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TWENTY-ONE

A GLIMPSE OF NORMAL

~RIOT~

I can walk, you know."

Jinx's voice carries that particular mix of irritation and wounded pride that I'm quickly learning signals an incoming argument.

Her tone vibrates through my shoulder where she's draped like a sack of potatoes—though significantly more precious and infinitely more dangerous than any agricultural product.

The pharmaceutical haze has mostly cleared from her system during our trek through institutional corridors, leaving her alert enough to complain about my transportation methods despite her continued physical weakness.

Enhanced omega healing is impressive, but even she has limits when it comes to recovering from chemical sedation and extended suspension.

"You tried walking three times," I point out with amusement I can't quite suppress. "Where did that get you?"

Her indignant huff makes her entire body tense against my shoulder, the movement sending pleasant sensations through my combat-worn frame despite the circumstances surrounding our continued journey.

"On the ground," she mutters with grudging acknowledgment. "In a puddle. Almost off a cliff."

The last admission draws a smirk, I'm grateful she can't see from her current position.

The mental image of my fierce omega nearly tumbling into an institutional drainage canal because her legs gave out mid-stride carries humor that cuts through the lingering adrenaline and combat stress like warm sunlight through storm clouds.

Not that I'd ever mock her for it.

The fact that she's conscious and coherent enough to argue represents a miracle enough, given what they put her through with that sedation patch.

But her stubborn insistence on independence despite obvious physical limitations strikes me as endearingly characteristic of the woman who voluntarily returned to this institutional hell for our sake.

I'm not used to showing emotion—positive or otherwise.

Not that I'm against it, exactly, but six years of systematic conditioning designed to eliminate human response in favor of tactical efficiency doesn't disappear overnight.

The institutional programming runs deep, creating automatic suppression of anything that might be construed as weakness or vulnerability by observers looking for psychological leverage.

Yet something about her presence makes those barriers feel less necessary. Like maybe expressing amusement or concern or even affection won't immediately result in those emotions being weaponized against me through careful manipulation and strategic psychological pressure.

Is this what normal feels like?

The thought catches me off guard as we navigate another sterile corridor lined with surveillance equipment and reinforced barriers. Normal relationships, normal interactions, normal conversations that revolve around practical concerns rather than survival calculations or tactical assessments.

A couple arguing about transportation methods.

A woman insisting she doesn't need assistance while a man provides it anyway out of protective instinct rather than controlling dominance.

Simple domestic dynamics playing out against the backdrop of institutional horror that somehow makes the ordinary seem precious beyond measure.

"When are you going to rest?" Her question interrupts my philosophical wandering, voice carrying genuine concern beneath surface irritation. "You're leaving a trail of blood."

I glance down at the concrete beneath my feet, noting the intermittent red droplets that mark our passage through institutional architecture. Some from wounds that require attention, others from injuries already healing thanks to enhanced alpha physiology and adrenaline still flooding my system.

Instances like these remind me that I’m a byproduct of their experiments as well, though it doesn’t make me feel like a superhuman Alpha of any means.

The blood loss probably looks worse than it actually is—head wounds and split lips always seem more dramatic than warranted—but I can understand her concern given the visual evidence of extended combat painting my entire body in shades of crimson and rust.

"Is it gruesome for you?" I ask, genuinely curious about her tolerance for violence given her institutional background and recent experiences watching arena combat from enforced suspension.

"Blood doesn't bother me," she responds with characteristic directness. "It's the fact that you're losing it that bothers me."

The distinction hits with unexpected force—not disgust at violence itself but concern for my wellbeing manifested through practical observation and protective instinct.

She's worried about me, specifically and personally, rather than expressing general discomfort with graphic circumstances.

I stop walking, the realization compelling pause despite tactical disadvantage created by remaining stationary in potentially hostile territory.

Her concern deserves acknowledgment, recognition of care that transcends designation dynamics or biological imperative.

"Lean back," I instruct, adjusting my grip to provide stable support while allowing her greater freedom of movement.

She complies without argument, hands finding my shoulders for balance as she straightens enough to meet my gaze directly.

The new position puts us at eye level despite height difference, creating intimate proximity that makes conversation feel more personal despite public setting and continued surveillance.

Up close, I can see the worry she's trying to hide behind an emotionless expression—micro-tensions around eyes that speak to genuine concern, subtle tightness in her jaw that suggests anxiety carefully controlled but not eliminated.

Her beautiful silver-green eyes hold depths that reveal far more than her carefully neutral features suggest.

She's genuinely worried about me.

The recognition sends warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with adrenaline or combat stimulation.

When was the last time someone cared about my physical condition beyond its tactical implications? When did anyone last look at me with concern for my well-being rather than assessment of my continued utility?

Institutional existence strips away such luxuries through systematic isolation and emotional conditioning designed to prevent exactly these connections.

But here she is— this magnificent omega who chose to return to hell for our sake —worrying about blood loss like we're normal people dealing with normal problems rather than enhanced subjects navigating psychological warfare disguised as reunion.

"I'll rest when we reach the next level," I promise, the words carrying more weight than simple practical assurance. "I'm not confident I can fight against whatever Press has planned now that we've passed his initial challenge."

Her lower lip pushes out in what can only be described as a pout—expression so unexpectedly cute it makes my chest tighten with emotion I'm still learning to acknowledge without immediate suppression.

The contrast between her tactical capabilities and moments of endearing vulnerability creates cognitive dissonance that somehow makes her more rather than less attractive.

A groan escapes before I can contain it, a sound carrying a mixture of amusement and desire, and protective tenderness that institutional conditioning never quite managed to eliminate despite years of dedicated effort.

She affects me in ways that transcend rational analysis or biological imperative, touching parts of my psyche that respond to connection rather than conquest.

Before conscious thought can interfere, I press her further against my shoulder and lean in to steal a kiss that tastes like freedom and feels like coming home.

Her lips yield beneath mine with easy surrender that speaks to trust rather than submission, willing participation rather than forced compliance.

She melts against me with such perfect responsiveness that it takes my breath away.

How can someone so strong and dangerous become so soft in my arms?

How can this woman who fought her way through institutional hell transform into yielding warmth the moment our mouths connect?

The kiss cuts through lingering adrenaline and combat stress like nothing else could manage.

My mind, which has been racing with tactical assessments and threat calculations since the moment they stole her from our sanctuary, finally quiets beneath the perfect reality of her presence and willing affection.

This is what I've been missing. What we've all been missing.

Not just physical pleasure or designation fulfillment, but the genuine connection that makes suffering worthwhile and survival precious.

The ability to care for someone and have that care returned, to offer protection and receive trust, to find peace in another person's willing embrace despite chaos surrounding us on all sides.

When we break apart, her expression carries satisfaction that mirrors my own—a small smile playing around lips still glistening from our kiss, eyes bright with contentment despite our dangerous circumstances.

"Fine," she concedes with gracious defeat that makes me want to kiss her again. "The next level is Sable's. Do you believe all of them are alive?"

The question carries weight beyond simple inquiry—hope and fear balanced on a knife's edge, faith in our pack's capabilities warring with recognition of institutional cruelty and systematic torture designed to break even enhanced subjects through prolonged application.

"If they weren't, they wouldn't be worthy of being one of our pack," I respond with conviction that surprises even me. Not bravado or false confidence, but genuine certainty born from knowledge of the men who chose to follow her strategic vision despite institutional opposition.

Her eyebrows rise at what might be construed as a callous assessment.

"You know that would be deemed horrendous to say by normal standards."