Page 44 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

"I have no intention of changing your precious system," I tell him with calculated indifference. "I simply want to retrieve what is rightfully mine and be on my way."

"Like your sister?" he counters immediately, satisfaction evident as he plays what he believes is a winning card. "She didn't leave without significant collateral damage. Two of my finest omegas escaping and a third playing researcher when she was clearly meant for something greater... it demonstrates remarkable inefficiency in asset management."

The mention of a "third" catches my attention, though I carefully maintain neutral expression.

Likely referring to the omega designated "Riot" who's been assigned to my monitoring. The coincidence of namingremains intriguing—further evidence of connections beyond what institutional records acknowledge.

"I deserve a second chance," I state simply, deliberately echoing language of institutional rehabilitation protocols. "And you know exactly why."

The declaration hangs between us, laden with implications neither of us will directly verbalize.

We both understand the unique nature of my existence within the Parazodiac framework—the anomaly that defies categorization, the subject who navigated levels designed to be insurmountable.

Press studies me with clinical intensity, weighing options against potential outcomes with the calculating precision that makes him so dangerous.

Then, with deliberate finality, he drains his teacup despite the steam still rising from its surface.

Taking my cue, I finish my water, the empty glass representing the conclusion of this particular phase of negotiation.

The next words will determine trajectory—either toward opportunity or renewed imprisonment.

Press sets his cup down with a decisive click, then leans back in his chair with the satisfied expression of someone who believes they maintain advantage regardless of apparent concessions.

"Will you at least make this entertaining?" he asks, tone suggesting boredom with standard subject responses.

"Only if I'm given a genuine opportunity to survive what lies ahead," I counter immediately. "Not some rigged game designed to showcase predetermined outcomes."

Our eyes lock in a silent assessment—predator recognizing predator despite disparate positions in the institutional foodchain. Then his face breaks into a smile that never reaches his eyes, hands coming together in a single, decisive clap.

"Fine," he declares with theatrical magnanimity. "I'll arrange everything necessary for your second attempt at the Parazodiac. I'll even ensure the research teams maintain appropriate distance—no direct interference with the testing protocols."

"How much time do I have?" The question emerges with calculated precision—not whether I'll be permitted to attempt, but practical details of implementation.

"One week," he states, the timeframe clearly predetermined rather than negotiated. "Sufficient for final medical clearance and necessary preparatory protocols."

"Fine." I accept without haggling, knowing additional demands must be carefully selected. "But I want no cameras. No audience beyond those directly involved in evaluation."

He laughs then—genuine amusement breaking through the corporate facade. "You think this is the Hunger Games? Public entertainment disguised as a selection process?"

"If the comparison fits," I shrug with deliberate casualness. "As long as I get what I want in the end, the specifics of methodology remain negotiable."

His expression shifts subtly, calculation replacing amusement as he leans forward across the desk.

"One rule will change from your previous attempt," he says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial level.

"Which is?" I ask, warning signals flaring despite my outward calm.

"You'll need five alphas to complete the final level," he states, satisfaction evident as he delivers this critical modification. "You know which level I'm referring to, yes?"

The implications cascade through my mind with devastating clarity.

Level Minus Four—the theoretical escape point that proved an elaborate trap during our previous attempt. The level is designed to test not individual capability but pack dynamics and compatibility under extreme stress.

Last time, I had four carefully selected alphas—each chosen for specific capabilities that complemented the overall strategy.

Now Press demands five—an additional variable in an equation already balanced on a knife's edge.

I offer a single, silent nod of acknowledgment, mind already racing through possible adaptations to this unexpected parameter change.

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