Talking- " "
Thinking- ' '
---
Chapter 4 – Break Me Open
The door slammed shut behind him.
Ray didn't resist.
There was no point.
The soldiers flanked him, one on each side, their grips like iron, though they didn't need to bother. His collar pulsed, an itch beneath his skin, suppressing everything that might have let him fight, run, or even scream the way he wanted to.
They walked him through the corridors in silence. Harsh lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they couldn't decide if he deserved to see clearly or not. The metal beneath his bare feet was cold, unforgiving. He counted his steps—not because it mattered, but because it gave him something to do.
Left, right, left, right.
Breathe in. Try to forget what's coming.
Try to forget you've been here before.
The hallway narrowed. His gut twisted.
Another door.
One of the guards pressed a panel, and the door slid open with a hiss. It was colder inside. Sterile. Too clean. Too white. A lie of a room that tried to look like a place for healing, not for tearing people apart.
His body moved on autopilot as they dragged him in.
The chair—no, the table—waited in the center. Metal restraints gleamed under the lights, polished and ready. Like it was all prepped. Like they'd been waiting.
He didn't struggle when they strapped him in.
Wrist, wrist. Ankle, ankle. Chest. Forehead.
A thick rubber block shoved into his mouth—he gagged—then bit down hard enough he thought he'd break his own teeth. It muffled the sounds. Made sure his screams wouldn't interrupt the show.
Because that's what this was.
A show.
He couldn't see them. But he felt them. Behind the glass wall—obscured, high above, watching. Murmurs like flies buzzed in his ears. Low voices, clipped and clinical.
One of them laughed under their breath. Another asked, "Will the skin tear faster this time?"
Their eyes crawled over him, over the mess of his body, the filth, the healing scars, the collar biting into his neck. Like he was meat. Like he was entertainment.
"Subject 8341," a voice called through a speaker, too calm. Too detached.
Ray blinked against the overhead light. It burned.
A man in a lab coat stepped into view. Late forties maybe, greying at the temples. Glasses. Not a scientist from earlier. Someone new. Someone worse.
"Today's objective: stress limits of regenerative properties. Blood loss. Bone trauma. Organ rupture."
Ray's fingers clenched involuntarily.
The crackling voice continued, "No anesthesia. He cannot pass out. Keep him conscious."
He tried to scream What?, but it came out a garbled "Ughh—ahhh—!" around the block in his mouth.
"Begin."
---
The first tool was a scalpel.
Simple. Surgical.
The man cut slowly, deliberately, sliding the blade from Ray's collarbone down to his sternum. His flesh split open like wet paper, hot blood bubbling to the surface. He screamed against the rubber, his body seizing.
He healed. The skin stitched itself back together—but not clean. The blood didn't vanish. It soaked into his hospital shirt, pooled beneath him, a warm, growing puddle.
A second cut. This time deeper. The blade carved through muscle, grinding over bone.
Healing, his body whispered. But his nerves screamed louder.
From behind the glass:
"Fascinating how it knits without scarring."
"Do it again, slower. I want to see the fibers close."
His mind began to drift, to fragment—
Crrrk—tkk—
It echoed faintly inside him. A soundless noise. Like a faultline deep beneath his skin. A spiderweb on glass.
—but it vanished just as fast.
Ray sucked in air through his nose, choking on blood and snot and spit. His eyes were wide, unblinking. He wanted to beg. Wanted it to stop.
They weren't done.
---
The blade was replaced by a hammer.
They started with his fingers.
Each one shattered with a dull crunch, the bones splintering under the repeated blows. He thrashed as much as the restraints allowed, which wasn't much. His hand swelled grotesquely, purple and raw. Then, piece by piece, it knitted back together.
But not the pain.
The pain stayed.
Next, his ribs.
The hammer drove into his side. Crack. Crack. Crack. He felt something shift inside. A rib punctured his lung briefly before it sealed back. He wheezed. Bubbles of blood slipped from his nose.
Behind the glass, someone murmured, "Let's see if the lungs heal as fast if we pierce both at once."
Ray sobbed.
---
Stryker arrived halfway through.
Ray didn't hear the door open. Didn't see him walk in.
But he felt him.
The air grew colder. Heavy. Like the room didn't want him there either.
"Well, well. Still screaming? That's a surprise."
Ray turned his head slightly, as much as he could.
Stryker stepped into view, eyes sharp, smug. Dressed in black. A predator pretending to be a man.
He crouched beside the table, staring into Ray's face like examining a defective product.
"You're not dying," Stryker murmured. "No matter what we do. Fascinating."
He reached out, brushing Ray's blood-matted hair aside.
"Do you know how many of them would kill for your gift? And here you are, wasting it by being weak."
Ray growled against the gag.
Stryker smiled. "Let's try something more… creative."
---
They removed part of his liver next.
No sedation. Just a scalpel and clamps.
Ray's body bucked. His muffled screams turned hoarse, primal. The pain was too much—sharp, constant, acidic. But he couldn't lose consciousness.
Couldn't escape.
The liver regrew in minutes, but the blood didn't disappear. It painted the table. Splattered the floor. Dripped from his fingertips.
Every injury healed.
But every drop of blood remained.
A constant reminder of what they'd done. What they were still doing.
From behind the glass:
"Organ recovery is faster than anticipated." "Test his eyes next."
Ray whimpered.
---
Ray's vision blurred.
The lights melted into streaks. The voices behind the glass were no longer words—just buzzing, biting laughter. He wasn't sure if they were even speaking anymore.
Was he awake? Was he dreaming?
No.
He was awake. Still there. Still hurting.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
The pain didn't come in waves anymore. It was a sea, swallowing him. He floated in it, limp, choking.
And beneath it all, that sensation.
Their eyes.
Watching.
Not like people.
Like gods, looking down on a failed creation.
Something less.
Something dirty.
One of the voices behind the glass murmured something like, "It's working. See how fast it stabilizes now?"
Ray felt another wave of heat flood his chest. Something inside was ruptured again. It healed.
Then they started over.
---
He lost track of time.
The tests blurred into one long scream. His muscles tore. Bones broken. Organs sliced open, crushed, regrown, again and again and again.
His body obeyed. It healed. Over and over.
But his mind—his mind began to break.
Not all at once. Just… chips.
A piece here. A splinter there.
That faint crack inside him returned once—sharper now, louder. Like a whisper on the edge of thought.
Then it disappeared again.
Gone.
Like it had never been there.
---
At some point, they stopped.
Someone said, "That's enough for today."
Was it minutes? Hours?
The restraints were removed.
Ray didn't move.
Couldn't.
His eyes stared at the ceiling. Empty. His mouth hung open, the gag removed. His jaw ached. His body was whole again.
But everything hurt.
Even his heartbeat.
The blood hadn't been cleaned up.
It stained everything.
The guards avoided stepping in the puddles, boots skirting the stains like they might catch the plague from touching him.
Red footprints marked the floor. His blood. His reminders. A trail of what he survived.
As they dragged him toward the door, one last murmur slipped from behind the glass:
"Tomorrow, we'll push him further."
The door shut.
Ray thought he heard laughter.
Or maybe it was just the sound of something forming—
—then vanishing, as if it never existed at all.
---
💎 Three Powerstones = maybe… just maybe… I'll let Ray sleep. (No promises.) Vote now or Ray gets another injection~
(￣ε￣＠)