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"I'll need to go down only one level," she confides, eyes carrying unexpected determination. "I know without a doubt one of the Alphas who saved me is down there. Then the rest have to be upward."

The admission catches me off guard despite years of training in emotional concealment. This omega has a rescue mission paralleling my own—seeking individuals who facilitated previous escape, returning voluntarily to retrieve what institutional separation stole.

Not a coincidence. Press has deliberately gathered subjects with similar motivations but divergent methodologies—maximum dramatic potential through parallel narrative structures.

The realization confirms my developing theory regarding the true purpose of this elaborate staging— not merely evaluation but entertainment, performance rather than simple research protocol.

The resources invested suggest an audience beyond standard institutional personnel, viewers with sufficient wealth and influence to demand sophisticated production values for their entertainment.

I offer a single nod, not particularly interested in her specific objectives but intrigued by the unexpected similarity in our circumstances.

"So rational," I observe, studying her with renewed assessment. "Have you always been this way?"

The question carries multiple layers—genuine curiosity alongside tactical probe, personal interest disguising intelligence gathering.

Her response would provide valuable insight regarding both individual history and potential reliability as a temporary ally during initial navigation phases.

Before she can answer, movement draws our attention to the chamber's center where the remaining omegas have segregated into identifiable groups based on apparent strategy selection.

The largest contingent— seven in total —huddles near the door marked "EXIT," their expressions carrying desperate hope that defies logical assessment of institutional reality.

Their positioning reveals classic panic dynamics—hierarchical arrangement with most dominant personality centered and others arranged in proximity based on perceived value as allies or shields.

A tall brunette with aristocratic features clearly dominates this particular formation, her body language and vocal patterns establishing authority through sheer volume and repetition rather than legitimate expertise.

Others cluster around her not from genuine recognition of leadership capacity but from desperate need for direction in circumstances exceeding their experiential frameworks.

"Fuck this," she declares loudly, apparently self-appointed leader based on the others' deferential positioning. "I'm not playing some sick game. We're getting out of here now."

Her declaration carries forced confidence that fails to completely mask underlying terror—voice pitched slightly too high, hands gesticulating with excessive movement, eyes darting continuously despite attempts to project certainty.

Classic compensation behaviors indicating severe cognitive dissonance between projected authority and internal panic.

Three others position themselves near the "UPSTAIRS" door, their expressions carrying skeptical assessment rather than panicked desperation.

This smaller group maintains greater interpersonal distance—alliance of strategy rather than emotional comfort, cooperation based on tactical assessment rather than instinctive clustering.

"I don't trust that exit," one murmurs to her companions, voice carrying uncommon tactical awareness. "It wouldn't be that easy. They're testing us."

Her assessment demonstrates legitimate strategic thinking—recognition of institutional methodology rather than desperate hope for simple escape.

The others in her small group nod with similar understanding, communication occurring through subtle gestures and microexpressions rather than explicit verbalization.

Without further discussion, this smaller group moves toward their chosen door, disappearing through the threshold before anyone can question their decision or attempt to follow.

The chamber holds momentary stillness as twelve becomes nine—the first division of competitors reducing our numbers with unexpected efficiency.

Riot and I exchange measured glances before moving closer to the "DOWNSTAIRS" door, maintaining tactical awareness of our surroundings while positioning for our chosen path.

"I doubt anyone else is joining us," Riot observes, glancing toward the remaining omegas still debating their options with increasing desperation.

"Agreed," I acknowledge, "but that's not why I'm waiting."

She frowns slightly, curiosity evident beneath tactical composure.

"Why, then?"

"Watch," I instruct simply, anticipation building as institutional patterns align with previous experience.

Exactly when expected, the siren activates again— different pitch, different rhythm, but unmistakable warning function. The omegas freeze collectively as water begins seeping from previously invisible seams around the chamber's perimeter, spreading across marble flooring with increasing velocity.

"Oh fuck, not again," Riot complains, recognition indicating previous exposure to similar challenge parameters.

She moves with sudden urgency, pushing open the heavy door marked "DOWNSTAIRS" and gesturing frantically for me to enter.

"Come on!"

I take my time despite the rapidly rising water level, studying its distinctive properties with careful assessment. The liquid carries a subtle iridescence that standard water lacks—fine particulate suspended throughout suggesting composition beyond simple H?O.

"Hurry up and come here!" Riot calls toward the remaining omegas, genuine concern evident despite tactical disadvantage in potential alliance.

