugh escapes me—not cruel but carrying unmistakable bitterness beneath surface amusement.

"I was like you once," I admit, the confession emerging without tactical calculation for perhaps the first time since returning to Ravenscroft. "Full of dreams and hopes, thinking that despite the captivity and the tactical beauty and chaos of this place, I'd find a pack that suits me."

The admission hangs between us, unexpected vulnerability from someone who has maintained perfect emotional containment through torture, starvation, and institutional manipulation.

Something about this tunnel—this moment of transitional space between defined challenges—creates temporary permission for authenticity typically sacrificed for survival requirements.

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