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ELEVEN

SHADOWS OF THE PAST

~JINX~

Darkness envelops us as we descend into the bowels of Ravenscroft, the "DOWNSTAIRS" door having led to precisely what its label promised— a downward path into institutional depths where light exists merely as suggestion rather than reality.

The tunnel stretches before us in oppressive monotony—polished concrete walls curving overhead to form an arch that channels sound in peculiar ways, making even our careful footsteps seem louder than they should.

Emergency lighting provides minimal illumination at measured intervals, creating pools of sickly green radiance separated by stretches of near-complete darkness.

Riot walks beside me in tense silence, her previously confident demeanor somewhat subdued since witnessing the execution that inaugurated our journey.

Neither of us has spoken since sealing the door behind us, the image of seven omegas convulsing in electrified water still too fresh to process through standard conversational exchange.

Death itself means little to me after years spent in operational environments where mortality represents merely another variable in tactical calculations.

But even I must acknowledge the particularly brutal efficiency of Press's opening performance— seven subjects eliminated within minutes of commencement, their terror and pain serving as both warning and entertainment for whatever audience observes this elaborate production.

"I'm detecting significant tension in your companion's biometric readings," Maverick observes through our secure connection, voice pitched low despite the privacy it maintains. "Her cortisol levels suggest acute stress response despite outward composure."

"Wouldn't you find it rather awkward after watching seven omegas perish before your eyes?" I murmur, voice barely audible despite the tunnel's tendency to amplify sound. "But alas, that's the life of the Parazodiac and the victims of its wrath."

The clinical detachment in my tone doesn't entirely mask the undercurrent of what might be interpreted as regret in another person. Not for the deaths themselves— their choices led directly to predictable outcomes —but for the necessity of such demonstrations within institutional methodology.

Riot comes to a sudden stop, forcing me to halt alongside her.

I turn with practiced efficiency, maintaining optimal positioning for potential defensive requirements despite the apparent absence of immediate threat.

Her face appears ghostly in the green emergency lighting, features sharpened by shadows that accentuate the angles of cheekbones and jaw. Something vulnerable breaks through her tactical facade— genuine emotion rather than the calculated presentation maintained during our previous interactions.

"It shouldn't be like this," she states quietly, voice carrying unexpected rawness. "To be able to find a pack should be better. Smoother. Destined. Like finding your fated mate after so long and being accepted into a pack with ease."

The sentiment surprises me despite years spent recognizing tactical advantages in emotional understanding.

This omega— who moments ago watched others die without intervening, who navigates institutional horror with evident experience —still maintains romantic notions regarding designation dynamics that reality consistently contradicts.

I sigh, deciding a brief respite serves both practical recovery requirements and potential alliance development.

Moving to the opposite wall, I slide down to seated position with controlled movements that belie the fatigue beginning to manifest after extended periods of heightened alertness.

"Is that what you dream of?" I ask as I settle against cold concrete, hands resting on bent knees while eyes maintain environmental scanning despite apparent relaxation. "Fated mates and perfect pack dynamics?"

My question carries no mockery despite the inherent skepticism.

Genuine curiosity colors the inquiry—this omega clearly possesses tactical capabilities and survival experience yet simultaneously maintains idealistic perspectives that seem contradictory to her demonstrated functionality within institutional reality.

Riot doesn't answer immediately, her silence more revealing than potential verbal response.

The hesitation confirms underlying vulnerability despite tactical competence—emotion persisting beneath calculated presentation, hope surviving despite extensive exposure to circumstances that typically extinguish such luxury.

A laugh escapes me—not cruel but carrying unmistakable bitterness beneath surface amusement.

"I was like you once," I admit, the confession emerging without tactical calculation for perhaps the first time since returning to Ravenscroft. "Full of dreams and hopes, thinking that despite the captivity and the tactical beauty and chaos of this place, I'd find a pack that suits me."

