FOURTEEN

THE SCENT OF RECOGNITION

~RIOT~

The stench hits me before I even turn the corner.

That sickly sweet smell of corrupted pheromones—a toxic cocktail designed to drive men mad while making anyone with a functioning brain stem want to vomit. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, slowing my pace as I navigate the dimly lit corridor leading toward the fighting cage.

Six years of this shit, and it never gets easier.

The institutional lighting flickers overhead, casting everything in that sickly green hue they seem to think heightens the psychological impact.

As if the smell and sounds weren't enough.

My boots echo against the concrete floor, each step measured and deliberate despite the rising tension coiling in my muscles.

Another round of "entertainment" must be starting.

I can feel it in the charged atmosphere, hear it in the distant growls echoing through the ventilation system.

The feral Alphas are getting restless— those poor bastards who couldn't maintain their sanity through years of systematic torture disguised as research.

I've seen it happen too many times. Strong men, capable warriors, tactical geniuses...reduced to little more than animals prowling on all fours, any higher cognitive function sacrificed to whatever chemical cocktail Press uses to maintain his twisted version of designation dynamics.

There, but for the grace of whatever god might be watching, go I.

The thought sends an involuntary shudder through my frame, muscles tensing beneath the standard institutional uniform. Six years I've managed to maintain control, to keep the beast contained within acceptable parameters despite everything they've thrown at me.

Six years of fighting, killing, and somehow surviving when death would be the kinder option.

Six years without her .

The corridor widens as I approach the main arena area, the smell intensifying with every step.

They must have at least three corrupted Omegas in rotation tonight—their twisted scent signatures mingling into something that crawls across my skin like fire ants.

My throat tightens instinctively, body reacting to the biological threat despite years of exposure and developed resistance.

"Fuck this," I mutter, coming to an abrupt halt several meters from the final threshold.

I know exactly what waits beyond—another "testing session" where they'll parade those poor broken Omegas in front of us, watching for reaction patterns and collecting data points for whatever sick research Press prioritizes this month.

The growls from the arena intensify, suggesting the show has already begun. The feral Alphas always react first—their damaged neural pathways offering no resistance to the corrupted pheromones pumped through specialized delivery systems.

My knuckles crack as hands clench into fists, nails digging into palms with enough force to leave crescent-shaped indentations in the skin. The pain offers momentary focus, a physical sensation to ground thoughts threatening to scatter under biological pressure.

I don't need to see this again.

Don't need to stand among the still-functioning Alphas while we pretend indifference to the horror show Press orchestrates with such careful precision.

Don't need another memory of broken Omegas used as tools to test our control parameters.

Decision made, I turn sharply, preparing to return to my cell where at least the isolation offers some protection from the collective madness Press orchestrates with such theatrical flair.

Three steps toward retreat, something catches my attention—a sound so out of place it momentarily halts my breathing.

A gasp.

Not the animalistic growling of corrupted Omegas, not the mindless shrieking they sometimes produce when chemical cocktails reach peak efficiency. A human…feminine…sound— distinctly female, distinctly conscious, carrying surprise rather than pain or feral rage.

I frown, head turning slightly toward the arena despite my determined intention to avoid engagement.

The corrupted Omegas don't make that sound.

They don't gasp— they screech, they howl, they produce vocalizations that bear little resemblance to human communication.

Their vocal cords, like everything else in their biological systems, have been systematically altered through chemical and surgical intervention beyond standard enhancement protocols.

Perhaps a new researcher?

Some young woman experiencing her first exposure to the institutional reality beneath Ravenscroft's polished public facade?

I exhale slowly, attempting to clear my respiratory system of the toxic pheromones clouding rational thought.

The action draws fresh air across specialized olfactory receptors, bringing with it...

Something impossible.

My body freezes in perfect stillness, muscles locking with preternatural control as the scent registers with devastating clarity.

Cardamom. Cinnamon. Exotic fruits and rain-soaked forest floor.

Not some institutional approximation. Not some synthetic recreation designed to trigger response patterns. Not some cruel simulations that were created from stored profiles in their extensive databases.

Her actual scent.

The recognition hits with seismic force, cracking foundations carefully constructed through six years of enforced separation and systematic deprivation.

It can't be.

The rational mind rejects the possibility even as the primal Alpha core recognizes truth beyond explanation or understanding.

That signature— that specific combination of notes that harmonized so perfectly with my own all those years ago —cannot exist here, cannot be present in this institutional hell after so much time.

Press is fucking with me again.

The explanation forms with desperate certainty, mind grasping for rational interpretation rather than impossible hope. They've synthesized her scent from stored samples, created an approximation close enough to trigger a memory response but different enough to maintain plausible deniability.

Another shriek cuts through my rationalization, followed immediately by what sounds disturbingly like. ..laughter?

Not the hollow sound of institutional amusement, not the practiced performance of someone maintaining sanity through forced humor.

Genuine laughter carrying notes of both genuine amusement and manic energy that cannot be fabricated through chemical or psychological manipulation.

My fist clenches with renewed force, blood welling from crescent indentations as nails break skin beneath unconscious pressure.

"If that's...the best you lot can do...I can go all fucking night."

The voice shatters whatever remaining resistance I've maintained against the impossible possibility.

Despite changes— a deepened maturity that wasn't present six years ago, undertones of exhaustion beneath forced bravado —there's no mistaking the distinctive cadence, the unique vocal pattern that remains burned into neural pathways despite institutional attempts to erase all connection.

Jinx.

Her name forms in my mind with perfect clarity, bypassing conscious thought to manifest as absolute certainty despite rational impossibility.

Before tactical assessment can override instinctive response, my body moves with autonomous purpose—turning back toward the arena, steps accelerating beyond careful control into something approaching desperate urgency.

The corridor blurs as I navigate with muscle memory rather than conscious direction, boots striking concrete with increasing force as pace transforms from deliberate approach into a barely controlled sprint.

The sounds intensify with each step—growls and impacts and what must be ongoing combat based on the rhythm and cadence of engagement.

The feral Alphas beyond the cage have reached unprecedented levels of agitation, their collective vocalization creating a primal symphony that vibrates through the institutional architecture with disturbing intensity.

I emerge from the corridor's shadowed confines into the arena's harsh illumination, the transition requiring momentary adjustment as pupils contract against sudden brightness.

The scene before me materializes with cinematic clarity—institutional spotlights focused on the central cage with theatrical precision while leaving observation areas in strategic shadow.

The fighting cage stands in perfect circularity—fifteen feet high, constructed from reinforced steel specifically designed to contain enhanced subjects even under extreme duress.

Beyond the bars, feral Alphas pace and prowl with manic intensity, their movements carrying none of the calculation or strategic assessment that would indicate remaining humanity.

They've completely devolved—reduced to the most primal expression of designation through systematic application of whatever experimental protocols Press prioritizes in current research parameters.

Their eyes glow with chemical enhancement, pupils blown wide with whatever substances maintain their feral state despite the body's natural resistance.

But it's what happens inside the cage that stops my heart mid-beat.

A female figure moves with deadly grace among fallen opponents—two institutional Omegas lying unconscious on the metal grating while a third tries desperately to regain her feet despite evident injuries.

The still-standing combatant pivots with fluid precision as her remaining opponent lunges with desperate aggression, sidestepping the attack with almost casual efficiency before delivering a precise strike to the base of the skull that drops her attacker without apparent effort.

Blood streaks across pale skin, evidence of successful enemy strikes despite overall combat dominance.