Page 64 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

It felt good to be vulnerable for that brief moment—to acknowledge the emotional components typically sacrificed for operational efficiency.

But vulnerability won't return my alphas to me, won't navigate the institutional hell designed specifically to prevent exactly such retrieval.

To claim what's been stolen from a Fated M.U.S.E, you must return to your roots—to the tactical precision and strategic calculation that allowed survival when everyone expected destruction.

To the cold efficiency that turns institutional methodology against its creators. To the calculated ruthlessness that makes even Charles Press nervous when witnessed in its full implementation.

The path ahead radiates heat that intensifies with each step forward—subtle confirmation of Maverick's environmentalassessment and my own strategic theory regarding what waits beyond this junction.

The elevated temperature carries distinctive notes beneath standard thermal patterns—sweat and blood and primal exertion, the unmistakable olfactory signature of combat occurring somewhere in the distance.

Riot.

The fighting pits of Level Minus Zero.

The alpha who fought through nineteen others for the privilege of first contact.

The Reaper of Rot, with a grin that tastes like vengeance and fists that never learned mercy.

My steps accelerate with unconscious eagerness as I proceed down the heated passage, anticipation building with each meter of progress toward whatever waits beyond institutional testing parameters.

Six years of separation collapsed into approaching reunion—if survival permits, if tactical advantage allows, if the Parazodiac's deadly games can be navigated with sufficient precision.

The corridor continues its gentle curve toward what institutional architectural patterns suggest will be the first genuine challenge beyond ceremonial introduction and forced separation.

I welcome the challenge with perfect certainty— years of preparation meeting opportunity at the precise moment of convergence. The temperature continues its steady increase as I progress deeper into the institution's carefully constructed reality, heat confirming the approach to an active combat environment beyond standard containment parameters.

My fingers reach unconsciously toward the star beneath my left eye—Corvus's mark of recognition and protection,permanent evidence of connection that transcends institutional separation.

The slightly raised tissue beneath fingertips provides tactical orientation when uncertainty threatens strategic focus—a reminder of the pack assembled with such care, waiting in levels below for the omega who selected them with calculated precision.

I've returned not as the frightened girl who failed before, but as the weapon forged through that failure—tempered by separation, sharpened by determination, transformed by the singular purpose that drove every decision leading to this moment.

The corridor terminates ahead, opening into what appears to be a significantly larger space beyond standard transit architecture.

The sound reaches me before visual confirmation—distinctive impacts of flesh against flesh, grunts of exertion, the unmistakable cadence of systematic violence conducted within established parameters.

Combat. Organized. Regulated. Observed.

The fighting pits were waiting as institutional theory predicted, the first challenge aligned with the first encounter exactly as strategic assessment anticipated.

The confirmation sends satisfaction flowing through systems primed for tactical engagement—prediction models proving accurate despite six years of separation from institutional methodology.

I pause at the threshold between corridor and combat arena, taking a final moment for systematic preparation before entering whatever elaborate scenario Press has constructed for this particular test.

Muscles respond with perfect readiness despite extended periods of heightened alertness, systems functioning at optimal capacity despite the cumulative stress of recent experiences.

Beyond simple reunion lies the validation of everything sacrificed during extended separation—confirmation that the connection formed transcends institutional manipulation and temporal limitation.

A final deep breath stabilizes systems already operating at peak efficiency—not physical necessity but a psychological ritual marking the transition between preparation and implementation.

The exhalation that leaves me carries perfect control despite the anticipation building with each heartbeat.

This is it.

No going back.

No fucking regrets.

---