Page 101 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

His grip tightens with mechanical precision, each second of oxygen deprivation bringing unconsciousness closer.

But consciousness isn't what drives me now.

Pure animal instinct takes control as my vision begins tunneling toward black. I drive my head back into his face with desperate force, feeling his nose explode in a spray of blood and cartilage.

The grip loosens momentarily—enough for me to twist in his grasp and drive my fingers into his throat.

Not a punch but surgical application of pressure to specific nerve clusters. His larynx collapses under my grip, air whistling through damaged passages as he claws frantically at hands that might as well be steel cables.

I hold the pressure until his eyes roll back and his body goes limp, then drop his unconscious form to join the growing pile of defeated opponents.

Five down.

Arena floor slick with blood and other fluids I don't want to identify. My own breathing comes in ragged gasps as adrenalinebegins its inevitable crash, leaving me shaking with reaction and exhaustion.

But her scent still drifts from above like salvation itself.

Still there, still real, still the only thing that matters in this institutional hell designed to break both body and spirit through systematic application of violence and despair.

I look up through the haze of exhaustion and bloodlust, vision swimming as the world tilts on its axis. There she is—suspended like some twisted angel above the carnage, her limp form swaying gently in whatever mechanism holds her captive.

The medical patch still adheres to her neck, that small square of institutional cruelty keeping her unconscious while they force me to perform in their gladiatorial theater.

Unconscious but breathing, vulnerable but alive—the most precious sight in any universe, despite the circumstances surrounding our reunion.

My chest heaves as oxygen debt demands payment for extended combat beyond normal human endurance.

Sweat and blood drip from my face to join the expanding pool beneath my feet, each drop marking another second of survival in odds stacked impossibly against success.

But I'm still standing…breathing…still capable of protecting what's mine despite whatever fresh horror Press has orchestrated for our torment.

I don't care if this takes hours.

Don't care if they send twenty more waves of enhanced killers to test my resolve. If I have to paint these walls with blood until the entire facility runs red with institutional consequences, so be it.

They gave me a taste of perfect connection—bonding with my omega in that steamed sanctuary where reality simplified to just two bodies and one magnificent truth.

Let them try to take that away through mechanical precision and chemical manipulation. Force them to discover what happens when you steal from someone who has nothing left to lose and everything precious to reclaim.

The vow forms with crystalline clarity despite exhaustion clouding rational thought: wewillget out of here.

Wewillescape this madness and find the others—Sable with his judicial precision, Corvus with his omniscient perception, Ash with his sacrificial devotion.

Our pack scattered through institutional levels, but not broken, not eliminated, waiting for the reunion that will make every moment of suffering worthwhile.

They're alive.

I have to believe they're alive, enduring their own prisons of agony while counting seconds until we rise from this Parazodiac nightmare like phoenixes from carefully tended flames.

The belief sustains me as exhaustion threatens to drag consciousness toward blessed oblivion.

Keeps me upright when logic suggests surrender might offer an easier path through whatever trials await. Provides orientation when the institutional maze becomes too complex for simple navigation or tactical planning.

A bell chimes through arena speakers with crystalline clarity that cuts through combat-induced deafness.

Electronic harmony marking transition between phases, announcing a fresh challenge designed to test limits I thought I'd already exceeded through desperate application of enhanced capability and primal determination.

Gates around the arena perimeter begin rising with mechanical precision, revealing shadowed alcoves that have remained sealed throughout previous combat.

---