Page 25 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

The purpose registers immediately—forced self-confrontation combined with prolonged reflection exposure often triggers identity dissociation in subjects with compartmentalized trauma patterns. They're attempting to destabilize psychological defenses through persistent exposure to physical self-image.

Amateur approach. Transparent methodology.

My gaze drops to the thin fabric covering my body—standard medical gown providing minimal coverage while maximizing access for examination and intervention. The material clings uncomfortably to skin still damp from whatever cleansing protocol they employed while I remained unconscious.

I carefully push myself to sitting position, movements calculated to minimize disruption to the IV site while providing better vantage for environmental assessment. The effort costs more energy than it should—evidence that despite metabolicintervention, my body remains compromised from extended starvation and dehydration.

The IV bags draw my attention again—three distinct solutions running simultaneously through a junction system into single cannula. One clear, one faintly amber, one with distinctive protein-enriched opacity that confirms my initial assessment of comprehensive nutritional support.

They're rebuilding me…

The realization carries implications beyond immediate survival. This level of medical intervention exceeds standard containment protocols—suggesting a specific purpose requiring optimal physical function rather than merely preventing terminal deterioration.

They need me functional for something.

I settle back against institutional pillows, conserving energy while contemplating potential objectives behind this unexpected preservation effort. Seven days of starvation and psychological torture followed by comprehensive medical intervention represents significant protocol deviation.

Strategic inconsistency or deliberate destabilization technique?

The mirrors continue their relentless reflection as I wait, providing unavoidable confrontation with the physical reality I've largely ignored during six years of existence in someone else's life. The woman staring back at me seems simultaneously familiar and foreign—my face but not the expressions I've worn, my body but not the posture I've maintained.

My eyes are drawn to the small star tattoo beneath my left eye—the mark that connects me to a past they tried to erase through separation and replacement. My fingers rise automatically to touch it, feeling the slightly raised tissue where ink was embedded through unconventional means.

Corvus.

His mark. His claim.

Something that could remind me of the rooted connection he’d one day initiate when the timing was right.

When I’m deemed ready by them…

His designation of protection implemented through methodology only the Blood Prophet would consider appropriate—pain as pathway to connection, permanent marking as testament to loyalty transcending institutional separation.

The memory surfaces with unexpected clarity, emotional impact undiminished despite years of deliberate suppression...

Seven years ago…

Level Minus Two registers as immediately distinct from the fighting pits of Level Minus Zero or the judgment chamber of Level Minus Three. The atmosphere carries different tension—not the raw aggression of combat or the psychological pressure of forced assessment, but something more insidious.

Fear here tastes different, smells different, manifests in ways that defy conventional trauma responses.

"This is our behavioral modification sector," the researcher explains as she guides me through security checkpoints with practiced efficiency. Her tone suggests routine orientation rather than introduction to institutionalized torture. "Where we evaluate capacity for psychological adaptation under specialized stress conditions."

I maintain my carefully constructed facade of innocent curiosity while cataloging security protocols, camera positions, guard rotation patterns, and potential weaknesses in containment architecture.

The persona I've crafted serves as perfect cover for strategic intelligence gathering—wide-eyed fascination masking calculated observation.

"What kind of stress?" I ask, injecting appropriate mixture of naivety and scientific interest into the question.

The researcher's smile carries practiced reassurance designed to normalize institutional brutality.

"Primarily sensory manipulation protocols. Studying how alpha neurology processes extended exposure to controlled sensory input allows us to develop more effective integration methodologies for eventual pack formation."

Translation:they torture alphas through systematic sensory overload or deprivation until their minds fracture along predetermined stress lines, then measure which broken pieces remain functional for potential pairing with compatible omegas.

We approach a viewing corridor overlooking what appears to be the aftermath of systematic slaughter—bodies arranged in concentric circles around a central figure still standing amid carnage.

Blood spatters the walls and floor in patterns suggesting methodical rather than frenzied violence, each corpse positioned with almost artistic precision relative to the central point.

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