This chapter is best read with poor lighting, a questionable moral compass, and perhaps a cold beverage — preferably something bitter.
No trigger warnings, because if you've made it this far, your soul's already been flagged by at least three federal agencies. Let's just say: things heat up.
Then cool down.
Then... fracture.
Enjoy the descent. I did.
The pit
Owen could barely keep his eyes open. Everything felt... distant. Like watching his own life from underwater. A slow, syrupy haze clung to his brain — the fentanyl still in his veins, dragging him down, numbing the edges of panic just enough to keep him quiet. Until the door opened. Just a metallic click. No warning. No sound. And then a shadow. Marco stepped inside, tall and calm, like someone walking into a hotel lobby. He didn't speak. Just walked up to Owen, reached down, and grabbed him by the arm.
"Wait—no—please," Owen croaked, throat raw and dry. "Wha—what are you—" Marco didn't respond. Just yanked him up like dead weight. Owen's legs folded under him. He couldn't stand — his body refused. Fentanyl withdrawal was already creeping in. Cold sweat poured down his spine as nausea gripped his gut like a clenched fist.
"Please," he gasped, legs dragging limply across the floor. "Please don't—No—wait, please—I didn't—I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry!" Marco said nothing. He dragged Owen down the corridor like a sack of meat, turned a corner, and reached a matte black door with a biometric lock. One press.
Hiss. The door slid open. Inside, the room was pitch black. Marco stepped forward and flung Owen inside like garbage. He hit the floor hard — shoulder first, then hip, then cheekbone. The fentanyl in his system made it slow, but the pain still broke through like lightning. He lay there, gasping, twitching, trying to find his bearings in the darkness. Then the lights came on. White. Blinding. Burning. He blinked furiously as the room materialized around him — too clean, too perfect. Walls of brushed steel, seamless floor tiles, and above him, a ceiling gridded with vents and lights. Marco's voice echoed through a hidden speaker. Calm. Icy.
"I put a single bed there for you. A toilet. A sink." Owen rolled to his side, arms trembling, still too weak to push himself up.
"That's a two-way mirror on the far wall. I'll be watching you for the remainder of your stay here." Owen turned his head and saw it — the rectangle of dark glass, like an eye staring at him.
"No—no, no, please," he whimpered. "You can't leave me here. Please don't—please don't do this to me! I'll do anything—just talk to me, please!"
"Welcome to your new home, Owen Williams." Marco's voice didn't rise. Didn't gloat. It was flat. Final
Click. Silence. Then — a low hum. The air changed. Owen felt it first in his fingers. Then his knees. Then his spine. The floor was heating up. He scrambled up to his elbows. "Wait—WAIT! WHAT'S HAPPENING? PLEASE! I'M SORRY! I DIDN'T MEAN TO—" The floor tiles glowed faintly beneath him. The metal was turning hot. Not warm. Scorching. He scrambled backward on all fours, panicking, slipping. His breath came in gasps, chest heaving. The walls... were hot too. The air turned thick, dry — burning his lungs with every breath.
"NO, NO, PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP—" The temperature spiked. His skin blistered just from the proximity to the walls. He tried to move, tried to crawl toward the bed — maybe it would be cooler there — but his legs failed him. He collapsed, half on the tile, half off. The ceiling vent pumped more heat into the room. Owen screamed. Not in rage. Not in defiance. Pure, animalistic terror.
"STOP! I'M BEGGING YOU! PLEASE! PLEASE—I'M SORRY!"
There was no response. Just the sound of the chamber's systems adjusting. He looked up at the mirror, tears streaming down his cheeks, snot in his nose, throat hoarse from screaming. And he whispered: "Someone... please help me..."
The room hummed louder. And the heat kept rising.
His screams had started to fade — not because the pain was gone, but because his throat was nearly gone. Raw. Shredded. He was curled up on the floor, skin flushed red, lips cracked, sweat dripping off him like a dying faucet. Every breath scorched his lungs. Then—
Click. The hum stopped. Just for a moment. He blinked, vision blurry with tears and heat. And then came the cold.
A rush of glacial air poured from the ceiling vents. The floor beneath him, seconds ago hot enough to fry skin, dropped into subzero temperature in under five seconds. His muscles spasmed. Skin tightened. The sweat on his body froze instantly.
"NO—NO NO NO—!" His voice cracked, barely more than a broken rasp. He tried to move, but the cold hit his nervous system like a shockwave. His limbs locked. Teeth chattered uncontrollably. Goosebumps erupted across his burnt skin — the nerves firing wildly, confused between heat trauma and now deep cold exposure. He rolled onto his back, shaking violently. His breath came out in visible clouds. His fingernails turned blue in seconds.
