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SIX

ECHOES OF REGRET

~JINX~

Pristine white walls stare back at me with sterile indifference.

The jumpsuit they've provided clings uncomfortably to skin that's finally regained healthy color after days of systematic starvation and dehydration. My fingers trace invisible patterns on the armrest of the plush chair—a far cry from the padded cell they kept me in for a week.

Progress, I suppose.

From torture victim to office guest.

How civilized of them.

The executive suite stands in stark contrast to the institutional horror show of Ravenscroft's lower levels.

Gleaming hardwood floors reflect soft lighting from tasteful fixtures.

Abstract paintings hang at carefully measured intervals, splashes of controlled chaos contained within gilded frames—much like the illusion of choice they've presented me.

The irony doesn't escape me.

They've cleaned me up, dressed me properly, placed me in surroundings meant to convey respect and professionalism. As if this changes the fundamental truth of my situation—I remain their prisoner, just one with an upgraded cell.

My gaze drifts to the massive mahogany desk dominating the room's center. The polished surface holds carefully arranged items—a crystal paperweight catching light, an antique fountain pen resting in its cradle, a single manila folder placed with deliberate precision.

My file.

Six years of captivity, experimentation, and their carefully documented failures condensed into clinical notes and sterile observations. Six years of my sister living my life while I remained trapped in institutional hell.

Six years that end today, one way or another.

"—vital signs showing increased stability. Core temperature returning to baseline parameters. Hydration levels approaching acceptable range."

Maverick's voice crackles through the subdermal implant with unusual tension.

His typically detached professionalism carries an undercurrent of genuine concern that catches me off guard.

Something about his tone sparks an unfamiliar warmth in my chest—the strange comfort of knowing someone actually worries about my survival.

"I'm fine," I whisper, knowing the sensitive microphone will catch even my softest utterance. "Stop fussing. You're sounding dangerously close to having actual feelings."

His silence stretches long enough that I wonder if the connection has failed. When his voice returns, it carries none of its usual sardonic edge.

"You're all I've ever known, Jinx."

The simple admission hits with unexpected force. Five words that somehow encapsulate six years of clandestine communication, of plans made and abandoned, of a partnership forged through necessity that somehow transformed into something neither of us anticipated.

The statement triggers a cascade of memories I've kept carefully compartmentalized—particularly one I've avoided revisiting since my return to Ravenscroft.

Ash.

The last piece of the puzzle I assembled so carefully, the final alpha I selected before everything fell apart. The memory rises with such vivid clarity that for a moment, the executive office fades around me...

Six years ago...

Wind howls through the mountain pass, its fury matching the chaos unfolding around us.

Gunfire peppers the rocky terrain as guards rapidly close in on our position.

The extraction plan has failed spectacularly—betrayed from within by someone who recognized the value of turning four enhanced alphas and their omega into corporate assets.

"Move!" Riot's voice carries above the cacophony, his massive frame providing cover as I scramble up the treacherous incline. "The bridge is our only chance!"

My lungs burn with each breath, the thin mountain air insufficient for the demands of desperate flight. Sable and Corvus maintain precise formation around me, their bodies creating a protective barrier against bullets finding their mark.

But it's not enough. It will never be enough.

The bridge looms ahead—a narrow rope and wood construction spanning a ravine of dizzying depth. Raging waters churn hundreds of feet below, their roar carrying promises of certain death for any unfortunate enough to fall.

"We're trapped," Sable's clinical assessment carries no emotion, just tactical recognition of our rapidly diminishing options. "The structural integrity of that crossing cannot support our combined weight in current weather conditions."

"Then we split up," I decide instantly, mind racing through recalculated probabilities. "Two groups. Different directions. Divide their forces."

Riot's growl carries pure alpha rage at the suggestion. "Not happening. We stay together."

"Survival probability increases by approximately sixty-seven percent with divided extraction vectors," Corvus counters, his eyes tracking guard movements with inhuman precision. "The omega's reasoning is tactically sound."

Before argument can continue, bullets splinter wood mere inches from my position. Riot's body moves with impossible speed, sheltering me from debris as Sable returns fire with deadly accuracy.

