Page 7 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

"Your continued defiance serves no purpose," the researcher continues, unmoved. "You've been without proper nutrition for seven days. Hydration has been systematically restricted. Sleep deprivation protocols have been consistently applied. Your body will fail, regardless of genetic advantages."

I lean forward, a smile stretching across my face that makes the youngest researcher take an involuntary step backward.

"You still don't understand what I am, do you?" My voice drops to something intimate and terrifying. "You think I'm justanother omega. Just another Blackwood. Just another subject for your little experiments."

Something flickers across the lead researcher's face –uncertainty, perhaps, or the first glimmer of comprehension.

"You have a choice," he states, attempting to regain control of the interaction. "Provide the requested information about Patient 495 and her pack, or face another day of nutrient restriction and intensive conditioning."

My laughter returns, sharper this time, edged with a knowledge they can't comprehend.

"Not a chance," I spit, water dripping from my lips. "So you might as well send me down under. That's where I belong anyway."

The lead researcher's expression shifts minutely – the first genuine reaction I've managed to provoke. The change is subtle but unmistakable to someone trained to read microexpressions.

Surprise. Concern. Fear.

"You are not authorized to know about subsurface containment areas," he states carefully, but the damage is already done.

"Oh please," I scoff, leaning back against the padded wall with exaggerated casualness despite the straitjacket's restriction. "Level Minus Zero. The fighting pits. Where you keep the monsters too valuable to terminate but too dangerous to maintain in standard containment. Where Subdivision Zero has been rotting for years while you pretend they died in action."

The three researchers exchange glances loaded with unspoken communication, and I know I've struck gold.

The youngest makes a note on his clipboard, hand trembling slightly.

"This interview is concluded," the lead researcher announces, reaching for the control panel beside the observation window. "Resume standard restriction protocols."

"You'll lose," I call as they begin to retreat. "If I die, everything falls apart. Your precious research, your government contracts, your standing with the Parazodiac Nexus – all of it burns if I don't survive. So think very carefully about your next move."

The door seals with pneumatic precision, leaving me alone in the padded cell once more.

"YOU MIGHT WANT TO GIVE ME WHAT I DESERVE!" I scream suddenly, launching myself forward despite the straitjacket's restriction. My bare feet kick against the padded wall, the impacts driving shocks up my legs as rage consumes careful calculation.

"I'LL OUTSMART EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!" The words tear from my throat with primal intensity, spittle flying from my lips as I thrash against constraints both physical and situational. "YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING? WHAT YOU'VE BEEN PLANNING?"

The exertion drains what little energy remains after a week of systematic starvation, black spots dancing across my vision as oxygen debt claims its due.

I collapse backward, body hitting the padded floor with boneless gracelessness.

Giggling escapes through gasping breaths, satisfaction warming my core despite the freezing water still clinging to my skin. They don't understand yet –but they will.The seeds of doubt have been planted.

Questions will be raised.

Reports will be filed.

And Charles Press will eventually hear that I know about Level Minus Zero.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Maverick's voice crackles through the implant, concern evident despite technological distortion. "Your core temperature is droppingdangerously. Nutrient levels are critical. You need to cooperate enough to get proper medical intervention."

I ignore him, lips returning to their whistling as the tune that's haunted me for six years flows through cracked lips.

The melody Riot used to hum during rare moments of peace between bouts in the fighting pits – a lullaby from a childhood he never spoke about but carried in muscle memory.

Riot.

My thoughts drift to him with aching familiarity, wondering what six years in the pits has done to the man who once touched my face with impossible gentleness. Is he still human? Still capable of that soft expression that contradicted everything his designation as "The Reaper of Rot" suggested?

Or has he become the monster they always intended – feral, uncontrollable, valuable only for the research data his deterioration provides?

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