Page 111 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

The man understood enhanced physiology and institutional methodology with accuracy that spoke to personal experience rather than theoretical study.

Our sessions took place in a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, far from surveillance systems that might document my activities or report suspicious behavior to parties with institutional connections.

The space held everything necessary for comprehensive combat training—specialized equipment, environmental simulators, even medical facilities for treating injuries that exceeded normal human tolerance.

"Show me the layout again," I requested during one particularly intense session, sweat still dripping from extended tactical training that pushed enhanced capabilities beyond comfortable limits.

Nightshade had spread the architectural diagrams across a metal table with reverent care—detailed schematics that revealed Parazodiac's structure with accuracy that made my breath catch. Not public blueprints or simplified representations, but precise technical documentation that showed every level, every security checkpoint, every potential escape route within institutional hierarchy.

"How do you know all of this?" The question emerged with genuine curiosity rather than suspicion, though part of me recognized potential security implications in such detailed intelligence.

His expression shifted minutely—micro-reactions that spoke to painful memories carefully contained beneath professional facade.

When he answered, his voice carried weight that transcended simple professional knowledge.

"I was one of the few alphas who ever escaped. One of maybe three in the facility's entire operational history."

The admission hit with seismic force despite his matter-of-fact delivery. I'd known the Parazodiac's escape rate approached zero, but meeting someone who actually achieved freedom carried implications beyond statistical understanding.

This man represented living proof that institutional walls could be breached through proper planning and sufficient determination.

"But the irony is," he continued with a bitter smile that never reached his eyes, "my daughter is in there."

My training came to complete halt as understanding crystallized with devastating clarity. Not just personal knowledge but ongoing stake in institutional operations, connection that transcended professional interest to encompass parental desperation and systematic helplessness.

"Her name is Luna," he added quietly, fingers tracing architectural details with trembling precision. "She's been trapped for three years now. Visual impairment made her vulnerable to specialized targeting—they wanted to study enhanced perception development in subjects with compromised conventional senses."

The revelation made my stomach turn with recognition of institutional cruelty that transformed natural variation into research opportunity.

How many families had been torn apart through similar targeting? How many parents lived with knowledge that their children suffered while they remained powerless to intervene?

Then again, it depends on the parent. Not like ours who swapped us when they realized who was the strongest twin and decided its the sacrifice they can live with simply because they’re greedy.

"Vision impairment?" I repeated with growing horror. "How would she even survive the Parazodiac challenges?"

His laugh carried no humor—just bitter acknowledgment of concerns that kept him awake despite exhaustion that marked every line of his face.

"Enhanced hearing, tactile sensitivity, spatial awareness that compensates for visual limitation. The institutional researchers were fascinated by adaptive capabilities that exceeded normal parameters." His hands clenched into fists as he continued. "They've been studying how enhanced subjects adapt to physical limitation, using her as test case for developing protocols that might apply to battlefield injuries or controlled disability implementation."

The clinical terminology couldn't mask underlying horror—his daughter transformed into research specimen for studying how to deliberately disable enhanced subjects while maintaining their operational utility. Institutional efficiency applied to human suffering with methodical precision that defied moral consideration or ethical constraint.

"This is why I train subjects like you," he admitted with quiet intensity. "Every enhanced individual who successfully navigates institutional challenges brings us one step closer to understanding how to extract those who remain trapped. Yoursuccess creates intelligence that might eventually facilitate her rescue."

The weight of such responsibility had settled across my shoulders like a lead blanket—recognition that my mission extended beyond personal objective to encompass hope for others trapped within institutional walls.

Success meant more than reuniting with my pack;it represented proof that escape remained possible despite enhanced security and modified protocols.

But here in Riot's arms, surrounded by architecture that somehow feels more real than external existence ever did, those memories carry different significance.

Not burden but motivation, not pressure but purpose that extends beyond individual desire to encompass systematic resistance against institutional horror.

Movement interrupts drowsy recollection as awareness gradually returns to present circumstances.

Panic flares momentarily as I register our motionless state.

Had something happened? Were we under attack? Had institutional forces finally caught up with our unauthorized navigation through carefully controlled territories?

But gentle breathing beneath my cheek dispels immediate terror with steady rhythm that speaks to peaceful rest rather than unconsciousness induced through violence or chemical intervention.

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