Page 96 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

EIGHTEEN

BETWEEN WORLDS

~JINX~

I'm sinking.

Falling through layers of consciousness like a stone dropped in dark water, each level pulling me deeper into a space between waking and dreaming where memory and reality blur into indistinguishable streams.

My body feels weightless yet constrained, suspended in some liminal space where physical sensation arrives distorted and delayed.

The taste of copper fills my mouth—blood from a bitten tongue or something more sinister administered through institutional methodology designed to maintain compliance through chemical submission.

Sounds drift from below like echoes from another world.

Grunts of exertion and pain, roars of fury that speak to primal rage unleashed without constraint or control. The cacophony suggests a stadium of madness where violence reigns supreme and civilization holds no sway over basic survival instinct.

But I'm floating above it all, suspended like some twisted angel overlooking hell's playground from a position of enforced neutrality. The irony isn't lost on me—once again reduced toobserver status while others fight for their lives in arenas designed specifically for such entertainment.

Pheromones rise on heated air currents, carrying scent signatures of desperate alphas pushed beyond breaking points through systematic conditioning and chemical manipulation.

Musk and sweat and the metallic tang of spilled blood create an atmospheric cocktail that speaks to the worst aspects of designation dynamics, stripped of humanity and refined into pure biological imperative.

My wrists ache with dull persistence that suggests restraints—leather or metal binding flesh already tender from recent bondage of an entirely different nature.

The memory of Riot's hands on the same skin creates jarring contrast between loving touch and institutional cruelty, between connection freely given and submission forcibly extracted.

The swaying motion registers gradually, like a pendulum marking time in some cosmic clock that measures suffering rather than seconds.

Back and forth, back and forth, suspended over whatever spectacle unfolds beneath my enforced observation. Another psychological torture designed to break resistance through helpless witnessing of violence I cannot prevent or escape.

The darkness behind my eyelids shifts suddenly, institutional nightmare fading as memory asserts dominance over present circumstance. The transition feels like stepping through doorways between worlds, leaving behind the stench of combat to emerge into...

Sunlight.

Crisp autumn air carries the scent of fallen leaves and gunpowder, creating an atmosphere of controlled violence rather than chaotic bloodshed.

The private shooting range my father commissioned stretches before me in perfect manicured lines—targetspositioned at measured intervals, safety equipment arranged with military precision, every detail calculated to project competence and control.

I stand beside him as he adjusts his grip on the custom pistol, expensive metal gleaming in afternoon light while he lines up sights with practiced efficiency.

The ritual of target practice has become weekly routine since my extraction from institutional walls—his way of maintaining skills honed through government service while avoiding conversation about subjects that make him uncomfortable.

Like the daughter he left behind to secure the freedom of the one standing beside him.

"Why can't we go retrieve Nyx from that place?" The question emerges without preamble, cutting through the false peace of our shared silence with precision that rivals his carefully aimed bullets.

His posture shifts minutely—shoulders tensing despite deliberate maintenance of shooting stance.The target in his sights wavers slightly as my words register, disrupting the careful focus required for accurate marksmanship.

"We've discussed this," he responds without lowering the weapon, voice carrying forced patience that fails to mask underlying irritation at having his ritual disturbed by unwelcome topics.

"No," I correct with characteristic directness, that institutional conditioning couldn't be eliminated despite their best efforts. "You've dismissed my questions. We've never actually discussed anything."

The shot goes wide, bullet striking sand beyond the target range rather than finding its intended mark.

His jaw tightens at the missed shot—pride wounded by the public display of imperfection in front of the daughter, whosepresence serves as a constant reminder of choices that sacrificed one child to save another.

"Why did you decide to swap me with my sister when she was the one destined to suffer?" The question carries weight of years spent wondering, of sleepless nights trying to understand parental logic that could justify such calculated betrayal of one child to protect another.

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