Page 104

THIRTY-EIGHT

THE FINAL MIRROR

~JINX~

The door slides shut behind me with pneumatic finality, sealing me into what appears to be the simplest level I've encountered throughout this entire nightmare.

Just a long corridor stretching ahead like an arrow pointed toward destiny, walls lined with mirrors that reflect my solitary figure from every conceivable angle. No elaborate traps, no environmental hazards, no complex puzzles requiring tactical genius or combat prowess.

Just me and my reflections, walking toward whatever Press has prepared as his grand finale.

"What does this level center on?" I wonder aloud, voice echoing through the sterile space with hollow resonance that makes the question sound more profound than intended.

Silence answers.

Complete, absolute silence.

I turn to look over my shoulder, expecting to see four familiar figures following with their characteristic mix of protectiveness and territorial confidence.

Empty corridor greets my searching gaze.

"What the hell?" I mutter, spinning in place to confirm what my eyes refuse to believe.

The entrance stands vacant, no sign of the Alphas who should be right behind me. No Riot with his predatory intensity, no Sable with his judicial composure, no Ash with his scarred determination, no Corvus with his analytical precision.

Just emptiness where pack unity should exist.

A frown creases my features as understanding crystallizes with sickening clarity. Press knew I'd walk in first. Stubborn, independent, always taking point despite pack hierarchy and protective instincts that demand Alpha leadership during dangerous situations.

He counted on my nature to separate us at the crucial moment.

The speaker crackles to life with electronic precision that cuts through atmospheric tension like blade through silk.

"Four out of the five Alphas have exited the Parazodiac," the mechanical voice announces with bureaucratic indifference that transforms devastating news into administrative notification.

"Sixty minutes remain before challenge failure.

Without five Alphas, the Omega designation will be unable to leave the Parazodiac and will face elimination.

No individual may experience the Parazodiac trials twice. "

The words hit like physical blows, each syllable driving home the impossible mathematics of survival and institutional cruelty disguised as regulation.

Four Alphas plus one Omega equals four.

The calculation proves devastatingly simple and utterly insurmountable through any conventional approach or tactical maneuvering.

A timer materializes in the corner of my vision with digital precision, red numbers counting down with mechanical indifference to personal investment or emotional stakes.

59:47... 59:46... 59:45...

But the countdown itself bothers me less than the fundamental problem it represents. How can I tackle this final challenge when the rules themselves seem designed to ensure failure through mathematical impossibility?

The corridor ahead doesn't look particularly long or challenging. No elaborate obstacle course or death trap requiring superhuman capability. Just a straight path toward what appears to be an exit door, maybe a hundred meters of walking through mirrored passage.

Simplici often masks the most dangerous complications.

Banging echoes from the entrance behind me, muffled impacts that speak to desperate attempts at forced entry and reunion. The sound carries familiar intensity that suggests my Alphas discovering their separation and attempting immediate rectification through brute force.

They're on the other side, probably tearing apart whatever barriers Press erected to prevent pack unity during the final test. The thought provides comfort alongside frustration at circumstances beyond tactical solution or strategic planning.

I can only wonder what Press told them to justify this forced separation. What administrative lie or institutional deception convinced them to exit while their Omega remained trapped within the test chamber?

Understanding flows regarding the fundamental nature of this trial. Every level served specific purpose within broader assessment framework. Riot's proved combat capability, Sable's demonstrated judicial reasoning, Ash's showed protective instinct, Corvus's revealed psychological insight.

This level exists for me alone.

Whatever Press wants to measure or extract requires isolation from pack influence and territorial support. The challenge demands individual capability rather than collective strength.

I'm probably the only person who's ventured this far into institutional hierarchy. The first to reach the final level with comprehensive pack formation and territorial claiming, the initial test subject to achieve what Press designed these trials to prevent.

Maverick's voice crackles through the transmitter with electronic distortion that carries more interference than usual, clarity compromised by distance or technological strain.

"Jinx, can you hear me?" The words emerge with fatigue that speaks to exhaustion rather than simple communication difficulty.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask with immediate concern, recognizing vocal patterns that suggest physical or mental stress beyond normal operational parameters.

His chuckle carries bitter humor beneath obvious weariness. "I deal with these moments occasionally. Once you're safe, I'll take a long rest and recover properly."

The admission sends worry through my chest that transcends simple concern for tactical assistance or external guidance. This Alpha—whatever his identity or motivation—has invested more in my survival than professional obligation might warrant.

"I probably won't get out anyway," I confess with resignation that acknowledges mathematical reality despite continued determination. "Not with these new rules and impossible requirements."

"I heard," he responds with grim acknowledgment, "but I prepared for such eventualities. There's an Alpha waiting outside with your pack."

The words create confusion rather than relief. "What do you mean?"

"He may not be what you'd prefer for pack expansion," Maverick continues with clinical precision that acknowledges practical limitation alongside tactical necessity, "but survival requires compromise. This arrangement serves the greater objective."

I reach the exit door with measured steps that carry growing reluctance despite approaching success. The revelation creates pause rather than celebration, understanding that technical victory might prove pyrrhic if it demands sacrifice of pack integrity or authentic connection.

"But he doesn't know me," I whisper with vulnerability that encompasses fundamental truth about pack formation and emotional investment. "Our struggles. He doesn't accept my insanity or grasp the odd way we all think and perceive one another. We wouldn't match."

The silence stretches through electronic communication before his response emerges with honest acknowledgment of tactical limitations and personal cost.

"I agree completely," he admits with bitter humor. "Hell, I'd probably suit better for your pack dynamics and psychological compatibility. But if it means you're finally free with the men you love, it's a sacrifice we must accept."

The words carry weight that transcends simple tactical assessment to encompass emotional investment and personal sacrifice. This disembodied voice has become more than technological assistance—a genuine connection despite physical separation and communication barriers.

I turn away from the exit with deliberate precision, footsteps carrying me back toward the center of the mirrored corridor with growing determination despite temporal pressure and mathematical impossibility.

The reflections multiply as I approach the chamber's heart, dozens of silver-green eyes staring back with expressions that reveal truth I've been avoiding. Unhappiness burns in every reflected gaze, cynicism replaced by something approaching despair despite successful navigation and pack reunion.

I don't look like the confident Omega who boldly returned to this institutional hell for strategic objectives and territorial claiming. The woman in the mirrors appears hollow, incomplete despite comprehensive victory and tactical success.

Something fundamental remains missing. The final piece to whatever puzzle my existence represents within broader framework of identity and purpose.

I settle into cross-legged position at the corridor's center, surrounded by infinite reflections that show every angle of my current state and psychological condition. The hard floor provides uncomfortable foundation that seems appropriate for the moment of truth and comprehensive assessment.

"What are you doing?" Maverick asks with concern that penetrates electronic distortion and communication limitations.

Before I can formulate response, his voice dissolves into coughing fit that speaks to physical distress rather than simple fatigue or communication difficulty. The sound echoes through electronic connection with concerning intensity that suggests medical crisis rather than minor discomfort.

I catch the cough's echo in the chamber acoustics, sound bouncing off mirrored surfaces with strange resonance that suggests architectural features beyond simple reflection and visual amplification.

Looking around my seated position, I inspect the flooring with growing curiosity and tactical assessment. The decorated tiles beneath me don't match the standard institutional architecture I've encountered throughout previous levels.

Panels appear deliberately offset, creating patterns that speak to hidden mechanisms or concealed infrastructure rather than random design choices or aesthetic consideration.

Understanding begins crystallizing regarding the true nature of this final challenge and its connection to comprehensive revelation or institutional purpose.