Page 115 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

"What about Sable?" I ask, recognizing potential complication in identifying friend versus enemy when visual confirmation might prove insufficient for accurate assessment.

Riot's responding smirk carries dark amusement that speaks to a private joke or recognition of irony I don't yet grasp.

"Yeah," he acknowledges with satisfaction that suggests anticipation rather than concern. "I guess we're technically still strangers with everyone here joining us on our challenging journey."

His pause builds dramatic tension before delivering conclusion with quiet certainty that resonates through the institutional corridor with promise rather than threat.

"But he's gonna be the redemption we need to get out of here."

The words hang between us like a sacred vow—recognition of approaching reunion with a pack member whose capabilities might provide the key to eventual freedom from institutional walls that have contained us all for far too long.

TWENTY-THREE

GRAVITY AND GRACE

~JINX~

I stand in the middle of the sterile room, arms crossed as confusion settles like lead in my stomach.

The space around me feels wrong—too empty, too quiet, carrying that particular tension of waiting for something terrible to happen.

White walls stretch in perfect clinical precision, broken only by a single observation window that undoubtedly hides whoever orchestrates this particular phase of institutional entertainment.

The floor beneath my feet feels solid enough, but something about the room's proportions seems off.

Too high, perhaps, or designed with spatial manipulation that serves purposes beyond simple containment. My enhanced senses detect subtle vibrations through the flooring—machinery humming below or above, systems activating in preparation for whatever challenge Press has designed for my educational benefit.

Why am I here? What's my purpose in this empty chamber?

The questions cycle through my mind as I scan every visible surface for clues about upcoming trials or hidden threats.

Nothing obvious presents itself—no weapons, no obstacles, no apparent mechanism for testing whatever capabilities theyseek to evaluate.Just empty space and the growing certainty that isolation rarely lasts long within institutional entertainment protocols.

A metallic clang echoes through the chamber with shocking suddenness, drawing my attention to a door I hadn't noticed concealed within wall construction. The barrier slides open with mechanical precision, revealing a corridor beyond before something large and struggling gets hurled through the threshold with considerable force.

The impact of body hitting floor reverberates through the space as the door seals shut with pneumatic finality, leaving me alone with whatever unfortunate soul they've deemed appropriate companionship for this phase of testing.

Chains rattle against concrete as the figure struggles to right himself—heavy restraints that bind arms behind his back while allowing limited mobility.The harsh breathing and muttered curses suggest frustration rather than injury from the unceremonious entrance.

"Why would they make the judgment smell so floral in disdain?" he growls, voice carrying institutional conditioning that speaks to extended captivity and systematic conditioning.

His complaint about scent makes me bristle with automatic irritation. Not at the observation itself—my enhanced omega pheromones probably do create distinctive atmospheric change within enclosed spaces—but at the tone suggesting my presence represents unwelcome complication rather than potential alliance.

When he finally lifts his head to survey his surroundings, our eyes meet across the sterile distance. His expression shifts from frustrated confusion to predatory assessment with disturbing speed—calculation replacing annoyance as he takes in my appearance and obvious designation.

I pout automatically, lower lip pushing out in expression of displeasure at his obvious evaluation of my tactical value rather than recognition of autonomous personhood.

Arms cross more firmly over my chest as defensive positioning activates despite rational assessment suggesting he poses minimal immediate threat given his restrained condition.

"You aren't the alpha I'm looking for at all," I announce with deliberate disappointment, voice carrying just enough dismissal to establish that his presence fails to meet expectations rather than intimidate through superior positioning.

The assessment hits its intended mark—his expression darkening with offense at being found inadequate rather than threatening. Pride wounded, he struggles to standing position with movements that demonstrate both physical conditioning and institutional enhancement despite mechanical restraint limiting full range of motion.

The chains binding his arms prove substantial—reinforced links designed to contain enhanced alpha strength rather than simple deterrent against escape attempts. Yet something about his positioning suggests familiarity with such restraints, adaptation born from repeated application rather than recent implementation.

His response comes as demanded inquiry rather than polite conversation.

"What are you doing here?" The question emerges rough with authority that assumes right to information despite his obviously compromised position.

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