Page 124 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

My pack member, my chosen alpha, holding me against gravitational manipulation while enduring whatever systematic torture this chamber represents. His silver eyes meet mine with relief that transcends verbal expression—recognition of consciousness returned despite pharmaceutical interference.

But movement below draws tactical attention away from reunion toward immediate threat assessment that makes enhanced biology scream warnings through hypersensitive neural pathways.

Ten alphas occupy the chamber floor, their positioning suggesting military training rather than random institutional subjects. Each carries military-grade rifles with practiced familiarity that speaks to combat experience beyond standard enhanced conditioning—specialized operatives rather than typical experimental subjects.

Professional killers.

Not test subjects but active threat.

The distinction crystallizes with perfect clarity as enhanced pattern recognition identifies threat signatures that transcend institutional classification. These men move with coordinated precision that suggests unit cohesion and tactical training,weapons held with competence that promises lethal efficiency rather than intimidation display.

In the corner, forced to his knees with hands secured behind his back, Riot maintains defiant posture despite obvious recent violence. Blood marks his face in patterns suggesting systematic beating rather than random assault—methodical application of force designed to achieve compliance through pain rather than simple sadistic pleasure.

Bruises darken skin across visible areas where clothing has been torn during whatever interrogation or torture preceded my return to consciousness. Yet his eyes burn with undiminished fury that speaks to unbroken spirit despite physical compromise and tactical disadvantage.

They hurt him.

They dared to hurt what's mine.

Rage builds beneath enhanced chemical stimulation with volcanic intensity that threatens to overwhelm tactical consideration in favor of primal vengeance.

The programming designed to create weapons doesn't distinguish between appropriate targets and personal vendetta—enhanced biology simply identifies threats and responds with maximum available force.

A giggle escapes before I can contain it—sound emerging from somewhere beyond conscious control as manic energy builds toward critical thresholds that make normal behavioral parameters meaningless. The pharmaceutical cocktail flooding my system creates euphoric confidence that borders on insanity, chemical courage that makes impossible odds seem merely interesting rather than insurmountable.

The sound carries through chamber acoustics with crystalline clarity, drawing immediate attention from armed operatives who suddenly realize their unconscious prisoner has achieved unexpected awareness.

Rifle barrels swing in my direction with professional precision, trained responses activating as threat assessment shifts to include the suspended omega whose laughter suggests dangerous psychological instability.

Riot catches the shift in atmospheric tension first, enhanced senses reading micro-changes in positioning and scent that speak to imminent violence. His lips curve into a predatory smile that carries genuine appreciation for whatever chaos he recognizes building in chamber dynamics.

"Y'all are fucked," he whispers with quiet satisfaction that cuts through military tension like blade through silk.

The operative holding him at gunpoint steps closer, rifle barrel pressing against Riot's temple with pressure that should inspire compliance or fear.

Instead, my Alpha maintains relaxed posture that suggests complete comfort with proximate death—confidence born from recognition of variables the enemy hasn't yet calculated.

"What does he mean?" the operative demands, voice carrying authority that expects immediate compliance despite obvious disadvantage in information asymmetry. "Why is she laughing?"

Riot's chuckle emerges with dark amusement that speaks to a private joke involving consequences the military unit hasn't yet comprehended.

"Doesn't matter if I explain why," he responds with casual dismissal that infuriates through deliberate disrespect. "Y'all are dead men anyway."

The declaration carries absolute certainty despite his compromised position and apparent tactical disadvantage.

Not bravado or empty threat, but informed assessment based on knowledge the enemy lacks regarding enhanced capabilities and conditioned responses they've inadvertently activated.

"I may die too," he continues with philosophical acceptance that recognizes all outcomes within current scenario, "'cause this Jinx is exactly what your boss ordered her to become."

Understanding flickers across the operative's features—recognition that their supposed prisoner represents something beyond standard enhanced subject classification.The intelligence briefing clearly included warnings about specific capabilities, yet academic knowledge proves insufficient preparation for witnessing those capabilities in active deployment.

The rifle stock connects with Riot's temple in a disciplined blow designed to encourage compliance through controlled application of force. Blood flows from the fresh wound, joining existing evidence of systematic violence applied during interrogation procedures.

"Stop speaking in riddles and answer me," the operative commands with authority compromised by growing uncertainty about situation dynamics he clearly doesn't fully comprehend.

Riot's smile widens despite fresh pain, expression carrying anticipation rather than fear at approaching violence. His eyes find mine across the chamber distance, communication flowing between pack members without need for verbalization or explicit coordination.

"This is a glimpse of your Fated M.U.S.E.," he states with quiet pride that acknowledges capabilities only enhanced subjects truly understand.

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