Page 68 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

~RIOT~

The stench hits me before I even turn the corner.

That sickly sweet smell of corrupted pheromones—a toxic cocktail designed to drive men mad while making anyone with a functioning brain stem want to vomit. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, slowing my pace as I navigate the dimly lit corridor leading toward the fighting cage.

Six years of this shit, and it never gets easier.

The institutional lighting flickers overhead, casting everything in that sickly green hue they seem to think heightens the psychological impact. As if the smell and sounds weren't enough. My boots echo against the concrete floor, each step measured and deliberate despite the rising tension coiling in my muscles.

Another round of "entertainment" must be starting. I can feel it in the charged atmosphere, hear it in the distant growls echoing through the ventilation system. The feral Alphas are getting restless—those poor bastards who couldn't maintain their sanity through years of systematic torture disguised as research.

I've seen it happen too many times. Strong men, capable warriors, tactical geniuses...reduced to little more than animalsprowling on all fours, any higher cognitive function sacrificed to whatever chemical cocktail Press uses to maintain his twisted version of designation dynamics.

There, but for the grace of whatever god might be watching, go I.

The thought sends an involuntary shudder through my frame, muscles tensing beneath the standard institutional uniform. Six years I've managed to maintain control, to keep the beast contained within acceptable parameters despite everything they've thrown at me.

Six years of fighting, killing, and somehow surviving when death would be the kinder option.

Six years withouther.

The corridor widens as I approach the main arena area, the smell intensifying with every step. They must have at least three corrupted Omegas in rotation tonight—their twisted scent signatures mingling into something that crawls across my skin like fire ants. My throat tightens instinctively, body reacting to the biological threat despite years of exposure and developed resistance.

"Fuck this," I mutter, coming to an abrupt halt several meters from the final threshold.

I know exactly what waits beyond—another "testing session" where they'll parade those poor broken Omegas in front of us, watching for reaction patterns and collecting data points for whatever sick research Press prioritizes this month.

The growls from the arena intensify, suggesting the show has already begun. The feral Alphas always react first—their damaged neural pathways offering no resistance to the corrupted pheromones pumped through specialized delivery systems.

My knuckles crack as hands clench into fists, nails digging into palms with enough force to leave crescent-shapedindentations in the skin. The pain offers momentary focus, a physical sensation to ground thoughts threatening to scatter under biological pressure.

I don't need to see this again.

Don't need to stand among the still-functioning Alphas while we pretend indifference to the horror show Press orchestrates with such careful precision.

Don't need another memory of broken Omegas used as tools to test our control parameters.

Decision made, I turn sharply, preparing to return to my cell where at least the isolation offers some protection from the collective madness Press orchestrates with such theatrical flair.

Three steps toward retreat, something catches my attention—a sound so out of place it momentarily halts my breathing.

A gasp.

Not the animalistic growling of corrupted Omegas, not the mindless shrieking they sometimes produce when chemical cocktails reach peak efficiency. A human…feminine…sound—distinctly female, distinctly conscious, carrying surprise rather than pain or feral rage.

I frown, head turning slightly toward the arena despite my determined intention to avoid engagement.

The corrupted Omegas don't make that sound.

They don't gasp—they screech, they howl, they produce vocalizations that bear little resemblance to human communication.Their vocal cords, like everything else in their biological systems, have been systematically altered through chemical and surgical intervention beyond standard enhancement protocols.

Perhaps a new researcher?

Some young woman experiencing her first exposure to the institutional reality beneath Ravenscroft's polished public facade?

I exhale slowly, attempting to clear my respiratory system of the toxic pheromones clouding rational thought.

The action draws fresh air across specialized olfactory receptors, bringing with it...

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