Page 60 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Her voice hardens with genuine anger, the emotion bleeding through careful control for the first time since our descent began.

"They don't want to acknowledge that we have dreams. Hopes. We want a pack and not to be given like some prize to a group of men that wouldn't know any better, but what choice did we have?"

She sighs and even laughs—a hollow sound containing no actual humor—as she rests her head on her hands, elbows propped on her knees in a posture suggesting bone-deep exhaustion rather than momentary fatigue.

"At least that's what I thought," she continues after a moment, "until death took me and for a moment, I witnessed everything I couldn't remember."

My attention sharpens at this unexpected turn—near-death memory recovery representing a phenomenon documented in classified research but rarely acknowledged in standard medical literature.

Her experience suggests either extraordinary neurological resilience or specific genetic modifications similar to Blackwood program parameters.

"I had a family. Big grand one. Full of strong men. Powerful men who could probably walk through this place and be acknowledged as royalty." Her eyes take on a faraway quality as she describes the vision. "They wore crowns and fur that displayed their tribal culture. I'm sure it meant something..."

Her voice hardens suddenly, bitterness returning with crushing force. "Only how does all of that matter when you offer your child into this place to save their sick son..."

I frown deeply, recognition flowing from institutional knowledge rather than personal experience.

"There were conditions like that in place," I acknowledge quietly. "They probably told Nyx something similar, but it was totally different for us."

The words escape before tactical assessment can prevent them—a dangerous revelation of personal connection to circumstances being discussed.

"A punishment for my failure in exiting the Parazodiac with my men..."

Riot's head tilts slightly, reassessment clearly occurring behind those perceptive eyes, but she doesn't pursue the unintentional disclosure. Instead, she continues her own narrative with unexpected intensity.

"When I was brought back to life, a man stared down at me as if I meant the world," she says, voice softening with what might be wonder in someone less damaged by institutional experience. "It was an instance, a ticking few moments looking into his golden eyes and how beautiful his dark rich skin was."

Something warm enters her expression—genuine emotion breaking through tactical facade with surprising force.

"And then he did what no one else has done for me. He told his pack to take me away, and he'd remain in my place. That was the only way to get out safely."

The sacrifice described registers with perfect clarity—an alpha exchanging his freedom for an omega with whom he shared no established bond, violating every survival instinct institutional conditioning reinforces through systematic application.

"When I finally woke, I was safe outside," Riot continues, intensity building with each word, "but not only was the man who saved me trapped below in the realms of Parazodiac, the rest of his pack was scattered in its islands."

Her shoulders straighten, the movement containing absolute resolution rather than simple postural adjustment. "I realized I had two options. To remain in the outside world, or to venture back in and claim what I realized I want."

The parallel to my own circumstances strikes with uncomfortable precision—another omega returning voluntarily to institutional hell for the sake of retrieving those who formed a connection beyond explanation or understanding.

Another player in Press's game whose motivations mirror my own with disturbing similarity.

"And here you are," I whisper, the words emerging without tactical calculation, simple recognition of shared purpose despite divergent methodology.

She meets my gaze without hesitation, equal acknowledgment flowing between us despite a limited shared history.

"Here I am."

A smirk forms on my lips—not quite a smile but something carrying genuine appreciation rather than tactical advantage.

"I didn't think I'd meet someone who would align with my goals," I admit, the confession representing genuine ratherthan calculated disclosure. "But I guess there's a first time for everything."

Riot laughs—a real sound this time, containing actual humor rather than bitter acknowledgment of institutional reality.

"I agree," she says, "but I'm on another level of psycho, though, so don't put us in the same pool." Her eyes gleam with dangerous promise. "I'll probably burn this place down if it were my way."

The declaration carries absolute conviction despite being delivered with a casual tone, genuine intent rather than an empty threat.

"Just make sure I'm out of here by then," she adds with grim humor. "Either out or dead. Those are the only options I've got."

---