"STOP—PLEASE—I'M GONNA DIE!"
From somewhere behind the mirror, a small red light blinked on. He wasn't alone. Someone was watching. But no one answered. The strobe lights flickered once. Then again. A low-frequency hum returned — but this time, not heat. Not light.
Vibration. The floor began to thrum, deep and pulsing. It matched a heartbeat... then fell out of sync. Faster. Slower. Wrong. Owen let out a choked sob, rocking slowly where he lay.
"Wh-why...?" he whispered. And deep in his mind, something broke. Because he wasn't even begging for mercy anymore. He was begging for logic. And logic was gone. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore. They'd gone numb. Somewhere between the blistering heat and the glacial drop, his nervous system had checked out. His skin felt too tight. His bones ached like they were cracking from the inside. And then the lights started. Flash. Just one. Bright white. Center of the ceiling.
Then—
Flash flash. Rhythmic. Precise. 7 flashes a second. The exact frequency proven to disorient the brain's visual cortex. Owen flinched. Eyes wide. Pupils shrinking violently. His brain couldn't keep up with what it was seeing — the room blinked in and out of existence. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. His breathing hitched. And for the first time, he realized something that made his heart stutter:
The room was dead silent. No humming. No machinery. No vents. No footsteps. Not even his own breath. Just... flashes. And cold. It wasn't the kind of cold you feel on your skin. It was the kind that enters you. That settles into the marrow. That whispers, "You're not getting out of this." Owen curled into himself, shivering violently, his eyes squeezed shut. But the flashes went on. And with them... came hallucinations. Shapes in the dark. Movement. A silhouette in the corner. A face just outside the mirror. He opened his eyes. Nothing. Flash. Everything. Flash. Gone again.
"Stop," he whispered, barely able to hear his own voice. "Please stop. Please stop. Please—"
The silence mocked him. There was no sound to drown out the panic. No noise to cling to. No rhythm to follow. Just light stabbing his retinas and cold eating his lungs. He screamed. No one heard it. Because the room wasn't made for mercy. It was made to break the mind before it broke the body. And Owen was cracking. The chamber pulsed in silence. Owen hadn't moved in nearly seven minutes, except for the occasional shiver that crawled down his spine like a dying insect. Marco sat still, one elbow resting on his thigh, chin in hand. The strobe cast harsh shadows across the control room.
Then — footsteps. Soft. Precise. The door hissed open behind him. Taz walked in without a word, a latex glove still hanging from his back pocket, a smear of something red drying near the collar of his shirt. His eyes flicked to the monitors. Then to Marco.
"Still alive?" he asked, voice like gravel dipped in tranquilizers. Marco didn't look back. "Barely. He's oscillating between fetal position and full psychotic fugue. I'd say we're about halfway to soup." Taz stepped closer, scanning Owen's curled form on the floor. He tilted his head ever so slightly.
"He peed himself again."
Marco nodded. "Fourth time."
"Good consistency," Taz muttered. There was a brief silence. Just blinking lights and Owen's twitching form on repeat. Taz folded his arms, eyes still on the screen. "Did you run the thermal inversion with the strobe?"
Marco sipped his coffee and smirked
"I'm not a savage. I let his cortisol levels reset before we melted his soul again. Taz grunted. "Kind of you." Marco finally looked up, side-eying Taz with a lazy grin.
"How's Reagan?"
"Still unconscious. But stable." Taz glanced at him. "Skylar's upstairs. Probably threatening someone." Marco nodded once.
"You miss Skye?"
"I miss the silence," Taz deadpanned. "But I prefer her noise to yours." Marco gave a low chuckle, then tapped the mic button again — not to speak. Just to let it click. Owen flinched hard, as if the sound itself was a bullet. "I think he's starting to associate that sound with God," Marco murmured.
Taz raised a brow
"You're not God."
Marco smirked.
"Neither are you. But to them, we are" There was a long pause, the kind only two emotionally stunted geniuses could enjoy. Then Taz said, flat and dry:
"I brought you spinal fluid. Thought you'd like a snack."
Marco lit up. "You shouldn't have."
"I didn't." Taz turned toward the door. "I just didn't want it in my fridge anymore." Marco leaned back in his chair, watching the screens flicker.
"Remind me to make you a thank-you card " Taz was already halfway out the door.
