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Something impossible.

My body freezes in perfect stillness, muscles locking with preternatural control as the scent registers with devastating clarity.

Cardamom. Cinnamon. Exotic fruits and rain-soaked forest floor.

Not some institutional approximation. Not some synthetic recreation designed to trigger response patterns. Not some cruel simulations that were created from stored profiles in their extensive databases.

Her actual scent.

The recognition hits with seismic force, cracking foundations carefully constructed through six years of enforced separation and systematic deprivation.

It can't be.

The rational mind rejects the possibility even as the primal Alpha core recognizes truth beyond explanation or understanding. That signature—that specific combination of notes that harmonized so perfectly with my own all those years ago—cannot exist here, cannot be present in this institutional hell after so much time.

Press is fucking with me again.

The explanation forms with desperate certainty, mind grasping for rational interpretation rather than impossible hope. They've synthesized her scent from stored samples, created an approximation close enough to trigger a memory response but different enough to maintain plausible deniability.

Another shriek cuts through my rationalization, followed immediately by what sounds disturbingly like...laughter?

Not the hollow sound of institutional amusement, not the practiced performance of someone maintaining sanity through forced humor.

Genuine laughter carrying notes of both genuine amusement and manic energy that cannot be fabricated through chemical or psychological manipulation.

My fist clenches with renewed force, blood welling from crescent indentations as nails break skin beneath unconscious pressure.

"If that's...the best you lot can do...I can go all fucking night."

The voice shatters whatever remaining resistance I've maintained against the impossible possibility.

Despite changes—a deepened maturity that wasn't present six years ago, undertones of exhaustion beneath forced bravado—there's no mistaking the distinctive cadence, the unique vocal pattern that remains burned into neural pathways despite institutional attempts to erase all connection.

Jinx.

Her name forms in my mind with perfect clarity, bypassing conscious thought to manifest as absolute certainty despite rational impossibility.

Before tactical assessment can override instinctive response, my body moves with autonomous purpose—turning back toward the arena, steps accelerating beyond careful control into something approaching desperate urgency.

The corridor blurs as I navigate with muscle memory rather than conscious direction, boots striking concrete with increasing force as pace transforms from deliberate approach into a barely controlled sprint.

The sounds intensify with each step—growls and impacts and what must be ongoing combat based on the rhythm and cadence of engagement. The feral Alphas beyond the cage have reached unprecedented levels of agitation, their collectivevocalization creating a primal symphony that vibrates through the institutional architecture with disturbing intensity.

I emerge from the corridor's shadowed confines into the arena's harsh illumination, the transition requiring momentary adjustment as pupils contract against sudden brightness.

The scene before me materializes with cinematic clarity—institutional spotlights focused on the central cage with theatrical precision while leaving observation areas in strategic shadow.

The fighting cage stands in perfect circularity—fifteen feet high, constructed from reinforced steel specifically designed to contain enhanced subjects even under extreme duress. Beyond the bars, feral Alphas pace and prowl with manic intensity, their movements carrying none of the calculation or strategic assessment that would indicate remaining humanity.

They've completely devolved—reduced to the most primal expression of designation through systematic application of whatever experimental protocols Press prioritizes in current research parameters. Their eyes glow with chemical enhancement, pupils blown wide with whatever substances maintain their feral state despite the body's natural resistance.

But it's what happens inside the cage that stops my heart mid-beat.

A female figure moves with deadly grace among fallen opponents—two institutional Omegas lying unconscious on the metal grating while a third tries desperately to regain her feet despite evident injuries.

The still-standing combatant pivots with fluid precision as her remaining opponent lunges with desperate aggression, sidestepping the attack with almost casual efficiency before delivering a precise strike to the base of the skull that drops her attacker without apparent effort.

Blood streaks across pale skin, evidence of successful enemy strikes despite overall combat dominance.