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EIGHT

BARGAINS WITH THE DEVIL

~JINX~

The silence stretches between us like a living thing— taut, expectant, dangerous.

Charles Press sits across from me, his surgically enhanced face arranged in an expression of pleasant professionalism that does nothing to mask the predatory assessment in his eyes.

My posture remains deliberately casual, a studied performance of unconcern that belies the calculations racing through my mind.

Six years ago, I feared this man.

Now I simply recognize him for what he is— a nexus of power and cruelty wrapped in expensive suits and corporate legitimacy.

The pristine office continues its silent testimony to his carefully constructed image.

Tasteful artwork.

Polished surfaces.

Crystal glasses arranged on a silver tray.

Everything selected to convey authority and refinement, to distance himself from the blood-soaked reality of the experiments conducted beneath our feet.

"You look well, Jinx," he finally offers, breaking the stalemate with practiced cordiality. "Recovery protocols have proven effective, I see."

My lips curve into what might pass for a smile in poor lighting.

"Amazing what proper hydration can do after a week of systematic starvation."

His expression doesn't change, though something flickers in his eyes—perhaps appreciation for verbal sparring from someone he expected to be more broken. Before he can respond, a gentle knock interrupts our standoff.

The door opens to admit a young woman in a crisp uniform, her movements displaying the careful efficiency of someone trained to be simultaneously present and invisible.

She carries an ornate silver teapot with matching service, her eyes downcast as she approaches Press's desk.

"Your afternoon tea, sir," she murmurs, voice carefully modulated to convey deference without obsequiousness.

Press doesn't acknowledge her directly, his attention remaining fixed on me as she pours steaming amber liquid into a delicate porcelain cup.

The performance of normalcy in this context borders on the absurd—afternoon tea service in a facility dedicated to systematic torture disguised as scientific research.

"Would you care for refreshment?" Press asks, gesturing toward the service with practiced hospitality. "Water, perhaps?"

My eyebrow arches slightly.

"Will it be poisoned?"

A ghost of genuine amusement crosses his features—the first authentic emotion I've witnessed since entering the room.

"Your optimism is heartening," he replies, nodding to the attendant who immediately produces a sealed bottle of water from her cart. "Though I believe we've established that your value as a research subject far exceeds any satisfaction I might derive from simple elimination."

I watch with careful attention as she breaks the seal, the distinctive crack of plastic providing minimal but necessary confirmation of safety.

She pours the liquid into a crystal glass, movements precise and unhurried, before placing it on the desk within my reach.

"That will be all," Press dismisses her with a slight gesture.

She bows respectfully before retreating from the room, the door closing behind her with barely audible precision.

I make no move toward the offered water, though thirst burns in my throat—another small power play in a conversation built from them.

Press sips his tea with apparent satisfaction, the performance of civilized behavior continuing despite the monstrous reality of his enterprise.

"I believe we should proceed directly to the matter at hand," he suggests, setting his cup down with careful precision. "My time is valuable, as I'm sure yours is as well. Business demands efficiency, after all."

"Is that what this is?" I ask, leaning forward slightly. "Business? Does packaging systematic torture as research help you sleep at night, Charles?"

His name falls between us like a deliberate provocation—stripping away the formal "Director Press" that institutional protocol demands, reducing him to merely human rather than an administrative deity.

The subtle tightening around his eyes confirms the impact of this small rebellion, though his voice remains perfectly controlled.

"Do you feel even a single shred of regret?" I continue, pressing the advantage of his momentary discomfort. "For what happens in this place? For the lives destroyed in service to your so-called science?"

"Interesting question from someone who voluntarily returned," he counters smoothly. "If Ravenscroft is truly the hellscape you describe—a place without mercy or ethical constraint—what does that make you? A masochist? An addict seeking another dose of familiar suffering?"

A laugh escapes me—bitter, cold, entirely authentic.

"Perhaps I am," I concede, finally reaching for the water glass.

The liquid feels heavenly against my parched throat as I take a long, deliberate drink before settling back into the chair.

