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Yet something in his eyes speaks to a part of me that understands survival, that recognizes the difference between those who hurt because they enjoy it and those who hurt because they must.

I nod once, the movement barely perceptible, but his enhanced alpha senses catch it immediately.

He steps into the cage, his massive frame making the space seem even smaller. I press myself harder against the bars, instinctively flinching as he crouches before me, bringing himself to my eye level.

"They expect me to scent-mark you," he explains softly, hands resting on his knees rather than reaching for me. "To establish preliminary bonding. The alpha in me...wants that too."

The admission carries surprising honesty, acknowledging the biological imperatives without surrendering to them.

"But you're young," he continues, voice dropping even lower. "No matter what they've done to trigger your heat prematurely…or what my instincts are screaming right now."

My eyes widen as understanding dawns.

He's not just resisting his alpha nature – he's actively defying it, fighting biological imperatives that must be screaming at him to claim, mark, possess.

"They'll hurt you if you don't," I whisper, the reality of Ravenscroft's punishment protocols all too familiar.

Something dark and dangerous flashes across his features.

"They've been hurting me for years," he says simply. "One more round of discipline won't break me."

But it will break me to watch, I realize.

Another weight of guilt to carry – another person suffering because of my existence.

"Just... do what you need to," I offer, arms wrapping tighter around my knees. "I understand."

His expression softens, and something like respect enters his gaze.

"Brave little bird," he murmurs, slowly reaching forward.

I can't help flinching when his hand enters my personal space, memories of clinical examinations and invasive tests making my body tense with anticipated pain.

Instead, his fingers are impossibly gentle as they brush against my cheek, the callused skin warm against my overheated flesh.

His touch carries none of the clinical detachment I've grown accustomed to, nor the violent possession I expected from an alpha who fought through nineteen others to reach me.

It feels... safe.

Reverent, almost, like I'm something precious rather than something to be used.

"Be calm, Omega," he whispers, his scent enveloping me like a protective cloak as he leans closer. "No one will hurt you. Not even me."

The promise resonates through bones that have known nothing but clinical cruelty and scientific detachment. Tears I didn't realize I was holding back spill down my cheeks, and his thumb gently brushes them away, the gesture so unexpected that a small sound escapes my throat.

He freezes immediately, misinterpreting the noise as fear.

"I'll stop?—"

"No," I interrupt, surprising both of us with my vehemence. "It's...it's okay."

The words feel inadequate to describe the warmth spreading through my chest, so different from the burning heat of artificially triggered biology. This feels... right. As if some part of me recognizes him on a level beyond conscious thought.

His other hand slowly rises to cup my face, thumbs brushing gently across my cheekbones. The scent-marking is subtle – nothing like the aggressive claiming I overheard doctors discussing while they thought I was sedated.

"You're strong," he murmurs, his forehead coming to rest lightly against mine. "Remember that when they try to break you. You're stronger than they know."

The words slip past institutional walls built around my heart, planting seeds of resistance I didn't know I needed. For the first time since being brought to Ravenscroft, I feel something beyond fear and resignation.

I feel seen .

"Time's up!" Press's voice shatters the moment, clinical interest evident even through the arena's sound system. "Preliminary compatibility indicators are promising. Separate them for individual assessment and blood work."

Riot's hands fall away from my face, but his eyes hold mine for one more precious moment.

"Remember," he whispers, the word carrying weight far beyond its syllables.

Then guards flood the arena, tranquilizer guns trained on him as they approach with practiced caution. He rises slowly, hands raised in surrender, his gaze never leaving mine until they force him to his knees with electric prods designed to subdue even the strongest alpha.

He doesn't fight them – not physically.

But something in his eyes as they drag him away promises retribution, protection, and a connection that transcends the cage they forced us to meet in.

I press my fingers to my cheeks where his touch lingers, the first gentle contact I've experienced since being brought to this place of scientific cruelty and calculated torture.

For the first time, I understand what affection feels like.

Ice water crashes over me with shocking force, ripping me from memory's embrace and hurling me back into present reality.

The straitjacket clings to my skin as freezing liquid soaks through padded material, my gasping breath creating clouds in suddenly chilled air.

"Patient 496 demonstrating dissociative episodes again," a clinical voice observes from the observation window. "Standard aversion therapy proving minimally effective."

I blink water from my eyes to find three white-coated figures watching me through reinforced glass – the executioners of Charles Press's twisted vision, carrying out his procedures while he maintains plausible deniability behind expensive suits and charitable foundations.

"Responsive now," another notes, making a mark on their ever-present clipboard. "Subject has maintained remarkable physical condition despite week-long nutrient restriction. Blackwood genetic markers continue to demonstrate exceptional resilience."

My laughter bubbles up from somewhere primal and uncontrolled, the sound bouncing off padded walls with manic intensity.

