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TWO

THE BEAST BENEATH THE ASYLUM

~RIOT~

~I Don’t Hate You~

SIENNA SPIRO

Pain greets me like an old friend, a familiar agony pulsing through every muscle and joint as I claw my way back to consciousness.

Eight hours of combat still lingers in torn flesh and fractured bones that haven't fully mended despite enhanced healing.

Another day in paradise.

The concrete cell feels colder than usual against my back, its surface unforgiving as the masters who placed me here. My laughter echoes hollow against walls that have witnessed six years of systematic destruction—of my body, my mind, my humanity.

Six years in Level Minus Zero, the subterranean hell they created for monsters too valuable to terminate but too dangerous to maintain in standard containment. The fighting pits where alphas with government training prove their evolutionary superiority through blood sport and controlled savagery.

Where I have become the nightmare they always wanted.

My fingers trace the newest additions to my collection of wounds—three broken ribs already knitting themselves back together, a gash across my abdomen where some desperate contender tried using a sharpened spoon, bruises layered upon bruises in a tapestry of violet and sickly yellow that maps my survival.

The pain means nothing anymore.

Just data points in an endless experiment.

I tilt my head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling stained with water damage and mold they never bother to address. Sometimes I wonder why my heart continues its stubborn rhythm when surrender would be so much simpler.

Why I keep fighting when death would offer the only true escape from this existence.

But I know the answer, even if I rarely allow myself to acknowledge it.

Her.

The memory I keep locked away in the deepest corner of my consciousness, only retrieving it in moments of true desperation when pain threatens to consume what remains of my soul.

An omega with impossible hair—magenta ombré that transitions to the perfect dark teal green, the colors as extraordinary as the mind behind those ivory green eyes.

So young when I first saw her, trapped in that gilded cage above the fighting pits, her body pushed into premature heat by chemicals and cruelty while her mind remained razor-sharp.

Jinx Blackwood.

Not simply another omega specimen, but the ultimate mastermind of this godforsaken place. The only one who truly understood the structure of Ravenscroft and the mysterious Parazodiac Nexus that operated from shadows beyond its walls.

While others saw a frightened child, I recognized something dangerous behind those innocent eyes—a calculating intelligence that observed, analyzed, and plotted while the world dismissed her as merely another victim.

She was magnificent.

And she chose us .

The memory slips through carefully maintained barriers, unwelcome yet irresistible. I should block it out— these recollections only make survival harder, only magnify the emptiness that follows. But my defenses are weak after prolonged combat, and the images flow unhindered:

Jinx, meticulously working her way through Ravenscroft's hierarchical levels, identifying which alphas matched her strategic vision. Targeting specific traits with the precision of a master chess player, positioning pieces for an endgame only she could foresee.

Level Minus Three, brought her Sable— the Silent Judge, whose silver tongue sentenced better men to madness long before Ravenscroft claimed him . A master manipulator whose words could reshape reality itself, bending perception until truth and falsehood became meaningless distinctions.

Level Minus Two, yielded Corvus— the Blood Prophet, whose capacity to read intention in every microexpression made him appear omniscient. Eyes that saw too much and a heart that felt nothing at all, his emotions burned away through systematic exposure to the darkest reaches of human depravity.

Level Minus One gave her Ash— the Scarred Saint, whose brutal efficiency masked surprising gentleness. Burns covered most of his body, evidence of the sacrificial nature that made him both a deadly enforcer and protective guardian.

Then Level Minus Zero, where she found me—the Reaper of Rot they called me, for the bodies I left in my wake during government operations. The violence specialist, the monster they created to execute tasks too brutal for human conscience to bear.

Together, we became her chosen pack, her collection of broken alphas bound by loyalty to the small omega who saw value in our destruction. She knitted us into something resembling family, creating connections where isolation had been deliberately engineered.

We progressed through the labyrinthine hierarchy of Ravenscroft with calculated precision, acquiring intelligence and resources while maintaining the illusion of compliance.

