Page 118 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

"You're only trapped now," the alpha taunts from his own aerial position, proximity allowing him to potentially reach my location despite gravitational manipulation affecting combat dynamics. "I'll enjoy choking you when I get my hands on that pretty neck."

His confidence appears premature given basic physics that he seems to have overlooked in favor of immediate tactical gratification.

"When it comes to gravity," I remind him with clinical observation that cuts through his apparent euphoria, "what goes up must come down."

The words prove prophetic as whatever technological system maintaining gravitational reversal suddenly deactivates without warning or gradual transition.

Natural physics reassert dominance with violent efficiency that transforms floating predator into falling victim in milliseconds.

His scream echoes through the chamber with acoustic properties that amplify terror and agony as he plummets toward concrete flooring from significant height. The impact resonates through structural elements with force that speaks to enhanced body weight meeting unyielding surface at terminal velocity.

I hear bones snap with wet precision that suggests multiple fractures—ribs, possibly spine, certainly extremities that absorbed impact force beyond their structural capacity despite enhanced alpha resilience and pharmaceutical conditioning.

His outcry of agony follows collision with concrete, vocalizations that carry both physical trauma and psychological shock at sudden reversal of perceived tactical advantage. But my attention shifts away from his suffering toward more pressing concerns about my own precarious positioning.

The improvised harness holds my weight adequately, but suspended positioning creates new challenges that require immediate tactical adaptation.

Dangling from ceiling ventilation with limited mobility options, I begin considering extraction strategies that might facilitate return to ground level without creating additional injury risk.

But movement above draws attention before I can fully process alternative approaches to current predicament. The ventilation grating that serves as anchor point shifts slightly—not structural failure but deliberate manipulation by something operating beyond my immediate observation.

Looking upward through the grating, I freeze as recognition hits with devastating force that renders tactical consideration momentarily irrelevant.

A face appears inches from mine through metalwork—features that remained preserved in memory despite years of separation and systematic institutional interference. Silver eyes that seem to hold entire universes within their depths, carrying intelligence and calculation and something approaching wonder at unexpected reunion.

"S-Sable," I whisper, the name emerging as breathless recognition that transcends simple identification to encompass emotional impact too powerful for adequate verbal expression.

Time seems suspended as we stare at each other through barrier of metal mesh—omega and alpha reunited despite institutional separation, pack members finding each other again through whatever impossible circumstances Press has orchestrated for his entertainment purposes.

But something warm begins trickling from my nose, the sensation registering peripherally before understanding crystallizes with growing alarm.

Blood—bright crimson drops that speak to internal pressure or physiological stress rather than external injury.

Both of us notice the crimson evidence simultaneously, our expressions shifting from reunion joy to concern at unexpected medical complication.

The nosebleed intensifies despite absence of trauma or obvious trigger, suggesting systemic response to emotional overload or pharmaceutical interaction rather than simple physical strain.

Dizziness creeps through my consciousness like rising tide—starting subtle but building toward overwhelming force that threatens to wash away cognitive function despite desperate attempts to maintain awareness.

The chamber begins spinning despite my stationary position, visual input becoming unreliable as neurological systems struggle against whatever chemical or emotional response my reunion with Sable has triggered.

What the…

My eyes roll backward without conscious control—autonomic function overwhelmed by circumstances that exceed normal processing capacity.

The last sensation I register before consciousness abandons me entirely is the security of knowing that above me, through metal grating and institutional barriers, the second member of my pack waits for whatever reunion our circumstances might allow.

Then darkness claims me completely, stealing away the precious moment of recognition and replacing it with chemical void that erases all sensation beyond the certainty that somehow, against impossible odds, we're finally in the same space again.

The gravitational manipulation fades to background noise as awareness dissolves—Sable's voice calling my name throughmetal mesh, urgent concern bleeding through judicial calm as he witnesses my collapse from tantalizingly close yet impossibly distant positioning.

But consciousness refuses to cooperate with strategic necessity, dragging me down into pharmaceutical darkness where reunion becomes memory and hope transforms into dreams too precious for institutional reality to accommodate.

So close.

TWENTY-FOUR

THE JUDGE'S VERDICT

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