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She was magnificent.

And she choseus.

The memory slips through carefully maintained barriers, unwelcome yet irresistible. I should block it out—these recollections only make survival harder,onlymagnify the emptiness that follows. But my defenses are weak after prolonged combat, and the images flow unhindered:

Jinx, meticulously working her way through Ravenscroft's hierarchical levels, identifying which alphas matched her strategic vision. Targeting specific traits with the precision of a master chess player, positioning pieces for an endgame only she could foresee.

Level Minus Three, brought her Sable—the Silent Judge, whose silver tongue sentenced better men to madness long before Ravenscroft claimed him. A master manipulator whose words could reshape reality itself, bending perception until truth and falsehood became meaningless distinctions.

Level Minus Two, yielded Corvus—the Blood Prophet, whose capacity to read intention in every microexpression made him appear omniscient.Eyes that saw too much and a heart that felt nothing at all, his emotions burned away through systematic exposure to the darkest reaches of human depravity.

Level Minus One gave her Ash—the Scarred Saint, whose brutal efficiency masked surprising gentleness.Burns covered most of his body, evidence of the sacrificial nature that made him both a deadly enforcer and protective guardian.

Then Level Minus Zero, where she found me—the Reaper of Rot they called me, for the bodies I left in my wake during government operations. The violence specialist, the monster they created to execute tasks too brutal for human conscience to bear.

Together, we became her chosen pack, her collection of broken alphas bound by loyalty to the small omega who saw value in our destruction. She knitted us into something resembling family, creating connections where isolation had been deliberately engineered.

We progressed through the labyrinthine hierarchy of Ravenscroft with calculated precision, acquiring intelligence and resources while maintaining the illusion of compliance.

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

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

Instead of escape, we found betrayal. In that final arena, with freedom almost tangible, they took her. Guards and scientists swarmed from hidden entries, separating her 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 stole our omega, our compass, our reason for endurance.

When they returned her to us 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," the white coats whispered when they thought we couldn't hear. "Incredible opportunity to study divergent development in genetic identicals."

Twins.

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. This new omega had no understanding of the complex game being played, no comprehension of the escape route we'd spent years meticulously constructing.

Without Jinx's strategic guidance, the carefully laid plans collapsed.

Subdivision Zero—officially designated as K.Y.F.M. Operative Unit—found itself trapped in a loop with no exit parameter.

The twin remained terrified of us despite biological compatibility, unable to trust the alphas her sister had selected with such care.

Eventually, they separated us completely.

Returned us to Level Minus Zero, to the fighting pits where we could continue providing research data through controlled combat and biological response monitoring.

Left us to rot while the twin was subjected to her own specialized testing protocols, becoming Patient 495 while our Jinx vanished into whatever twisted experiment Charles Press had designed for his favorite specimen.

Six years have passed since that betrayal.

Six years of fighting for survival while wondering if our omega still lives, still remembers, still plans our reunion with that brilliant mind that saw patterns where others perceived only chaos.

I wonder where she is now... if she's found freedom in the world beyond these walls.

If she ever thinks of the pack she assembled with such meticulous care.

If she's…happy.