Rhett knew death was the only answer from the hell hole he was in.
But he still couldn't tell up from down, right from left, front from back. Everything was a mess of incomprehension—a kaleidoscope of agony that made his vision swim in nauseating spirals.
But he could still feel.
Pain bore down on him from all directions, threatening to kill him but never quite finishing the job. Elliot had crafted his quirk with surgical precision—delivering maximum suffering while compromising movement, not death. The goal was to pin him down for ten seconds, since he had already killed him once anyway.
Ten seconds. How long had passed already? Rhett couldn't tell. It felt like hours. Or years. Or milliseconds. Time meant nothing in the dark pit at the edge of his consciousness.
The twisted wreckage of his body pulsed with Elliot's handiwork, but even the physical pain felt secondary to the emotional hemorrhaging in his chest.
"Mom—"
