Page 26 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

Omega fear.

The scent is faint but unmistakable, a lingering trace in the air. Jax’s nostrils flare as he catches it, too. His eyes meet mine, a silent question.

“Lower level,” I mouth, pointing to a door marked ‘Stairs’ at the end of the corridor.

We move quietly, hugging the walls, listening for any sign of security personnel. The schematics Ashgrave provided show that the night shift is minimal—two guards at the main entrance, one patrolling each floor, two more in the security office monitoring the cameras.

The stairwell is concrete, utilitarian, our footsteps echoing despite our care. We descend two flights; the air growing colder, the scent of fear growing stronger.

The door to the lower level is heavy steel, another keycard reader beside it. I use the device again, tension coiling in my gut as the seconds tick by. If someone comes now…

The light turns green. We’re through.

This corridor is different. Dimmer. The walls a dull gray rather than white. Doors line each side; small windows set into each one. Observation rooms. Examination rooms. Cells.

The scent of fear is overwhelming now, a miasma that clogs my nose and makes my teeth ache. Jax makes a low sound in his throat, instincts responding to the distress without his control.

I raise a hand, silencing him. We need to focus.

“Containment,” I whisper, pointing down the corridor. “End of the hall.”

We move carefully, checking each room as we pass. Most are empty, clean. Some filled with shiny lab equipment.

By the time we reach the end of the hall, my heart’s in my throat.

The door to the Containment room is different—heavier, reinforced, with a biometric scanner instead of a keycard reader. This will be harder.

“Cover me,” I murmur to Jax, pulling out a different device from my pocket. This one is bulkier, more specialized. More expensive. A gift from the dark web.

The device latches onto the scanner, tiny probes extending to interface with its circuits. A small screen displays a progress bar. Twenty percent. Forty. Sixty.

But then there’s sound from down the corridor. Footsteps. A guard doing his rounds. Jax tenses beside me, his hand tightening around the gun.

Eighty percent. Ninety.

The footsteps grow louder. A shadow appears on the wall, the guard about to round the corner.

One hundred percent. The lock disengages.

In two strides, Jax is on the guard, one hand covering his mouth, the other striking a precise blow to the side of the man’s neck. The guard crumples instantly, unconscious but breathing.

“We need to kill him,” I hiss, already reaching for my knife. “He’s seen us.”

Jax grabs my wrist, his grip firm. “No. No bloodshed unless absolutely necessary.”

“They’ll know we were here anyway. What difference does one more body make?”

“It makes all the difference,” Jax says quietly, eyes hard. “To him. To us. We’re not them, Ren.”

I stare at the unconscious guard, tension coiling through my body. Then I exhale slowly, pulling back. “Fuck it. Have it your way.”

Right now, we have more pressing concerns.

The Containment room is dark when we enter, the only light coming from a small observation window high on one wall. The space is larger than I expected—a central area with medical equipment, examination tables, and monitoring stations, surrounded by smaller cells with glass fronts.

And there, in the farthest cell, a small figure huddled in the corner. Head down, dressed in scrubs, wrists raw from restraints.

Hailey.

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