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Behind me, I hear the sound of his knees hitting earth—delayed reaction finally overwhelming whatever shock kept him upright through the demonstration.

The memory begins dissolving at its edges as consciousness tugs me back toward present circumstance, institutional nightmare reasserting dominance over preserved recollection.

But the emotions linger—rage at parental betrayal, grief for the sister left behind, determination to end cycles of sacrifice and profit that turned children into commodities for institutional consumption.

The swaying motion returns with increasing intensity, pendulum arc carrying me between extremes of a reality I can't quite grasp through chemical fog and enforced restraint.

Below, the sounds of violence continue—grunts and roars and impacts that speak to ongoing combat designed for entertainment rather than resolution.

But my father's words echo with persistent clarity despite fading memory:

Only time will tell.

How long will it be until he truly carries that heaviness of regret?

Until financial incentive evaporates and leaves him facing the full weight of what his choices cost in human suffering?

Until the comfortable delusions constructed around his decisions crumble beneath unforgiving reality?

The checks will stop flowing eventually—either through my successful escape with retrieved pack or through Nyx's death in whatever institutional nightmare currently contains her.

The system they've both become dependent upon will collapse, leaving nothing but consequences and recrimination where once stood profitable collaboration with institutional horror.

He'll live to see that day. I'll make certain of it.

And when he does—when the last payment arrives and silence no longer carries monetary value—perhaps then he'll understand exactly what price he paid to purchase my temporary freedom with my sister's continued captivity.

The darkness deepens as memory releases its hold, pulling me back toward suspended reality where violence unfolds beneath my enforced observation.

The restraints at my wrists and ankles feel more substantial now, mechanical rather than chemical control asserting dominance over biology enhanced beyond normal parameters.

But understanding has crystallized through the haze of chemical submission and institutional manipulation.

This isn't random torture or purposeless cruelty—it's calculated staging designed to break resistance through systematic application of helplessness and forced witnessing of violence I cannot prevent.

They think suspension above combat will achieve what direct torture failed to accomplish. That watching others suffer while remaining powerless to intervene will finally shatter whatever defiance institutional conditioning couldn't eliminate through six years of dedicated effort.

They're about to discover how wrong such assumptions prove when faced with someone whose understanding of violence transcends their careful categorization. Someone who learned to weaponize helplessness itself through systematic application of patience and calculated endurance.

The pendulum continues its measured arc, marking time until opportunity presents itself for the practical application of lessons learned in shooting ranges and combat arenas alike.

Above the chaos below, I wait with predatory patience that institution conditioning refined but never fully controlled.

Only time will tell who emerges victorious from whatever game Press has orchestrated with such theatrical precision.

But I know which outcome I intend to ensure through systematic application of everything they taught me about survival, violence, and the careful deployment of enhanced capabilities when circumstances finally align for practical implementation.

The hunt continues.

And this time, I'm both predator and prey—exactly as they made me.

NINETEEN

BLOOD AND BONE

~RIOT~

The first feral Alpha comes at me like a hurricane of teeth and claws, foam spraying from his mouth as whatever cocktail of chemicals they've pumped into his system reaches peak efficiency.