"Use his. He won't be needing it." And just like that, the door hissed shut again. Marco smiled faintly. The lights blinked. Owen twitched as Marco continued his notes:
03:07 – Subject attempting to eat corner of mattress. No known nutritional value. A+ effort for desperation.
03:19 – Called mirror "Skylar". Whispered "I made you pancakes."
- Either a hallucination or a deeply confusing kink. Logging both.
- Side note: I hate pancakes.
03:28 – Hugging air. Talking to ghost-Skylar. Claims "medicine makes the stars shut up."
- Could be a poetic metaphor.
- Could also be that he's hearing stars now. Unclear. Spooky.
03:35 – Smiled at two-way mirror. Told "himself" he's forgiven.
- Unsure who he's forgiving. Could be God. Could be me. Could be mattress.
-Regardless, didn't ask for forgiveness, but I'll take it.
03:42 – Entered fugue state. No response to heat/cold variation.
- Currently speaking to a corner. The corner is not speaking back.
- Might be his most functional relationship to date.
03:51 – Started humming lullaby I did not play. Brain self-generating comfort audio. That's new.
- Consider running test with fake music to see if he cries. For science.
Prognosis:
- Subject is fully gone. Like, pack-up-your-mind-and-move-to-Mars gone.
Current diagnosis:
-Psychotic fugue
-Reality? Not invited
-Self-awareness? Left the building
-Sanity? Hanging on by a melted crayon
- Mood: Possibly thinks he's Skylar. Possibly thinks I'm Skylar. Worrying.
Treatment plan:
- Continue cycle.
- Increase audio hallucination insertions.
- Maybe sing him a lullaby next time. "Twinkle Twinkle Terminal Breakdown."
Skylar stepped into the control room with her hands in her pockets and rain still clinging to her hair.
She looked like someone who'd spent two nights sleeping upright in a hospital chair — pale, wired, and on edge in that specific way only people running on caffeine and adrenaline ever were. The door hissed shut behind her, and silence settled like a weight. Marco didn't turn around. He was already watching the monitors. Owen's body twitched under the strobing lights, curled into himself like a broken marionette. Without taking his eyes off the screen, Marco reached out and slid a clipboard across the desk toward her.
"Welcome back. Reagan still breathing?" Skylar dropped into the chair beside him with a groan and kicked one boot off under the desk.
"Yeah. Taz says stable. Rocco hasn't moved in six hours. I think he's fused with the hospital tiles." Marco smirked faintly. "Sounds romantic." Skylar squinted down at the clipboard. "This gonna traumatize me or entertain me?"
"Ideally both," Marco said. She flipped the page. Then another. Her brows lifted. She started reading aloud.
"'03:19 – Called mirror 'Skylar.' Whispered: I made you pancakes. Either a hallucination or a deeply confusing kink.' Marco—what the fuck."
"What? I logged both possibilities," he said. "For science." She snorted, flipping to the next page.
"'03:28 – Hugging air. Talking to ghost-Skylar. Claims 'medicine makes the stars shut up.' Side note: I hate pancakes.'" Skylar let out a full laugh, dropping her head back against the chair. "These are deranged. This reads like a mad scientist live-tweeting from a haunted mental institution." "You're welcome," Marco said, still not looking away from the feed. She kept going.
"'03:42 – Delusion complete. Motor function intact. Language dissociated from logic. Full cognitive disassociation achieved.' And this one—'Might be his most functional relationship to date.' Jesus, you're evil haha.
"Just observant." Skylar grinned wide. For the first time in days, she looked genuinely alive.
"I kinda wanna print these and hang them up in the lab." Marco finally turned to look at her. "You get it. Most people flinch. You read it and think, 'how do we make it worse.'"
"I mean... yeah," she said, eyes dancing. "You brought out the worst in me."
"I¨ll take that as a compliment."
"You should." They sat in silence for a few seconds, watching Owen on the monitor. He was standing in the corner now, gently humming to no one, arms wrapped around empty air. Skylar tilted her head.
"How long until he marries the sink?" Marco's lips curled into a slow grin. "I'm prepping an audio hallucination loop. Motherly whispering. Should deepen the break."
"You're making a creepy whisper track?" Her grin widened. "Obviously."
"Want to help?" She didn't even hesitate. "Get the mic." And just like that, the two of them turned to the console. Brilliant. Broken. Amused. Ready to record lullabies for a man who no longer remembered his own name. Because in this room, empathy was obsolete. And mercy was just another variable they never programmed in.