"No time," I gasp, pushing away from Riot's protective embrace. "Bridge. Now. I'll follow with?—"

The next moments blur into fractured imagery and sensations.

Riot and Corvus reluctantly moving toward the bridge's entrance. Sable providing covering fire with mechanical precision. The sudden appearance of a massive figure on the opposite ridge. The glint of sunlight reflecting off a sniper's scope. The realization hitting a heartbeat too late.

"SNIPER!"

My warning comes simultaneously with the shot—a sound that seems to shatter reality itself. But the bullet isn't meant for any of us.

It strikes the bridge's main support cable with devastating accuracy.

The world tilts into nauseating slow motion as the structure begins its collapse.

Riot and Corvus, already halfway across, scramble desperately for stable footing as wooden slats disintegrate beneath them.

Their enhanced reflexes allow impossible jumps from one failing section to another, somehow carrying them to safety on the opposite ridge.

But Sable and I remain on the wrong side, with guards closing in and no escape route remaining.

His silver eyes meet mine with judicial assessment. "Thirty seconds until they breach our position. No viable extraction avenue. Limited ammunition. Capture imminent."

The truth of our situation crystallizes with brutal clarity—we're about to be taken. Everything we've fought for, every carefully laid plan, every hard-won inch of progress toward freedom... all of it reduced to nothing in a single catastrophic moment.

"No." The word emerges as declaration rather than denial. "I won't go back. I won't let them take us again."

Sable's gaze softens fractionally, something like compassion crossing his features. "There are worse things than captivity."

"Yes," I agree, taking a step backward toward the ravine's edge. "Living as their puppet again is worse."

Understanding dawns in his expression as my intention becomes clear.

"Jinx—"

"Tell them I'm sorry," I whisper, not entirely sure if I mean my alphas or the sister whose life I've stolen. "Tell them I tried."

Then I step backward into empty air.

The sensation of falling carries strange serenity—a perfect moment of choice in a life defined by others' control. Wind rushes past my ears as gravity claims its due, the world spinning in kaleidoscopic confusion as I plummet toward the raging waters below.

Freedom, at last.

The impact never comes.

Instead, strong arms wrap around my body mid-fall, a presence I didn't anticipate joining my suicidal plunge. The scent hits me a heartbeat later—smoke and ash and something uniquely alpha beneath it all.

Impossible.

We hit the water together with devastating force, the impact driving air from my lungs in a silent scream. Cold beyond imagining engulfs us instantly, the mountain-fed waters so frigid they burn like fire against skin.

The current catches us immediately, tumbling our entangled bodies like insignificant debris in its uncaring grip.

Panic claws through my chest as water fills my nose and mouth. I've never learned to swim—another skill Ravenscroft deemed unnecessary for their experimental subject. My arms flail uselessly as the current drags me deeper, lungs screaming for oxygen that won't come.

The world begins to darken at the edges, consciousness slipping away in spotty increments.

The arms around me tighten with desperate strength, fighting against the water's implacable pull.

Through blurring vision, I catch glimpses of my unexpected rescuer—a face marked by extensive scarring, eyes burning with determination despite our shared drowning.

Level Minus One. The Scarred Saint. ASH.

Recognition comes too late as darkness claims me completely.

Death tastes like river water and regret.

Until suddenly, it doesn't.

Pressure against my chest. Lips against mine, breathing life where there was none. Pain explodes through my system as water forcibly exits my lungs, my body convulsing with desperate need for oxygen.

I return to consciousness with violence—coughing, gasping, clawing at the rocky shore where I've somehow been dragged. Each breath burns through damaged throat, but the agony carries sweet confirmation of continued existence.

I'm alive.

Blinking water from my eyes, I find myself staring at a figure kneeling beside me. The alpha from Level Minus One—the one they call the Scarred Saint—watches me with an intensity that transcends normal concern.

His body bears the evidence of why they gave him that designation.

Burns cover most of his visible skin, creating patterns of scar tissue that map suffering beyond imagining. Yet despite these markers of past agony, his movements show no hesitation or limited mobility.

If anything, he moves with more fluid grace than alphas whose bodies remain unmarked.