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The jumpsuit they've provided clings uncomfortably to skin that's finally regained healthy color after days of systematic starvation and dehydration. My fingers trace invisible patterns on the armrest of the plush chair—a far cry from the padded cell they kept me in for a week.

Progress, I suppose.

From torture victim to office guest.

How civilized of them.

The executive suite stands in stark contrast to the institutional horror show of Ravenscroft's lower levels. Gleaming hardwood floors reflect soft lighting from tasteful fixtures. Abstract paintings hang at carefully measured intervals, splashes of controlled chaos contained within gilded frames—much like the illusion of choice they've presented me.

The irony doesn't escape me.

They've cleaned me up, dressed me properly, placed me in surroundings meant to convey respect and professionalism. As if this changes the fundamental truth of my situation—I remain their prisoner, just one with an upgraded cell.

My gaze drifts to the massive mahogany desk dominating the room's center. The polished surface holds carefully arranged items—a crystal paperweight catching light, an antique fountain pen resting in its cradle, a single manila folder placed with deliberate precision.

My file.

Six years of captivity, experimentation, and their carefully documented failures condensed into clinical notes and sterile observations. Six years of my sister living my life while I remained trapped in institutional hell.

Six years that end today, one way or another.

"—vital signs showing increased stability. Core temperature returning to baseline parameters. Hydration levels approaching acceptable range."

Maverick's voice crackles through the subdermal implant with unusual tension. His typically detached professionalism carries an undercurrent of genuine concern that catches me off guard. Something about his tone sparks an unfamiliar warmth in my chest—the strange comfort of knowing someone actually worries about my survival.

"I'm fine," I whisper, knowing the sensitive microphone will catch even my softest utterance. "Stop fussing. You're sounding dangerously close to having actual feelings."

His silence stretches long enough that I wonder if the connection has failed. When his voice returns, it carries none of its usual sardonic edge.

"You're all I've ever known, Jinx."

The simple admission hits with unexpected force. Five words that somehow encapsulate six years of clandestine communication, of plans made and abandoned, of a partnership forged through necessity that somehow transformed into something neither of us anticipated.

The statement triggers a cascade of memories I've kept carefully compartmentalized—particularly one I've avoided revisiting since my return to Ravenscroft.

Ash.

The last piece of the puzzle I assembled so carefully, the final alpha I selected before everything fell apart. The memory rises with such vivid clarity that for a moment, the executive office fades around me...

Six years ago...

Wind howls through the mountain pass, its fury matching the chaos unfolding around us. Gunfire peppers the rocky terrain as guards rapidly close in on our position. The extraction plan has failed spectacularly—betrayed from within by someone who recognized the value of turning four enhanced alphas and their omega into corporate assets.

"Move!" Riot's voice carries above the cacophony, his massive frame providing cover as I scramble up the treacherous incline. "The bridge is our only chance!"

My lungs burn with each breath, the thin mountain air insufficient for the demands of desperate flight. Sable and Corvus maintain precise formation around me, their bodies creating a protective barrier against bullets finding their mark.

But it's not enough. It will never be enough.

The bridge looms ahead—a narrow rope and wood construction spanning a ravine of dizzying depth. Raging waters churn hundreds of feet below, their roar carrying promises of certain death for any unfortunate enough to fall.

"We're trapped," Sable's clinical assessment carries no emotion, just tactical recognition of our rapidly diminishingoptions. "The structural integrity of that crossing cannot support our combined weight in current weather conditions."

"Then we split up," I decide instantly, mind racing through recalculated probabilities. "Two groups. Different directions. Divide their forces."

Riot's growl carries pure alpha rage at the suggestion. "Not happening. We stay together."

"Survival probability increases by approximately sixty-seven percent with divided extraction vectors," Corvus counters, his eyes tracking guard movements with inhuman precision. "The omega's reasoning is tactically sound."