Page 48 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

The waiting ends now.

The shadows consume me completely as darkness offers final preparation for the challenges ahead.

NINE

PREPARATIONS FOR WAR

~JINX~

Consciousness returns with unexpected clarity, my mind snapping to full alertness without the usual disorientation that follows sedation.

The ceiling above features the familiar padded sections of Ravenscroft's containment protocols, but something feels distinctly different about this awakening compared to previous experiences.

I remain perfectly still for several moments, cataloging sensory information before revealing consciousness.

The room carries the standard antiseptic smell, though less aggressive than medical wings. Temperature holds steady at what feels like precisely 70 degrees—comfortable rather than the deliberate chill often employed to increase subject discomfort.

Most notably, my body reports none of the expected restraints—no cuffs around wrists or ankles, no straps across torso, no limitation on potential movement.

Interesting choice.

Slowly, I lift my head to confirm what nerve endings already report—I'm lying on a standard institutional bed with completely unrestrained limbs.

The freedom to move without impediment feels almost disorienting after previous containment experiences, a peculiar luxury within this context of continued captivity.

The room itself offers minimal features—padded walls in standard institutional white, a single door with reinforced construction and observation window, and what appears to be a basic bathroom area partially concealed behind a privacy screen.

Unlike my previous accommodation, this space features only a single mirror mounted on the far wall rather than the disorienting array designed to facilitate identity dissociation.

Most surprising is how my body feels as I cautiously sit upright.

No dizziness clouds my vision.

No weakness trembles through overextended muscles.

No thirst burns my throat or hunger gnaws my stomach.

If anything, I feel... good. Better than I have since returning to Ravenscroft, perhaps better than I've felt in years.

"Maverick?" I whisper, fingers instinctively moving to the subdermal implant behind my ear.

The relief in his voice when he responds is palpable, emotion bleeding through his typically controlled tone.

"Jinx! Thank god. I've been trying to reach you for days. The transmission signal kept encountering interference patterns."

"Days?" I frown, swinging my legs over the bed's edge as I take in my surroundings more carefully. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Four days according to internal timestamps," he answers, professionally masking the concern his initial reaction revealed. "Complete communication blackout until approximately twenty minutes ago when implant signals began transmitting again."

Four days lost to chemical sedation—far longer than standard protocols would indicate for the dosage Press likely employed.

The extended unconsciousness suggests deliberate medical intervention rather than simply allowing natural metabolic processing.

"I feel... remarkably good," I observe, stretching muscles that should be stiff from extended immobility yet respond with surprising suppleness. "No hunger. No thirst. No physical deterioration despite extended unconsciousness."

"Probable intravenous nutritional support and hydration during the unconscious period," Maverick hypothesizes, analytical mind already assessing implications. "The question is why Press would authorize optimal recovery protocols rather than standard containment procedures."

My fingers trace the inside of my elbow, finding the telltale mark of recent intravenous access—confirmation of Maverick's assessment.

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