The food tray slid through the slot in the door with a metallic scrape.
It was Tuesday. Amon knew it was Tuesday because the gruel had green lumps in it. Monday was brown lumps. Wednesday was usually a grey paste that tasted like wet drywall.
Amon stared at the tray. He was sitting on the floor in the corner of the cell, knees pulled up to his chest. He wasn't wearing the restraints anymore. The Tall One—Dr. Valper, though Amon refused to think of him by name—had realized a week ago that they didn't need the straps.
Restraints were for things that fought back. Restraints were for things that had hope.
Amon picked up the plastic spoon. It was flimsy, bending under the weight of the green lumps. He took a bite. It was cold. It tasted like salt and disappointment.
Don't eat that filth, the Voice rumbled in his ear. Ddraig sounded weaker today. Less like a roaring fire and more like a dying coal. You are a King. You are the Welsh Dragon. You should be feasting on the hearts of your enemies.
"I'd settle for a burger," Amon whispered, swallowing the lump without chewing. "Do enemies taste like chicken? I feel like they'd be stringy."
You have no pride.
"Pride doesn't stop the stomach rumble, Dragon."
Amon finished the bowl. He set the tray back by the door and leaned his head against the concrete wall. The cold seeped into his skull, numbing the constant, throbbing ache behind his eyes.
He looked down at his chest. The hospital gown was open, revealing the incision they had made yesterday. It ran from his collarbone to his sternum. Yesterday, it had been a gaping red mouth, weeping blood.
Now, it was just a thin, pink line.
Amon traced the scar with a dirty fingernail. He hated it. He hated the healing more than the cutting.
"It's closing," Amon muttered.
The Bael blood, Ddraig said, sounding disgusted. The Power of Destruction destroys everything, even damage. Your body rejects injury. It is a gift.
"It's a curse," Amon corrected. "If I stayed broken, they'd stop. But because I fix myself, they just cut me again. I'm like a renewable resource. I'm an infinite battery of meat."
He closed his eyes. He could hear the hum of the ventilation system. He could hear the drip of a pipe somewhere in the walls. He could hear the scuff of shoes in the hallway.
Two pairs of shoes. One heavy, one light.
The lock clicked. Thud. Thud. Hiss.
The heavy steel door swung open.
The Tall One walked in first. He wasn't wearing a mask today. His face was sharp, angular, with eyes that looked like they had been polished with glass cleaner. He held a small, silver device in his hand—a Dictaphone.
The Short One followed, pushing a cart. The cart had wheels that squeaked. On the top tray, laid out on a sterile blue cloth, was a bone saw.
Amon didn't flinch. He didn't scream. He just looked at the saw, then at the scientist.
"I just ate," Amon said. "You're supposed to wait thirty minutes before swimming or surgery. It's a rule."
The Tall One ignored him. He clicked the Dictaphone on.
"Subject Four. Day twenty-two. The Bael regeneration factor is accelerating. The incision from the cardiac biopsy has fully sealed. No scarring. No infection."
He walked over to Amon. He didn't ask him to stand up. He just grabbed Amon's chin and tilted his head back, checking his pupils with a penlight. The light blinded Amon for a second, leaving purple spots in his vision.
"Pupil response is sluggish," the Tall One noted. "Dopamine levels are likely crashed. He's dissociating."
"Is that bad for the test, sir?" the Short One asked, arranging the tools on the cart.
"Irrelevant. The body reacts whether the mind is present or not. Pain is a biological imperative."
The Tall One let go of Amon's face. He gestured to the metal table in the center of the room.
"Get up, Four."
Amon looked at the table. It was cold. It always smelled of the last person who had been on it.
"No," Amon said.
The room went quiet. The Short One dropped a scalpel. It clattered loudly on the floor.
The Tall One looked down at Amon. He didn't look angry. He looked curious. "No?"
"I'm tired," Amon said. He didn't shout. He didn't cry. He just stated it like he was reading a weather report. "I don't want to do the saw today. The noise gives me a headache. Can we just do needles? I'm okay with needles."
The scientist stared at him for a long moment. Then, he sighed. It was the sigh of a man dealing with a broken vending machine.
"Restrain him."
The Short One hesitated. "Sir, he's... he's just a kid."
"He is a biological anomaly housed in the shell of a child," the Tall One snapped. "He is a puzzle box. And I intend to see what is inside. Restrain him. Now."
The Short One moved forward. He grabbed Amon's arm. His grip was shaky.
Amon didn't fight. What was the point? If he fought, they'd just use the shock baton. Then he'd be twitching and getting cut. It was better to just get it over with.
He let them lift him onto the table. He let them buckle the leather straps across his chest, his waist, his legs. He let them clamp his head in place so he couldn't look away.
Burn them, Ddraig hissed. The dragon was pacing in the back of his mind, a restless shadow. The Short One is weak. You could snap his wrist. You could take the saw. We could carve them.
