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Not just for escape, but for whatever comes after. His capacity for sacrifice, for protection without possession, for seeing value beyond immediate utility... these represent essential components in the strategy forming beyond conscious thought.

The world spins momentarily as blood rush affects my still-recovering body. His arm slides around my waist with careful support, his scarred skin surprisingly warm against my soaked clothing.

"Rest now," he murmurs, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. "I'll get us somewhere safe."

The absurdity of our situation—him naked and scarred, me half-drowned and defeated—would be comical in any other context. Yet as consciousness begins to fade again, I feel safer than at any point since our ill-fated escape attempt began.

The last thing I register before darkness claims me completely is his scent—smoke and ash giving way to something deeper beneath. Something that speaks of protection and possibility, of burning away what's broken to build something stronger from its ashes.

The perfect final piece to complete my collection of broken alphas.

My last coherent thought carries quiet certainty: Next time, we won't fail.

"Jinx? Jinx, can you hear me?"

Maverick's voice shatters the memory, pulling me abruptly back to present reality. The executive office materializes aroundme with jarring clarity—polished wood and tasteful decor replacing rushing water and desperate survival.

"I'm here," I respond, fingers unconsciously touching the star mark beneath my eye—Corvus's claim, his promise of recognition no matter how long separation might last. "Just... remembering."

"Your vitals spiked," concern edges through his typically detached tone. "Are you having a stress response? Should I alert medical?—"

"I'm fine," I cut him off firmly. "Just impatient. How much longer before this charade moves forward?"

The silence that follows carries weight beyond mere pause in communication.

Maverick knows as well as I do what lies ahead—the carefully orchestrated dance of power and submission that Charles Press expects to unfold according to his design.

If only he understood that I've been choreographing a very different performance these past six years.

"You don't have to do this," Maverick's voice drops lower, genuinely confidential despite our electronic connection. "There are other options. Your sister is safe now. Your debt is paid."

A bitter laugh escapes before I can contain it.

"Is that what you think this is about? Debt? Obligation?"

"Then what?—"

"Destiny," I interrupt, certainty flowing through the word with unstoppable force. "This was always the path. Six years ago, I was too weak, too unprepared. Now I know exactly what needs to be done."

"At what cost?" His question carries unexpected emotion. "The things they'll do to you... the experiments they'll restart... Jinx, you barely survived the first time."

My fingers trace the pristine white fabric covering my legs, remembering the countless scars hidden beneath.

Evidence of years spent as their favorite test subject, their most promising anomaly, their greatest disappointment.

"I didn't come back to survive," I tell him quietly. "I came back to burn it all down."

Before he can respond, a soft knock breaks the silence.

The door opens with deliberate slowness, the sound of expensive shoes against hardwood marking measured approach of the man who orchestrated all of this from the beginning.

I don't turn my head, don't acknowledge his entrance. Instead, I maintain perfect stillness as he crosses to the massive desk, settling into the high-backed chair with practiced authority.

Only then do I finally lift my gaze, meeting eyes I've seen in countless nightmares across six years of separation.

Charles Press smiles with surgical precision, his expression containing neither warmth nor genuine welcome—just calculated assessment of a valuable asset returned to his control.

"Patient 496," he greets with cultured cruelty wrapped in professional courtesy. "Welcome back to Parazodiac. Are you finally ready to embrace your destiny?"