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Her eyes meet mine with unexpected intensity, something passing between us that transcends verbalization or conventional communication.

Not simple recognition but a profound connection reestablished despite systematic separation and institutional interference, the bond formed through shared purpose rather than forced proximity.

"For you," she answers simply, the words carrying absolute conviction beneath characteristic precision. "For all of you. For what should have been ours six years ago."

Fuck.

I want to think of it all as an illusion. A dream…because to think after being abandoned by the world, this one little Omega who left this place so innocent and heartbroken has returned with a hardened layer of armor in hopes of finding me.

Finding all of us again…

The declaration lands with seismic force, cracking foundations carefully constructed through years of institutional conditioning and systematic deprivation.

Not an elaborate explanation or emotional performance, just a factual statement delivered with characteristic directness that leaves no room for misinterpretation or strategic uncertainty.

She came back for us.

Not tactical advantage or operational necessity, not institutional manipulation or experimental participation.

For us. For me.

The realization sends fresh energy through systems already operating beyond standard parameters—hope representing danger within institutional context yet impossible to suppress completely given current circumstances.

"They'll try to stop you," I warn, the statement carrying neither discouragement nor tactical hesitation despite its accuracy.

Simple acknowledgment of institutional reality, of the opposition that will mobilize with comprehensive resources once her presence registers beyond individual recognition.

Her lips curve into that smile I remember with perfect clarity—not the practiced expression employed for tactical advantage or the cynical version warning of impending action, but genuine amusement emerging despite circumstances or contextual limitations.

"I'm counting on it," she responds, satisfaction evident beneath tactical assessment.

Not arrogance or underestimation, but calculated anticipation of resistance, specifically incorporated into whatever strategy has brought her back to institutional hell after successful escape.

Understanding flows with crystalline clarity—this isn't a desperate reunion or emotional impulse, but a carefully orchestrated operation with specific objectives and methodical implementation.

She hasn't simply returned; she's executing a plan developed through comprehensive analysis and meticulous preparation.

I continue addressing her wounds with practiced efficiency, fingers moving across damaged tissue with careful precision despite the protective instincts roaring through my system.

The proximity creates an awkward intimacy neither of us acknowledges directly—this careful tending to injuries represents a connection beyond simple medical necessity, yet is constrained by years of separation and contextual uncertainty.

The gash along her shoulder requires particular attention—deeper than the others, edges showing signs of potential infection despite enhanced immune response clearly operating beyond standard parameters.

My fingers clean the wound with methodical thoroughness, each movement calculated to minimize discomfort while ensuring proper treatment despite limited resources.

"You should have proper medical attention," I mutter, frustration coloring the observation despite attempts at clinical detachment. "Not this improvised field treatment."

Her eyes meet mine with unexpected directness, the silver-green intensity I remember so clearly now sharpened by years of experiences I can only partially imagine.

"This isn't my first battlefield patch-up," she responds with characteristic precision. "Probably won't be my last."

The statement carries neither complaint nor self-pity despite its accuracy — simple acknowledgment of operational reality rather than emotional response to systematic hardship.

This pragmatism, this tactical acceptance of circumstances without descent into bitterness or resignation, represents just one aspect of what drew me to her despite institutional conditioning designed to prevent exactly such a connection.

My gaze lingers on her face longer than tactical necessity requires—cataloging changes wrought through six years of separation with almost desperate thoroughness.

The lines around her eyes that weren't present before.

The slight scar at the corner of her mouth suggests a previous injury inadequately treated.

The hardness beneath tactical assessment speaks to experiences accumulated through systematic progression rather than simple maturation.

Yet beneath these changes remains the foundation I recognized immediately despite separation and circumstance—the calculating mind that selected us with such careful precision, the strategic vision that mapped institutional hierarchy with unparalleled accuracy, the omega who recognized something in each of us beyond simple designation compatibility or combat capability.

The growl builds without conscious direction—not the performative display required during combat demonstrations or the calculated intimidation employed for tactical advantage, but genuine vocalization carrying emotional content beyond institutional categorization or designation dynamics.

My hand rises to her face with autonomous purpose, fingers brushing against the star beneath her left eye with reverence that transcends tactical consideration or strategic assessment.

Corvus's mark of protection and connection—permanent evidence of a bond formed through choice rather than institutional assignment or forced proximity.

