Page 67 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

The corrupted Omega circles me with renewed focus, her movements becoming increasingly erratic as whatever chemical cocktail driving her system reaches peak efficiency.

Saliva drips from the corner of her mouth, eyes dilating to unnatural proportions as she prepares for another attack sequence.

This time when she lunges, I'm fully prepared—mind calculating trajectory and momentum with cold precision that contrasts sharply with her feral abandon. My body flows beneath her airborne attack, spine arching in perfectly timed evasion that leaves her grasping empty air where I'd stood milliseconds before.

As she passes overhead, my hands lock around her ankle, twisting with precise application of torque that redirects her flight path directly into the cage bars. The impact resonates through the entire structure, metal vibrating with the force of the collision.

She crumples temporarily, body momentarily overriding whatever chemical override normally prevents pain response.

Blood flows freely from a gash across her forehead, mingling with matted hair to create a grotesque mask that further obscures whatever humanity might once have resided in her features.

I use the momentary reprieve to assess my own condition—shoulder wound bleeding but not debilitating, oxygen debt minimal despite high-intensity engagement, muscle response optimal despite extended periods of heightened alertness.

The corrupted Omega's temporary incapacitation ends with disturbing abruptness—one moment seemingly unconscious, the next launching back into attack with no transition period that would indicate normal cognitive processing.

Her movements carry even less coordination now, raw aggression replacing whatever vestigial combat training previously guided her attacks.

I meet this renewed assault with cold efficiency—no longer testing capabilities or assessing limitations, but implementing terminal response protocols with precise application. My strikes target vulnerable points with surgical precision—nerve clusters,joint structures, pressure points specifically designed to override chemical enhancement through mechanical disruption.

She absorbs the first three impacts without visible effect, continuing her frenzied assault despite injuries that would incapacitate enhanced subjects. But the fourth strike—a precisely calibrated blow to the vagus nerve—finally achieves the desired outcome.

Her body goes rigid momentarily before collapsing with puppet-like suddenness, nervous system temporarily overridden by the specific trauma pattern. She twitches on the metal flooring, limbs jerking with decreasing intensity as biological systems attempt to reestablish normal function despite catastrophic disruption.

I stand over her with measured caution, breathing controlled despite elevated heart rate and adrenaline saturation. Blood from my shoulder wound drips onto the metal grating, each drop creating a perfect crimson circle before disappearing into the darkness below.

The feral Alphas have reached unprecedented levels of agitation, their collective focus locked on me with predatory intensity that transcends standard designation dynamics.

Not a simple Alpha response to Omega pheromones, but something darker and more primal—pure bloodlust triggered by the violence they've witnessed, the dominance display they've observed.

"Behind you," Maverick warns urgently, his typically calm voice sharp with genuine alarm.

I spin with combat-ready reflexes, just in time to see two additional figures dropping from overhead access points.

Unlike the corrupted Omega, these newcomers appear fully cognizant—eyes sharp with tactical assessment rather than feral abandon, movements carrying deliberate precision rather than chemical-driven frenzy.

Two female figures in standard institutional combat gear—Omegas by designation, but clearly enhanced beyond normal parameters. Their synchronized movements suggest specialized training rather than random selection, purposeful deployment rather than simple test subjects.

"Interesting," I whisper, a manic grin spreading across my face as understanding crystallizes with perfect clarity. "I guess we're doing an uno-reverse this time around."

The institutional pattern emerges with beautiful symmetry — Press recreating my first encounter with Riot, but with a position reversal that transforms profound significance.

No longer the Omega displayed for Alpha selection, but the combatant required to defeat challengers for the privilege of designation rights.

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere primal and untamed—not the calculated sound employed for tactical advantage or the bitter version acknowledging institutional irony, but something genuinely amused by the perfect poetry of Press's theatrical staging.

Excellent.

I’ve always loved the unexpected.

I blow a strand of hair away from my face with casual disregard for the deadly serious opponents assessing me with professional calculation.

Blood drips down my arm, sweat glistens across my skin, and the feral Alphas beyond the cage bars watch with collective hunger that transcends individual desire.

"Bring it on," I taunt the institutional challengers, fingers curling in a universal invitation that requires no further elaboration. "I've already warmed up."

FOURTEEN

THE SCENT OF RECOGNITION

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