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Not desperation but tactical necessity, not emotional response but calculated application of preserved resources specifically allocated for this moment.

One second.

The feral Alphas break through remaining restraints with coordinated aggression that suggests shared purpose beyond individual frenzy—acollective entity acting with singular intention rather than separate subjects operating within proximity.Their howls transform into something approaching triumphant as cage sections disappear completely, removing final barriers between predator and prey with institutional precision.

The only movement I can possibly dare achieve in this frazzled state of shock and acknowledged hope was to raise my arms, like an open embrace waiting to be fulfilled.

Zero.

Her body collides with mine with controlled momentum — not the desperate impact institutional staging seems designed to produce, but the measured connection that maintains balance while establishing physical proximity.

Her scent engulfs me completely as arms instinctively encircle her form, pulling her against my chest with protective urgency that bypasses tactical consideration or strategic assessment.

For one perfect moment, everything else disappears—the institutional horror, the feral Alphas now streaming onto the pathway behind us, the systematic torture designed to break everything human within these walls.

There is only her form against mine, only the connection reestablished through physical proximity after years of separation, only the absolute certainty that somehow, against all probability and institutional opposition, she has returned.

She's back.

Not her twin.

Not some laboratory-engineered duplicate.

Our Jinx.

The mastermind who selected us with calculated precision. The strategist who mapped Ravenscroft's hierarchy with unparalleled accuracy. The omega who bound us together through something beyond mere biological compatibility.

She lifts her face to mine, blood-streaked and battle-worn yet somehow more beautiful than any memory preserved through years of systematic deprivation. Silver-green eyes lock with mine with devastating intensity, connection reestablished with such force it momentarily disrupts capacity for verbalization or conventional response.

Her lips curve into a genuine smile despite split skin and evident fatigue, emotion breaking through tactical facade with rare transparency.

"Hey, Riot," she whispers, voice carrying both recognition and something deeper that defies conventional categorization or institutional designation. "You still remember me?"

The question—so simple yet carrying implications that transcend its syllables—breaks whatever remaining restraint I've maintained against the impossible possibility of her return.

The growl that builds in my chest carries none of the controlled aggression employed during combat demonstrations, none of the calculated intimidation utilized for tactical advantage within institutional hierarchy.

This sound emerges from somewhere primal and untamed—alpha recognition of the omega who chose him specifically, who saw beyond institutional designation to the man beneath, who returned to institutional hell specifically for the connection formed through shared purpose rather than forced proximity.

My arms tighten around her with protective urgency as the feral Alphas advance along the corridor with predatory focus, their collective intention requiring no verbalization or tactical assessment. They've been denied what institutional conditioning promised—omega access after extendeddeprivation—and the resulting frenzy carries dangerous potential beyond standard combat parameters.

But it doesn’t matter.

Not now.

Not when her scent is clawing through my synapses, wrecking every boundary I’ve forced myself to obey. Not when her breath is on my neck and her voice—that voice—is still echoing through the deepest, rusted-out chambers of my goddamn soul.

The air bends. Warps. Stillness punches into the space like a commandment from some forgotten god of blood and bonds.

And I snap.

The growl that erupts from my chest isn’t calculated or performative. It doesn’t serve a strategy or an audience. It detonates from something old and buried—something that remembers the first time she looked at me and didn’t flinch. The first time she offered her name like it was a blade, and let me hold it to my throat.

“Jinx,” I rasp, voice shredded raw from the inside. “Here. Alive. Real.”

I don’t wait for permission.

My mouth slams into hers with feral hunger, the kiss more annihilation than affection. Teeth clash. Tongues tangle. Her gasp breaks against my lips like the first strike of war drums. And fuck, she tastes the same—like chaos wrapped in forbidden heat, like the promise of ruin and the only goddamn salvation I’ve ever known.