The goal always remained clear—reach Level Minus Four, the theoretical escape point, and vanish into freedom with our little architect of chaos.

Level Minus Four proved to be the cruelest deception of all.

Instead of escape, we found betrayal. In that final arena, with freedom almost tangible, they took her.

Guards and scientists swarmed from hidden entries, separating her from our protection with practiced efficiency.

We fought with everything we had— killed many, maimed more —but sheer numbers and specialized containment protocols designed specifically for our unique abilities ultimately prevailed.

They stole our omega, our compass, our reason for endurance.

When they returned her to us weeks later, something fundamental had changed.

The scent was wrong— similar but distinctly different. The eyes held none of the strategic brilliance, none of the calculating assessment that had defined our Jinx. This omega looked at us with genuine terror, with no recognition, with none of the connection that had bound us together.

"Swapped," the white coats whispered when they thought we couldn't hear. "Incredible opportunity to study divergent development in genetic identicals."

Twins.

They'd taken our Jinx— brilliant, manipulative, ruthless Jinx —and replaced her with this frightened mirror image who possessed her face but none of her essence.

This new omega had no understanding of the complex game being played, no comprehension of the escape route we'd spent years meticulously constructing.

Without Jinx's strategic guidance, the carefully laid plans collapsed.

Subdivision Zero —officially designated as K.Y.F.M. Operative Unit —found itself trapped in a loop with no exit parameter.

The twin remained terrified of us despite biological compatibility, unable to trust the alphas her sister had selected with such care.

Eventually, they separated us completely.

Returned us to Level Minus Zero, to the fighting pits where we could continue providing research data through controlled combat and biological response monitoring.

Left us to rot while the twin was subjected to her own specialized testing protocols, becoming Patient 495 while our Jinx vanished into whatever twisted experiment Charles Press had designed for his favorite specimen.

Six years have passed since that betrayal.

Six years of fighting for survival while wondering if our omega still lives, still remembers, still plans our reunion with that brilliant mind that saw patterns where others perceived only chaos.

I wonder where she is now... if she's found freedom in the world beyond these walls.

If she ever thinks of the pack she assembled with such meticulous care.

If she's…happy.

She would never return to this place of nightmares. Not if she had any choice.

The thought carries unexpected bitterness.

I should want her free, should hope she's found peace beyond Ravenscroft's reach.

But the selfish alpha part of me—the primal instinct that recognized her as mine despite her youth and my protective restraint—wants her back with a desperation that borders on madness.

I close my eyes, allowing myself the forbidden luxury of remembering her scent— the sweetness that haunted my dreams for years after her disappearance.

Hints of tropical spices like cardamom and cinnamon kissed by exotic fruits.

Beneath it all, a distinctive base note reminiscent of rain-soaked forest floor, earthy and rich with potential.

That scent carried complexity beyond her years, suggesting depths unmapped and possibilities unrealized. It promised everything alpha biology craved— compatibility, fertility, the potential for legacy— while simultaneously broadcasting a mind sharp enough to match any tactical challenge.

Perfect.

She was perfect in ways that transcended conventional omega desirability.

Not merely beautiful, though she certainly possessed striking features that would only become more pronounced with maturity. Not simply fertile, though her genetic markers clearly indicated exceptional reproductive capacity.

No, what made Jinx Blackwood truly extraordinary was the mind behind those calculating eyes. The strategic brilliance that had mapped every level of Ravenscroft's hierarchy and selected alphas not for superficial traits but for specialized skills essential to her master plan.

How often have I tried to recapture that scent from memory?

How many times have I closed my eyes in this cell and imagined her grown to maturity, developed into the formidable woman that frightened child was destined to become?

Too many to count.

Sometimes I wonder if she's found another pack in the outside world. If she's been claimed by alphas who couldn't possibly understand the magnificent creature they've ensnared.

The thought generates a possessive rage that burns hotter than any physical pain these pits have inflicted.

She was ours. Only ours.

My eyes snap open as the ventilation system above my cell activates with mechanical precision.