The admission hangs between us, unexpected vulnerability from someone who has maintained perfect emotional containment through torture, starvation, and institutional manipulation.

Something about this tunnel— this moment of transitional space between defined challenges —creates temporary permission for authenticity typically sacrificed for survival requirements.

"I was never really like this," I continue, gesturing vaguely toward myself—the combat gear, the tactical positioning, the calculated preservation of resources. "All scientific and lacking emotion. I was like you. Full of life and determination."

Riot sighs heavily, the sound carrying genuine exhaustion rather than theatrical display.

She slides down to a seated position mirroring mine, the concrete floor creating an uncomfortable resting place that nonetheless provides necessary recovery opportunity.

"I wasn't always this tamed," she confesses, voice dropping lower as if sharing dangerous secrets despite probable institutional surveillance.

"The version you're seeing now is nothing like who I was…

a girl chambered in this place with her twin sister, filled with sparked defiance and hoping to ignite chaos with all the anger inside her. "

Her gaze meets mine with unexpected intensity, something like recognition passing between us despite our limited shared history.

"Only it didn't go down that route in the slightest," she adds, bitterness entering her tone with familiar resonance.

The parallel to my own experience registers with uncomfortable clarity.

Another omega with a twin, another subject shaped by institutional methodology into something that serves their purposes rather than personal objectives.

Another player in Press's elaborate game whose narrative mirrors my own with disturbing similarity.

"What happened?" I ask, the question emerging with genuine interest rather than tactical intelligence gathering. Something about this omega resonates, despite rational assessment suggesting that emotional engagement represents unnecessary risk within current operational parameters.

Riot's expression darkens, shadows beneath her eyes deepening as memories clearly surface with painful clarity.

"It was a trial where they were testing us," she begins, voice taking on the distinctive cadence of someone revisiting trauma through conscious recall rather than emotional immersion. "Me and three other omegas, one of them being Nyx."

The name sends an involuntary jolt through my system—my sister, the omega meant to replace me, the unwitting participant in institutional deception who ultimately escaped with assistance I'm only beginning to understand.

"She acted just like you," Riot continues, studying my features with disconcerting intensity. "Only she feared what she could do and achieve. How they molded her into the weapon they wished to create in all of us."

Her hands clench into fists against her thighs, knuckles whitening with tension before consciously relaxing through evident self-control.

"I helped the others escape," she states with quiet finality. "And I was the sacrifice left behind."

I stare at her as silence settles between us, the admission carrying implications that transform my understanding of both current circumstances and past events.

This omega directly facilitated my sister's escape—creating the vacancy that allowed my return, establishing the conditions that made my current mission possible.

The realization lands with unexpected weight, transforming theoretical alliance possibility into something more complex and significant within operational parameters.

"It's not like they wished to leave me behind," Riot continues, her voice taking on a distant quality as memories clearly surface. "It's exactly like the message said marked in that previous room. A sacrifice is necessary."

She pauses, brow furrowing as she seems to disappear momentarily into her own thoughts.

When she speaks again, her voice has dropped to barely more than a whisper.

"I've always had near-death experiences, but I always survived them. Again and again and again, making it almost like my superpower." A bitter smile touches her lips. "It made me cocky. Rough. Proud, loud, and aggravated."

Her fingers tap an unconscious rhythm against her knee—not nervous energy but something more deliberate, almost like she's counting heartbeats or marking time.

"Maybe I thought I was invincible," she admits with surprising candor, "but the reality was... I didn't have anyone to return to. Nothing to go back to like the other girls."

The confession carries unexpected vulnerability despite her tactical competence.

This omega who navigates institutional horror with evident experience still carries emotional wounds beneath her practiced efficiency.

The contradiction makes her simultaneously more interesting and more dangerous as potential ally—unpredictable emotional factors complicating otherwise reliable tactical assessment.

She looks up suddenly, eyes locking with mine with disturbing intensity.