Their reaction is immediate and predictable—panic overwhelming logic as institutional conditioning achieves perfect manipulation.

"Fuck no!" the self-appointed leader shrieks, backing away from the spreading liquid. "We're getting out of here!"

Her companions follow without hesitation, all seven racing toward the door marked "EXIT" with desperate determination that betrays complete misunderstanding of institutional methodology.

"The door is becoming heavy," Riot warns, muscles straining against increasing resistance as the portal begins its automated security protocol.

I maintain perfect composure despite the rapidly deteriorating situation.

"Close it," I instruct calmly.

She stares at me with momentary disbelief.

"What if they change their mind?"

"The Parazodiac doesn't like the indecisive," I explain with clinical detachment. "It's either barrel ahead or be left behind. That's just how life is."

Riot hesitates fractionally before physics makes the decision for her—the door suddenly becoming impossibly heavy, metal rather than apparent wood, security protocols activating with merciless efficiency as it slams shut with pneumatic finality.

A transparent section remains visible—observation panel rather than window, reinforced materials designed to withstand extreme pressure while maintaining clear sightlines.

Through this barrier, we watch the unfolding scenario with unobstructed view.

The seven omegas reach the "EXIT" door with frantic urgency, their leader yanking it open with whipped force. Collective horror freezes them in a synchronized tableau as the threshold reveals nothing but a solid cement wall—institutional mockery of their desperate hope for simple escape.

Realization triggers immediate recalculation, the group fracturing under pressure as individual survival instincts override temporary alliance.

Four race toward the "UPSTAIRS" door while three—including their former leader—sprint back toward our position.

Water rises with accelerating speed, no longer merely seeping from perimeter seams but now pouring from ceiling vents with industrial force.

The chamber will fill completely within sixty seconds at current flow rate, creating immediate life-threatening conditions rather than simple obstacle.

The three omegas reach our door with desperate urgency, their leader pounding against the transparent section with increasing force as water rises past knee level, then waist, then chest in rapid progression.

"Open it!" she screams, terror replacing previous authority as survival becomes increasingly questionable. "Please! We'll drown!"

Riot reaches instinctively for the access mechanism, compassion overriding tactical assessment in a response I find simultaneously admirable and dangerous.

My hand catches her wrist before she can complete the motion, grip firm without unnecessary force.

"The water is a conductor," I explain quietly.

She frowns, confusion momentarily replacing understanding.

"What do you mean 'a conductor'?"

"The water is electricity-bound," I clarify, recognizing the distinctive iridescence from previous institutional exposure. "The doors are metal because they're sealing off the space to be a force of electric mayhem. If you open it, we'll just be executed with them."

"They're not going to electrocute them," Riot argues, desperation entering her tone as the scene beyond the barrier becomes increasingly dire. "They're gonna fill the place with water and the only way out is through the vents."

I shake my head with absolute certainty.

"There are no vents. I checked."

Riot curses with impressive creativity, leaning against the door to scan every visible surface beyond the barrier. Her assessment proves futile as water reaches the necks of the omegas still pounding desperately against our door.

Only their leader remains at our position now, the others having abandoned hope here to swim desperately toward the "UPSTAIRS" door.

Their progress falters as they discover that the threshold opens to reveal only a metal wall—another institutional mockery of hope's persistence despite overwhelming evidence of its futility.

They wasted too much time and were left behind.

The three Omegas that used that passage to escape are long gone before that sheet of metal was moved to cover the passage.

"There's no way out!" one screams, voice gargled by rising water as she turns back toward our position.

The leader pounds her fists against the barrier with renewed desperation, rage temporarily overwhelming fear as she glares directly at us.

Taking several steps backward despite water's resistance, she clearly intends some desperate attempt to breach the door through physical force—a futile gesture against institutional security measures designed to withstand far greater impacts.

"We need to open the door," Riot whispers, genuine distress evident as compassion wars with survival instinct.

I maintain perfect stillness, meeting the leader's desperate gaze through the reinforced barrier as water reaches her chin.

"Their choice was made with their delay," I state quietly. "Let them reap their rewards."

The first electric spark manifests with blinding brilliance— blue-white lightning dancing across the water's surface with beautiful, terrible precision.

The seven omegas convulse in perfect synchronization, bodies jerking with violent force as current flows through conductive medium with merciless efficiency.

Death arrives with institutional precision—neither premature nor delayed, exactly when protocol dictates despite desperate hope for alternative outcome.

Not a single scream penetrates our sealed doorway as electricity completes its assigned function.