Page 52 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

The temperature holds steady at precisely 68 degrees—cool enough to maintain heightened awareness without triggering physical discomfort that might distract from the psychological manipulation clearly central to this space's design.

Every element has been calculated for maximum impact, the grandeur itself a weapon aimed at the psyche rather than the body.

My breathing remains steady despite the surprise, heartbeat maintaining even rhythm as tactical assessment overrides emotional response. I step forward with deliberate calm, door closing automatically behind me with the soft hiss of pneumatic precision.

"Quite the stage they've constructed," I observe quietly, knowing Maverick receives each word through our secure connection. "Press wasn't exaggerating about the evolution of the Parazodiac."

"This is new," Maverick confirms, voice carrying the analytical detachment that grounds our interactions. "No record of this chamber in previous documentation. The architectural investment alone suggests this has become something far beyond the experimental protocols you navigated six years ago."

I notice a single sign engraved in the wall upward, the words in cursive projecting a haunting message I wouldn’t want to grasp, would be one’s last.

"Some will rise. Most will fall. The Parazodiac demands sacrifice."

The chamber holds perfect stillness—no guards visible at access points, no white-coated researchers documenting reactions, no obvious surveillance beyond standard institutional systems embedded in architectural features.

Just twelve doors arranged at equal distances around the circular perimeter, including the one I've just exited.

Twelve.

The number registers with immediate significance—the zodiac wheel's perfect division, the celestial houses in their mathematical precision, the foundation of Parazodiac's naming convention and operational philosophy.

"Twelve doors, twelve signs, twelve omegas," I murmur, fingers instinctively touching the star beneath my left eye. "They're staying true to the celestial framework despite evolutionary changes I see."

"Systematic rather than random," Maverick agrees. "Question is whether you're the only one with previous navigation experience."

I position myself strategically near my entry point, maintaining clear sightlines to all potential approaches while cataloging escape routes with practiced efficiency.

The space offers no obvious exit beyond the perimeter doors, no visible transition to another level, no indication of the next challenge's nature.

A waiting room disguised as theatrical space. Interesting choice.

The air carries a distinctive scent beneath institutional antiseptic—something akin to ozone before lightning strikes, charged particles activating primal warning systems evolved long before civilization. This space has been designed to unsettleon a subconscious level while maintaining surface appearance of civilized organization.

I scan for cameras with practiced subtlety, identifying seventeen potential surveillance points embedded within architectural features.

Each maintains optimal angle for comprehensive coverage without obvious visibility—institutional paranoia disguised as design elements. Standard procedure dictates maintaining awareness of observation while never acknowledging its presence, providing tactical advantage through deliberate ignorance performance.

Movement catches my attention as the door directly opposite mine begins to open with hesitant increments.

A face appears—young, female, uncertainty evident in every microexpression—before the figure steps fully into the chamber.

She wears only the standard medical gown of institutional processing, hair disheveled from extended unconsciousness, movements carrying the telltale sluggishness of recent sedation.

Bruising marks her inner elbow where intravenous access was clearly established and maintained over extended period—evidence of similar chemical intervention to my own, though clearly without the accelerated recovery protocols I received.

Her eyes widen at the chamber's unexpected grandeur, fear briefly overwhelming caution as she takes several steps forward. She notices me immediately, body tensing with instinctive wariness before her attention diverts to another door beginning its opening sequence.

One by one, the remaining doors activate in clockwise progression, each revealing another female figure in varying states of institutional processing. Some wear only medical gowns like the first. Others have been provided basic clothing—simple shirts and pants without practical function or tactical advantage.

Only a few emerge dressed in combat gear similar to mine, their movements carrying the distinctive precision of those who understand the reality of what waits beyond ceremonial introduction.

One particularly tall omega exits third from the right, her dark skin complemented by tactical gear that appears custom-fitted rather than standard issue. Her eyes scan the chamber with military assessment—bottom to top, corner to corner, potential threats categorized and prioritized with unmistakable training.

Not standard omega socialization, but specialized tactical instruction only specific government agencies provide.

Another emerges wearing what appears initially as simple clothing but reveals specialized features upon closer inspection—reinforced seams, hidden storage compartments, fabric treated for fire resistance and liquid repellent properties. Her movements carry the deliberate casualness of someone actively concealing expertise—another player with predetermined agenda rather than random selection.

The most interesting among them steps through a door three positions from mine, her gait carrying familiar confidence despite unfamiliar circumstances.

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