Page 62 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

"We could technically go down one path first and then backtrack to the other," she suggests, though her tone indicates recognition of the likely institutional countermeasures to such a straightforward solution.

"I'm detecting significant temperature differential between the two pathways," Maverick interjects unexpectedly, analytical mind clearly processing environmental data beyond standard visual observation. "Left path registers approximately twelve degrees cooler than ambient, while right path shows elevation of approximately seventeen degrees above current position."

"Interesting observation," I respond automatically, momentarily forgetting that Riot can't hear the other half of this conversation.

She tilts her head slightly, confusion briefly crossing her features before understanding dawns with surprising quickness.

A smirk forms on her lips as she studies me with renewed assessment.

"My imaginary friend Maverick says the temperatures differentiate significantly down the paths." I declare.

“You’re imaginary friend…” she asks, perceptiveness demonstrating once again why she survived previous navigation attempts despite overwhelming odds.

I maintain a neutral expression, neither confirming nor denying the existence of external communication capabilities that institutional security protocols would consider a severe breach if discovered.

Riot doesn't press the issue, instead shifting attention back to the junction with tactical focus that suggests genuine training rather than merely survival instinct.

She crosses her arms, head tilting as if listening to something beyond normal auditory range.

"The chilled temperature would likely indicate either a river or a forest environment," she observes thoughtfully, eyes narrowing as she studies the left passage with increased intensity. "Natural water features or extensive vegetation typically create microclimates with lower ambient temperatures than surrounding areas."

I nod slowly, the assessment aligning with both environmental science principles and institutional design methodologies observed during previous navigation.

"That makes sense."

"Why do you say that?" she asks, curiosity seeming genuine rather than tactical information gathering. "What are you thinking?"

I consider how much to reveal—tactical advantage typically dictates minimal information sharing even with temporary allies.Yet something about this omega inspires unusual candor despite operational protocols that have served my survival for years.

"The paths we take must mimic the first instances with those alphas," I explain, the theory forming with increasing certainty as institutional patterns align with previous experience. "At least, that's what I'm assuming based on previous navigation parameters."

I turn back toward her, studying her reaction to this assessment with careful attention.

"You met your alpha because he brought you back from drowning, yes?" I confirm, recalling details from her earliernarrative. "Meaning the path you need to follow will likely involve a river or lake of some sort."

Understanding flows across her features with remarkable clarity—recognition rather than confusion, confirmation rather than surprise.

"That actually sounds right," she acknowledges, something like anticipation briefly replacing the caution she's maintained since our descent began. "That's a rather unique approach to navigation design."

Her gaze shifts to the right passage—the one Maverick identified as carrying elevated temperature.

"What does that mean for you then?" she asks with genuine curiosity. "What environment would connect to your first encounter?"

A smirk forms on my lips as memories surface with perfect clarity despite six years of separation—the fighting pits of Level Minus Zero, the scent of blood and desperation, the controlled violence of a man who fought through nineteen others for the privilege of first contact.

"My alpha will be in the midst of the ring," I state with absolute certainty, the image forming with crystalline precision in my mind. "Sweat-drenched, blood-marked, and ruining anyone who challenges him." The description emerges with unexpected warmth beneath clinical accuracy, emotion coloring tactical assessment in ways I typically suppress for operational efficiency.

"So I can only assume the hot path is where he'd be," I conclude, nodding toward the right passage with growing confidence. "In the midst of a cage, fighting for his life."

Riot studies me with unexpected perceptiveness, head tilting slightly as if reassessing previous conclusions based on new information.

"You speak about him almost admirably," she observes quietly, "but you barely know him."

The observation strikes with uncomfortable precision, penetrating tactical facades to the fundamental contradiction at the core of my return.

Six years of separation.

A relationship built on a handful of interactions.

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