"Would you like to hear about genetic markers?" I ask, voice raw from screaming sessions they pretend not to document. "I could tell you things about Blackwood genetics that would make your little clipboards spontaneously combust."

The head researcher steps closer to the glass, his expression unnervingly devoid of emotion.

"What we'd like," he states with clinical precision, "is information about Patient 495's escape. The pack that assisted her. Their potential objectives and destinations."

I tilt my head, water dripping from magenta roots into teal tips.

"My sister is beyond your reach now," I reply, satisfaction warming my core despite the freezing water. "And those alphas? They're the least of your problems."

"Your continued defiance serves no purpose," the researcher continues, unmoved. "You've been without proper nutrition for seven days. Hydration has been systematically restricted. Sleep deprivation protocols have been consistently applied. Your body will fail, regardless of genetic advantages."

I lean forward, a smile stretching across my face that makes the youngest researcher take an involuntary step backward.

"You still don't understand what I am, do you?" My voice drops to something intimate and terrifying. "You think I'm just another omega. Just another Blackwood. Just another subject for your little experiments."

Something flickers across the lead researcher's face – uncertainty, perhaps, or the first glimmer of comprehension.

"You have a choice," he states, attempting to regain control of the interaction. "Provide the requested information about Patient 495 and her pack, or face another day of nutrient restriction and intensive conditioning."

My laughter returns, sharper this time, edged with a knowledge they can't comprehend.

"Not a chance," I spit, water dripping from my lips. "So you might as well send me down under. That's where I belong anyway."

The lead researcher's expression shifts minutely – the first genuine reaction I've managed to provoke. The change is subtle but unmistakable to someone trained to read microexpressions.

Surprise. Concern. Fear.

"You are not authorized to know about subsurface containment areas," he states carefully, but the damage is already done.

"Oh please," I scoff, leaning back against the padded wall with exaggerated casualness despite the straitjacket's restriction.

"Level Minus Zero. The fighting pits. Where you keep the monsters too valuable to terminate but too dangerous to maintain in standard containment.

Where Subdivision Zero has been rotting for years while you pretend they died in action. "

The three researchers exchange glances loaded with unspoken communication, and I know I've struck gold.

The youngest makes a note on his clipboard, hand trembling slightly.

"This interview is concluded," the lead researcher announces, reaching for the control panel beside the observation window. "Resume standard restriction protocols."

"You'll lose," I call as they begin to retreat. "If I die, everything falls apart. Your precious research, your government contracts, your standing with the Parazodiac Nexus – all of it burns if I don't survive. So think very carefully about your next move."

The door seals with pneumatic precision, leaving me alone in the padded cell once more.

"YOU MIGHT WANT TO GIVE ME WHAT I DESERVE!" I scream suddenly, launching myself forward despite the straitjacket's restriction. My bare feet kick against the padded wall, the impacts driving shocks up my legs as rage consumes careful calculation.

"I'LL OUTSMART EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!" The words tear from my throat with primal intensity, spittle flying from my lips as I thrash against constraints both physical and situational. "YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING? WHAT YOU'VE BEEN PLANNING?"

The exertion drains what little energy remains after a week of systematic starvation, black spots dancing across my vision as oxygen debt claims its due.

I collapse backward, body hitting the padded floor with boneless gracelessness.

Giggling escapes through gasping breaths, satisfaction warming my core despite the freezing water still clinging to my skin. They don't understand yet – but they will. The seeds of doubt have been planted.

Questions will be raised.

Reports will be filed.

And Charles Press will eventually hear that I know about Level Minus Zero.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Maverick's voice crackles through the implant, concern evident despite technological distortion. "Your core temperature is dropping dangerously. Nutrient levels are critical. You need to cooperate enough to get proper medical intervention."

I ignore him, lips returning to their whistling as the tune that's haunted me for six years flows through cracked lips.

The melody Riot used to hum during rare moments of peace between bouts in the fighting pits – a lullaby from a childhood he never spoke about but carried in muscle memory.

Riot.

My thoughts drift to him with aching familiarity, wondering what six years in the pits has done to the man who once touched my face with impossible gentleness. Is he still human? Still capable of that soft expression that contradicted everything his designation as "The Reaper of Rot" suggested?

Or has he become the monster they always intended – feral, uncontrollable, valuable only for the research data his deterioration provides?

His scent teases phantom memories – earth after rainfall, woodsmoke, that distinctive dark undertone that made him uniquely him .

I chase the memory, trying to recapture the comfort it once provided, but exhaustion and starvation make concentration impossible.

The room tilts around me as consciousness begins to fade, my body finally surrendering to the systematic breakdown they've engineered through deprivation and stress.

My last coherent thought before darkness claims me is a prayer to whatever twisted deity might watch over creatures like us:

Let him survive. Pray he remembers. Let him…still be mine.

Then nothing but blessed silence as consciousness slips away, carrying me into darkness where memories can't follow.