Page 45 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

He settles back in his chair, satisfaction evident in his posture.

"Good. Follow that requirement, and everything will proceed fairly." His lips curve in what might charitably be called a smile. "Or at least, as fairly as circumstances permit."

Something tickles my nose suddenly—a strange tingling sensation that intensifies with alarming speed. I wrinkle my face against the unexpected stimulus before a sneeze escapes without warning.

"Bless you," Press offers with automatic politeness, but the words sound strangely distant, as if reaching me through increasing layers of separation.

Alarm bells ring with deafening clarity as my body begins registering systematic changes—limbs growing heavy with inexplicable weight, vision blurring at the edges, thoughts becoming sluggish despite desperate attempts to maintain focus.

The water.

It was the goddamn water.

Press sighs with exaggerated patience as he registers my rapidly deteriorating condition. He reaches for a tablet on his desk, fingers moving across its surface with practiced efficiency.

When he turns the screen toward me, the message displayed carries perfect clarity despite my increasingly compromised vision:

"You'll start now and ensure the true threat doesn't catch you, Patient 496, or you'll be ours... permanently."

Before I can process this revelation, he turns the tablet away, adding something with quick, precise movements. When the screen faces me again, the additional text sends ice through my veins despite the numbness spreading through my extremities:

"And those Alphas you're addicted to will be slain before your eyes."

I try to respond—to call him every vile name my extensive vocabulary contains, to threaten retribution that would make his worst nightmares seem like pleasant daydreams.

But my body refuses to obey basic commands, muscles going slack as control evaporates with terrifying speed.

My vision darkens from the periphery inward, consciousness retreating before an advancing tide of chemical sedation I should have anticipated.

The last thing I register before darkness claims me completely is Press's satisfied expression—the look of a man who believes he's maintained perfect control over a situation that threatened to escape institutional parameters.

If only he understood I planned for this betrayal from the beginning.

The thought follows me into darkness as consciousness surrenders to shadows that somehow feel like old friends rather than enemies.

Consciousness returns in fragmented pieces—sensoryinformation arriving in disjointed bursts rather than a coherent stream.

Cold seeps through thin fabric, suggesting an institutional floor rather than the office chair I last remember.

Voices murmur at the edge of awareness, clinical tones discussing "subject response" and "accelerated processing" without addressing me directly.

I maintain the appearance of continued unconsciousness while slowly cataloging my circumstances through other senses. The antiseptic smell confirms a medical setting rather than standard containment. The subtle vibration beneath me suggests a transport platform rather than a stationary examination table.

The occasional mechanical beep marks monitoring equipment tracking vital signs with institutional precision.

They're moving me. Preparing me for whatever "starting now" entails.

"Neuromuscular blockers clearing faster than anticipated," a female voice observes from my left. "Core temperature stabilizing within acceptable parameters."

"Maintain standard monitoring protocols," a male voice responds, authority evident despite conversational volume. "Director Press was explicit about procedural requirements for this subject."

"But the accelerated timeline—" the female voice begins, concern evident.

"Is not open for discussion," the male voice interrupts with finality. "The Parazodiac protocol modifications havebeen authorized at the highest level. Our responsibility is implementation, not evaluation."

Their conversation continues, but I focus on gathering more essential information about my current position and potential escape routes.

The gentle sway of the transport platform suggests corridor movement rather than elevator transition. The air carries a slightly different composition than upper levels—higher humidity, trace mineral content indicating deeper subterranean positioning.

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