"And go where?" Amon thought back, staring up at the ceiling tiles. "The hallway has guards. The outside world has... I don't even know what. Taxes? I heard taxes are bad."
You are infuriatingly passive.
"I'm efficient," Amon corrected. "Fighting takes energy. I'm saving my energy for not dying."
The Tall One picked up the saw. He pressed a button, and the blade began to oscillate. It made a high-pitched reeeeee sound that vibrated in Amon's teeth.
"We need a sample of the sternum," the scientist said into the Dictaphone. "To see if the bone marrow has started producing devil cells or if it remains human. This will... require pressure."
He didn't offer anesthesia. They never did. They said it interfered with the blood readings.
Amon focused on the ceiling. Tile number sixty-two. It had a crack in the corner.
The saw touched his chest.
For the first second, it was just pressure. Heavy, rattling pressure.
Then the skin gave way.
The pain wasn't sharp. It was hot. It felt like someone had poured molten lead onto his chest. It felt like the sound was vibrating inside his ribs.
Amon's back arched off the table. He couldn't help it. His body jerked against the straps, instinct trying to escape the damage.
"Hold him steady," the Tall One barked over the noise of the saw.
The Short One leaned his weight on Amon's legs. "I'm trying, sir! He's strong!"
Amon bit his tongue. He tasted copper. He refused to scream. Screaming gave them what they wanted. Screaming meant he was there with them.
Don't be there, he told himself. Be somewhere else.
He thought about the duck on the ceiling in the other room. He thought about the color blue. He thought about what a sandwich would taste like if it wasn't made of green lumps.
Mayo, Amon thought frantically. Tomatoes. Lettuce. Crisp lettuce. Not the soggy kind.
The saw bit into the bone.
The vibration changed. It went from a buzz to a grind. The smell of bone dust—chalky and burnt—filled the air. It choked him.
SCREAM! Ddraig roared in his head. Let it out! Use the rage!
Amon's vision went white. The pain was absolute. It swallowed everything. It swallowed the sandwich. It swallowed the duck.
But he didn't scream. He just opened his mouth and let out a dry, rattling exhale.
"Heart rate is spiking," the Short One yelled. "He's going into shock!"
"Adrenaline," the Tall One ordered, not looking up from his work. "Keep him awake. If he passes out, the marrow stops producing the stress enzymes."
Amon felt the needle in his neck. Cold fire.
His eyes snapped open. The white room sharpened. The pain sharpened. He couldn't leave. The drug dragged him back into the room, forcing him to feel every millimeter of the blade.
He looked at the Tall One. The scientist's face was inches from his chest, focused, intense. He looked like a watchmaker fixing a gear. He didn't see a boy. He saw a machine that was making a funny noise.
Amon stared at him. And for a second, just a split second, something flickered behind Amon's dull green eyes.
It wasn't rage. It wasn't fear.
It was nothing.
A profound, absolute void.
The saw stopped.
The Tall One pulled back, holding a small, bloody chip of bone with a pair of tweezers. He dropped it into a glass vial.
"Sample secured," he said, turning off the saw. The silence that rushed back into the room was deafening.
Amon lay on the table. His chest was a mess of blood and bone dust. He was panting, shallow, jagged breaths that rattled in his throat.
"Clean him up," the Tall One said, peeling off his gloves. "Staple the wound. It'll heal by morning anyway."
He picked up his clipboard and walked to the door. He didn't look back.
The Short One stayed behind. He picked up a wet cloth and started wiping the blood off Amon's chest. His hands were shaking.
"I'm sorry," the assistant whispered. He was so quiet Amon almost didn't hear him. "I'm sorry, kid."
Amon looked at him. The assistant was young. He had acne scars on his cheeks. He looked like he wanted to vomit.
Amon licked his dry lips. "Hey."
The assistant jumped. "Yeah? Yeah, what do you need?"
"Do you..." Amon wheezed, wincing as his chest heaved. "Do you have a cigarette?"
The assistant blinked. "What?"
"A cigarette," Amon whispered. "The Tall One smokes. I can smell it. I want one."
"You're... you're a child. You're seven years old."
Amon closed his eyes. The adrenaline was wearing off. The darkness was creeping back in, soft and heavy.
"I don't feel seven," Amon murmured. "I feel like I'm a hundred."
The assistant didn't answer. He quickly stapled the skin shut—click, click, click—and unbuckled the straps.
"I can't give you a cigarette," the assistant whispered, pulling a blanket over Amon. "But... I have a chocolate bar. In my locker. I'll bring it next time."
Amon didn't answer. He was already drifting.
Chocolate, Ddraig noted, his voice quiet. That is better than gruel.
"Yeah," Amon thought, the word fading as his consciousness slipped away. "Chocolate is good."
He lay in the dark room, listening to the drip, drip, drip of the pipe. His chest burned. His head throbbed.
But he was alive.
Unfortunately.
.......
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