I cross one leg over the other, arms folding across my chest in a deliberate display of casual confidence.

"Which is why I'm here to request another round with the Parazodiac. "

Something flickers across his expression—surprise, perhaps, or a recalculation of whatever script he'd prepared for this interaction. He hadn't expected me to state my purpose so baldly, without the usual dance of negotiation and implied threats.

"You're so confident you can beat it?" he asks after a moment, head tilting slightly in assessment. "Your memory appears selectively deficient regarding your first attempt six years ago."

"I remember perfectly," I counter, voice steady despite the parade of images his words evoke—the failed escape, the bitter betrayal, the years stolen and spent in someone else's life. "I also remember being the only omega who acquired passage to enter in the first place."

He inclines his head slightly, acknowledgment without concession.

"Correct. A singular achievement in the program's history." His fingers tap a deliberate rhythm against the polished desk surface. "But the Parazodiac has evolved since then. Changed in ways you cannot possibly anticipate."

"Enlighten me," I suggest, the challenge implicit in my tone.

Press leans forward, eyes narrowing slightly.

"It's no longer merely an evaluation system I control.

It has become something far greater—a revolution in designation dynamics, a return to primal selection processes that modern society has systematically suppressed.

" His voice carries genuine passion now, the corporate mask slipping to reveal the zealot beneath.

"The wealthiest and most powerful alphas in the world now seek access to what we've created—a true testing ground for genetic compatibility, unrestricted by social convention or legal constraint. "

"Sounds profitable," I observe dryly.

"Beyond your imagination." Pride colors his tone now—the satisfaction of a creator whose vision has exceeded initial parameters.

"I won't allow one cynical omega, however uniquely gifted, to disrupt what we've built.

The stakes extend far beyond your personal vendetta or whatever misguided rescue fantasy brought you back to our doors. "

I maintain perfect stillness, neither confirming nor denying his assessment of my motives.

"I have no intention of changing your precious system," I tell him with calculated indifference. "I simply want to retrieve what is rightfully mine and be on my way."

"Like your sister?" he counters immediately, satisfaction evident as he plays what he believes is a winning card.

"She didn't leave without significant collateral damage.

Two of my finest omegas escaping and a third playing researcher when she was clearly meant for something greater.

.. it demonstrates remarkable inefficiency in asset management. "

The mention of a "third" catches my attention, though I carefully maintain neutral expression.

Likely referring to the omega designated "Riot" who's been assigned to my monitoring. The coincidence of naming remains intriguing—further evidence of connections beyond what institutional records acknowledge.

"I deserve a second chance," I state simply, deliberately echoing language of institutional rehabilitation protocols. "And you know exactly why."

The declaration hangs between us, laden with implications neither of us will directly verbalize.

We both understand the unique nature of my existence within the Parazodiac framework— the anomaly that defies categorization, the subject who navigated levels designed to be insurmountable.

Press studies me with clinical intensity, weighing options against potential outcomes with the calculating precision that makes him so dangerous.

Then, with deliberate finality, he drains his teacup despite the steam still rising from its surface.

Taking my cue, I finish my water, the empty glass representing the conclusion of this particular phase of negotiation.

The next words will determine trajectory— either toward opportunity or renewed imprisonment.

Press sets his cup down with a decisive click, then leans back in his chair with the satisfied expression of someone who believes they maintain advantage regardless of apparent concessions.

"Will you at least make this entertaining?" he asks, tone suggesting boredom with standard subject responses.

"Only if I'm given a genuine opportunity to survive what lies ahead," I counter immediately. "Not some rigged game designed to showcase predetermined outcomes."

Our eyes lock in a silent assessment—predator recognizing predator despite disparate positions in the institutional food chain. Then his face breaks into a smile that never reaches his eyes, hands coming together in a single, decisive clap.

"Fine," he declares with theatrical magnanimity. "I'll arrange everything necessary for your second attempt at the Parazodiac. I'll even ensure the research teams maintain appropriate distance—no direct interference with the testing protocols."