Her breathing shifts slightly at the contact—subtle acceleration indicating either tactical caution or emotional response, potentially both operating simultaneously beneath careful control.

Yet she doesn't withdraw or establish defensive positioning, doesn't reject the contact despite years spent developing self-reliance through systematic necessity.

The kiss happens without conscious decision, not tactical calculation or strategic consideration, but primal connection reestablished through physical proximity after years of separation and systematic deprivation.

My lips find hers with desperate certainty, the contact carrying none of the restraint employed during our first interaction all those years ago.

She responds with matching intensity, not submission or yielding, but active participation carrying equal commitment despite contextual limitations and circumstantial uncertainty.

Her hand rises to my shoulder, fingers gripping with surprising strength that contradicts evident fatigue and accumulated trauma.

A sudden flinch interrupts the connection— her body tensing momentarily as pressure against injured tissue triggers a pain response despite enhanced tolerance and systematic conditioning.

My hand had unconsciously pressed against the shoulder wound, tactical awareness temporarily overridden by emotional engagement and physical proximity.

I withdraw immediately, concern replacing desire with jarring abruptness.

"I hurt you," I state, the observation carrying self-recrimination beneath factual assessment. Not deliberate action but careless engagement, tactical awareness sacrificed for emotional indulgence, with direct negative consequence.

She shakes her head with immediate dismissal, characteristic directness cutting through potential misunderstanding with efficient precision.

"It's just the wound," she clarifies, no accusation or complaint coloring the factual correction. "Nothing to do with you."

Frustration surges despite her reassurance—not directed at her but at institutional circumstances that transform even this moment of connection into potential harm, that corrupt even genuine emotion through contextual reality and physical limitation.

"You need actual medical attention," I growl, the words emerging with greater force than intended. "Not this improvised bullshit with inadequate supplies and compromised conditions."

My hand gestures toward the meager first aid materials with disgust that encompasses both immediate inadequacy and broader institutional deprivation— the systematic limitation of resources specifically designed to maintain dependency and reinforce hierarchical control.

"I need..." The sentence trails into momentary silence as thoughts organize themselves into coherent structure despite emotional interference and tactical disruption. "I need to adjust to this. To you being here. Before I can be the Alpha I was when we first met."

The admission carries unexpected vulnerability—not tactical weakness but genuine uncertainty regarding capacity to meet whatever expectations might exist despite separation and circumstance.

Years of systematic torture disguised as research, of enforced isolation and psychological conditioning, of institutional existence designed specifically to eliminate whatever humanity might resist complete degradation.

Her expression softens with understanding that transcends tactical assessment or strategic calculation—genuine emotion breaking through carefully constructed efficiency with rare transparency.

Her hands rise to my face with deliberate gentleness, palms resting against cheeks rough with stubble and institutional neglect.

"I'm not expecting you to change back to who you were," she tells me quietly, voice carrying absolute conviction beneath characteristic precision. "We're not the same anymore—either of us."

Her thumbs trace subtle patterns against my skin—not clinical assessment or tactical evaluation, but genuine contact carrying comfort beyond strategic application or designation dynamics.

Physical connection establishes emotional alignment without requiring verbalization or explicit declaration.

"I want my Riot," she whispers, the declaration carrying possessive certainty beneath intimate delivery. "The one that has evolved into the man before me. Here and now."

Her eyes lock with mine with devastating intensity—connection reestablished with such force it momentarily disrupts capacity for verbalization or conventional response.

Not simple recognition but profound understanding that transcends institutional separation and systematic interference, the bond formed through shared purpose rather than forced proximity.

"Rough and sinister. Tender and passionate," she continues, each word landing with perfect clarity despite quiet delivery. "Whoever he is, I want it now. And whatever awaits us, we'll tackle it like the pack we were meant to be."

The declaration lands with seismic force, cracking foundations carefully constructed through years of institutional conditioning and systematic deprivation.

Not an elaborate explanation or emotional performance, just a factual statement delivered with characteristic directness that leaves no room for misinterpretation or strategic uncertainty.

She wants me as I am.

Not some preserved memory maintained through extended separation, not some idealized version that exists only in tactical recollection or emotional preservation.

This version.

This reality.

This existence.

The realization carries healing beyond anything institutional medical resources could provide — not physical repair but something deeper and more fundamental to whatever remains of my humanity after systematic institutional deconstruction.

Acceptance in such a pure form of vulnerability.