Page 31 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Guards surround us with practiced efficiency, separation procedures implemented with mechanical precision designed to minimize further unauthorized interaction.

The area beneath my left eye pulses with sensation, indicating active integration rather than completed process—compound continuing transformation from liquid application to permanent dermal modification despite external interruption.

As security personnel initiate the standardized separation protocol, pulling me toward the exit while containing the Blood Prophet within a specialized restraint system, his voice carries across the increasing distance with perfect clarity despite the institutional chaos:

"Corvus."

The single word—his true name rather than institutional designation—carries weight beyond simple identification. His eyes meet mine across growing separation with intensity transcending physical distance, a message requiring no additional verbalization despite complex implications:

"Those I mark are always destined to return to me."

The declaration carries neither threat nor promise—simply a statement of certainty beyond institutional control or manipulation. As guards pull me toward the exit with increasing urgency, the star beneath my eye continues pulsing the integration sequence despite physical separation from its creator.

Not magic but connection—bond formed through deliberate choice rather than institutional assignment or biological imperative.

The last glimpse I catch before security doors seal between us shows the Blood Prophet—Corvus—standing perfectly centered amid containment protocols, expression carrying neither resistance nor submission but patient certainty that transcends immediate circumstances.

"Patient 495?"A voice interrupts the memory, dragging me back to present reality with jarring abruptness. "Are you experiencing discomfort?"

I blink, focusing on the reflection showing a young woman in a laboratory coat standing beside my bed. She wears the distinctive identification badge of Ravenscroft research staff, yet something about her posture suggests incongruity with standard personnel parameters.

An omega.

The realization forms with perfect clarity despite institutional efforts to mask designation through uniform application of clinical attire. Her scent carries unmistakable markers despite chemical suppressants designed to minimize pheromone signaling within a research environment.

More interesting still, she's called me by my sister's designation rather than my own. The error suggests either deliberate misinformation in her briefing materials or genuine misidentification based on physical similarity.

Strategic advantage either way.

"Just a bit disoriented," I respond, crafting a response to maintain apparent confusion without triggering medical intervention protocols. "Where am I?"

She approaches with practiced professional efficiency that doesn't quite mask subtle tension evident in micro-expressions—slight tightening around eyes, minimal muscle engagement at corners of mouth, fractional elevation of shoulders indicating stress response management.

"Recovery unit seven," she answers, checking intravenous lines with competent movements that suggest medical training despite omega designation. "You experienced severe metabolic compromise requiring immediate intervention."

I study her more carefully as she performs standard assessment protocols—taking pulse, checking pupillary response, evaluating skin turgor with practiced motions that carry institutional precision without corresponding emotional detachment.

Her appearance strikes me as immediately familiar despite certainty I've never encountered this specific individual during previous institutional residency. Dark skin marked with subtle evidence of systematic abuse—scars partially visible beneath laboratory coat collar, discoloration patterns suggesting deliberate trauma application rather than accidental injury.

Most distinctive is her hair—dual-colored in pattern that defies standard genetic expression, tangled mass containing both natural texture and what appears to be deliberate modification designed to create specific visual signature.

Multiple piercings adorn visible features—silver rings through lower lip and left nostril, elaborate constellation of metallic insertions lining ear cartilage in pattern suggesting deliberate design rather than random decoration.

"Who are you?" I ask directly, the question serving dual purpose of maintaining expected disorientation while gathering tactical information.

Her eyes meet mine briefly before returning to clinical assessment—gaze carrying defiance that transcends institutional conditioning despite apparent compliance with assigned responsibilities.

The expression strikes an immediate chord of recognition despite certainty we've never previously interacted.

I know her.

Not from direct encounter but from memory accessed during recent delirium—one of the omegas in my sister's cell during the last consciousness period before extraction. The tattooed, pierced omega with multi-colored hair and defiant posture who volunteered for sacrifice despite having the least future potential among their captive group.

"Riot," she answers, the single word carrying weight beyond its syllables.

The name sends an unexpected jolt through carefully maintained composure—coincidental designation matching my primary alpha target, creating momentary cognitive dissonance before strategic mind reasserts control over emotional response.

Not my Riot. Different designations, applied to different individuals through independent naming process.

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