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Recognized with judicial certainty that following this child-omega with calculated intelligence would lead to outcomes impossible to predict or control. Anticipated that whatever path she offered would end in catastrophe for those who walked it.

What I failed to anticipate was the specific nature of that catastrophe—not death or physical destruction, but this endless purgatory of separation and uncertainty. This agonizing existence where her absence creates a void more painful than any torture they've designed.

"Four hundred and seventy-seven."

My muscles burn with the effort of continued exertion, lactic acid building in tissue already pushed beyond normal human endurance. The pain provides focus, keeps me anchored in physical reality when memories threaten to drag me into rumination that serves no strategic purpose.

Pain is real.

Pain is present.

Pain can be quantified and managed through systematic application of will.

Unlike the nebulous ache of not knowing whether those I came to consider pack still live, still endure, still remember the omega who bound us together through something beyond mere biological compatibility.

What became of Riot in Level Minus Zero? The Reaper of Rot with his capacity for controlled violence concealing unexpected gentleness.

Could anyone survive six years in the fighting pits, facing endless combat against increasingly desperate opponents? His strength seemed limitless, his tactical mind exceptionally adaptive, but even the most formidable alpha has breaking points beyond which survival becomes impossible.

And what of the others, trapped in levels I've never seen but know exist from fragmented intelligence gathered during our brief alliance?

Corvus in Level Minus Two—the Blood Prophet whose capacity to read intention made him appear omniscient, his emotional detachment masking deep wells of carefully contained feeling. His eyes that saw too much, cataloging microexpressions others couldn't perceive, identifying patterns in behavior that revealed truths speakers themselves didn't recognize.

Ash in Level Minus One—the Scarred Saint whose burns covered most of his body, evidence of the sacrificial nature that made him simultaneously a deadly enforcer and protective guardian. His efficient brutality concealing surprising tenderness, his capacity for violence matched only by his instinct to shield those deemed worthy of protection.

All of us—broken alphas assembled by a child-omega with strategic vision beyond her years.

All of us—bound to her through something that transcended conventional pack dynamics. All of us—now separated by levels of institutional hierarchy designed specifically to prevent the alliance she had so carefully constructed.

All because we failed to protect her when it mattered most.

"Four hundred and seventy-eight."

The memory surfaces despite my attempts to suppress it—that final moment when everything collapsed around us.

We had progressed through Ravenscroft's levels with calculated precision, gathering intelligence and resources while maintaining the illusion of compliance.

The goal had remained clear—reach Level Minus Four, the theoretical escape point, and vanish into freedom with our little architect of chaos.

But Level Minus Four proved to be the cruelest deception of all.

Instead of escape, we found betrayal.

Guards and scientists swarmed from hidden entries, separating Jinx from our protection with practiced efficiency. We fought with everything we had—killed many, maimed more—but sheer numbers and specialized containment protocols designed specifically for our unique abilities ultimately prevailed.

They took her from us, our compass, our reason for endurance.

When they returned her weeks later, something fundamental had changed.

The scent was wrong—similarbut distinctly different.

The eyes held none of the strategic brilliance, none of the calculating assessment that had defined our Jinx. This omega looked at us with genuine terror, with no recognition, with none of the connection that had bound us together.

"Swapped," they whispered when they thought we couldn't hear. "Incredible opportunity to study divergent development in genetic identicals."

Twins.Of course.The Blackwood genetics program had always focused on paired development, on creating mirror images with subtle variations to determine which combinations produced optimal results.

They'd taken our Jinx—brilliant, manipulative, ruthless Jinx—and replaced her with this frightened mirror image who possessed her face but none of her essence.