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~JINX~

Magenta twists in my hair like veins of rebellion, curling into teal tips with colors reversed from my sister's signature ombre. The mirror image. The reflection meant to stay beneath shadows while she basked in light.

The forest whines beneath my boots as I trek through remnants of our escape.

Colored gas lingers in fading wisps, painting the night air with memories of chaos and gunfire.

My fingers trace the empty holster at my thigh where my rifle once rested — now purposefully abandoned with the tactical gear I'll no longer need.

"You realize this is technically suicide, right?" The voice crackles through my earpiece, dripping with that familiar combination of concern and exasperation I've grown addicted to over the years.

I smirk at empty air, knowing he watches through satellite feed despite my instructions to disconnect.

"Maverick," I acknowledge, voice carrying none of the hesitation gnawing beneath my determination. "Thought I told you to cut comms an hour ago."

"And I thought you weren't actually stupid enough to go through with this plan." His sigh carries through static, heavy with emotion he pretends doesn't exist. "But here we are – me watching you march toward certain death, you grinning like you've never been happier."

He's not wrong.

The truth burns in my chest with surprising clarity. I haven't felt this alive in six years – not since they ripped me from these woods and thrust me into a life never meant for me. A world of responsibilities, expectations, and constant reminders that I wasn't her .

Wasn't Nyx.

"It's not death," I correct, stepping over fallen branches with practiced silence. "It's homecoming."

My mind splits like it always does when emotions threaten to overwhelm my careful control.

Half of me remains present, tracking the growing proximity of barbed wire and concrete walls.

The other half floats somewhere beyond rational thought, whispering fragments of memories that never belonged to me.

Family dinners in houses I never lived in. Training sessions with operatives who could never quite hide their disappointment. Mother's calculated gaze always finding me lacking – a poor substitute for the daughter stolen from her grasp.

"You're doing that thing again," Maverick interrupts, dragging me back to solid ground. "That thing where you drift off like your brain's splitting into different dimensions."

"Better than being boring like you," I retort, but the familiar banter centers me. Grounds me in ways medication never could.

His laugh carries genuine warmth despite the dire circumstances.

"Says the woman voluntarily returning to a torture facility. Real exciting life choices you're making, boss."

The asylum looms ahead, its silhouette an architectural nightmare against the night sky. Floodlights cut through darkness, illuminating the precise path I intend to take. No stealth this time. No tactical approach or clever extraction plan.

Just surrender with the burden of knowledge heavy in my chest – that beyond those walls waits Subdivision Zero.

My real pack. Mine by design, by cosmic alignment, by everything the universe got wrong six years ago.

The thought sends electricity racing beneath my skin, anticipation mixing with something dangerously close to joy.

"They're in there," I whisper, more to myself than Maverick. "All four of them. So close I can almost taste their scent."

"You don't know that. Reports indicate?—"

"I know ," I cut him off, certainty burning like venom in my veins. "Can feel them even now. Like phantom limbs finally reconnecting."

The connection pulses somewhere beneath rational thought – four distinct threads of sensation humming with proximity after years of aching absence. Hints of personalities that once wrapped around my soul like protective armor return in fragments as the distance closes:

Riot's volcanic rage simmering beneath control. Sable's coldly calculating judgment. Corvus's detached omniscience. Ash's burning determination.

Pieces of a puzzle forced apart now calling me home.

"You remember the protocol?" Maverick asks, voice dropping to business-like precision. "Two weeks maximum. If I don't hear from you through the implant, I trigger extraction whether you want it or not."

"Just make sure the tech works when I need it," I respond, pushing away the spark of warmth his concern ignites. "And remember – no one else knows. Not Mother. Not the council. Not anyone at Parazodiac."

They don’t need to know the real plan. The true motives of my return.

"Not even your sister's new pack?"

My steps falter momentarily, composure cracking at the mention of those four alphas who looked at me with such desperate hope when I appeared from swirling gas.

Atlas with his covered eyes seeing more than anyone should.

Kieran's recognition of something familiar in my features.

Dante's tactical assessment burning beneath his surface charm.

Vale – already haunted by impending death – fighting for each breath.

The confrontation with them was enough. They wouldn’t understand now, which is the point of this endeavor and interference, but time will force them to learn the truth.

It’ll be too late by then, but for now, I simply need the world to play along.

"Especially not them," I say firmly, pushing away sentiment with practiced ease. "They've suffered enough for our family's sins."

The perimeter fence stands fifty yards ahead, cameras tracking my approach with mechanical precision.

Guards will already be mobilizing, weapons drawn and orders shouted through communication systems. The signature pink contract I signed in my sister's place sits folded in my pocket – insurance against immediate execution.

"You don't have to do this," Maverick tries one last time, desperation creeping into his usually controlled voice. "There are other ways?—"

"No," I cut him off, certainty like steel in my tone. "There's only ever been one path for me. I just took a six-year detour through someone else's life first."

The earpiece goes silent, his resignation palpable even through miles of digital connection.

My smirk returns as I lift my hands in surrender, stepping deliberately into the harsh spotlight that paints me in clinical illumination.

Watch me carefully, Charles Press. I'm not the omega you were expecting.

Guards pour from security stations with military precision, weapons trained on center mass as they surround me in perfect formation. Their shouts blur into meaningless noise as my focus narrows to the asylum entrance where a figure in expensive Italian leather emerges.

His cold smile stretches across surgically enhanced features, recognition dawning as he takes in my reversed coloring and confident stance.

"Welcome home, Patient 496," he calls, voice carrying that same cultured cruelty I remember from childhood nightmares. "Or should I say... Jinx Blackwood?"

My answering smile holds all the secrets I've carried for six long years, all the vengeance I've planned while wearing another woman's life like ill-fitting clothing.

"I believe you have something that belongs to me," I respond, allowing guards to secure my wrists with familiar restraints. "And I've come to collect."

The metal doors close behind us with finality that should terrify any sane person. Instead, something wild and broken inside me finally settles into place, recognizing these halls, these scents, these shadows as home.

I've returned to where I truly belong. To the alphas who were promised to me before fate made its terrible mistake.

My destiny waits in the depths of Ravenscroft Asylum. And this time, I won't let anyone tear us apart.