Chapter 15
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The door opened.
Max heard it. That mechanical click. The scraping.
He stood. Moved toward the sound.
His feet dragged. Weak. But moving.
By the time he reached the wall, felt along it, found where the opening should be—
Closed.
The tray was there. On the floor.
Food. Again.
Max crouched. Touched it. Still warm.
He left it.
Moved back to his usual spot against the wall.
Sat down.
Time passed.
The food grew cold.
Then room temperature.
Then started to smell wrong.
Max didn't touch it.
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He was drifting. Half-asleep. Time meaningless.
Then the voice started.
His voice.
Max's eyes opened.
"—can't remember when it started. Maybe when I was seven. Or eight. They were always fighting but it got worse—"
Max sat up.
That was him. His voice. His accent. His cadence.
"—my father would come home drunk and my mother would already be angry about something else. Someone else. They'd scream for hours—"
When had he said this?
Max pressed his hands against his ears.
The voice continued. Muffled but still audible.
"—I tried to kill myself when I was fourteen. Cut my wrist in the bathroom. My friend found me. Made me promise to live—"
Max's breath came faster.
He'd never said this out loud. Never recorded it. Never told anyone except—
Except Aiko.
"—came to Japan to escape them. To escape everything. But it followed me. The isolation. The fear. The certainty that I'm fundamentally unlovable—"
"Stop," Max whispered.
The voice didn't stop.
"—Aiko died because of me. I destroyed her. I saw her suffering and did nothing. I'm responsible for her death—"
"STOP!"
The voice cut off.
Silence.
Max sat in the dark. Breathing hard.
That was his voice.
Those were his thoughts.
But he'd never spoken them.
Never.
When had they recorded—
How had they—
The gaps. The missing time. The surgeries.
They'd taken more than memories.
They'd taken his voice. His words. Things he'd only thought.
Or had he said them? During the times he couldn't remember?
Max pulled his knees to his chest.
The silence pressed back.
He sat there.
And time dissolved.
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Days passed.
Maybe four.
Maybe five.
Max had stopped counting.
The food tray had been replaced once. Maybe twice. He couldn't remember.
He hadn't touched any of it.
The hunger was beyond pain now. Beyond sensation. His body was eating itself from the inside.
His thoughts had become liquid. Unfocused. Dreams and reality bleeding together.
He lay on the floor most of the time.
Barely moving.
The darkness was inside him now. Not just around him.
Then—sound.
Footsteps.
Max's eyes opened.
The door. Opening.
Light poured in.
Blinding. Painful.
Max raised his arm. Shielded his eyes.
Two shapes. Silhouettes in the brightness.
Coming toward him.
Max tried to move. His body wouldn't respond.
Not like last time.
This time—
This time was different.
The first figure bent down. Reached for him.
Max's hand shot out.
Fast. Certain.
He grabbed the person's wrist. Pulled hard.
They fell forward. Surprised.
Max's other hand went for their throat.
Squeezed.
The second figure moved. Rushing. Something in their hand. The shock device.
Max's teeth found the first person's neck.
Bit down.
Warm blood flooded his mouth.
The person screamed. Tried to pull away.
Max held on. Jaw locked. Teeth tearing.
The second figure grabbed Max's shoulder. Tried to pull him off.
Max released the first person. Spun.
His hand found the metal tray. Still on the floor from days ago.
He swung it.
The edge caught the second figure across the face.
They stumbled back.
Max swung again. Harder.
The tray connected with their skull. A wet cracking sound.
They fell.
Max was on them immediately.
Brought the tray down. Again. Again. Again.
The metal bent. Blood splattered.
Max didn't stop.
Behind him, the first person was crawling. Choking. Hand pressed to their neck.
Max turned.
Dropped the tray.
Walked over.
Knelt down.
The person looked up at him. Eyes wide. Terrified.
Max grabbed their face.
Put his thumbs over their eyes.
Pressed.
They screamed.
He pressed harder.
Felt the give. The pop.
They stopped screaming.
Went limp.
Max held on for another moment. Making sure.
Then let go.
Stood up.
His breathing was heavy. Ragged.
Blood covered his hands. His face. His clothes.
He looked down at the bodies.
Then at his arms.
The light from the doorway illuminated them clearly now.
His forearms were destroyed.
Chunks missing. Bite patterns. Teeth marks.
His own teeth.
The flesh was raw. Some parts scabbed over. Others still open. Weeping.
He'd started three days ago.
Maybe four.
When the hunger became unbearable.
When he realized they weren't going to feed him anymore.
When he understood what he had to do.
He'd bitten into his left forearm first. Just a small piece. The pain had been extraordinary.
But he'd chewed. Swallowed.
And gained enough strength to stay conscious.
The next day—or what he assumed was the next day—he'd done it again. Larger piece. From his right arm this time.
The pain had made him pass out twice.
But he'd eaten.
His own flesh.
His own blood.
Kept himself alive.
Kept himself strong enough for this moment.
Max looked at his arms again. The damage was extensive. He'd eaten maybe a pound of flesh total. Maybe more.
Enough to give him the strength to fight.
To kill.
He stepped over the bodies.
Walked toward the light.
The doorway was open. Wide.
Beyond it—a hallway. Concrete. Fluorescent lights overhead. Painfully bright.
Max stepped through.
The light was everywhere.
White. Burning.
His eyes couldn't adjust. Couldn't process.
He'd been in darkness for so long.
How long?
Weeks? Months?
He didn't know.
Now everything was white.
Blazing. Painful.
Max raised his destroyed arms to shield his face.
Took another step.
Then another.
The hallway stretched ahead. Or behind. He couldn't tell direction.
Just light.
Endless light.
Max walked forward.
Blood dripping from his fingers.
Flesh missing from his arms.
Two bodies behind him in the black room.
And ahead—
Nothing.
Everything.
He couldn't see.
Couldn't process.
Just kept walking.
Into the light.
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