Her brain buzzed with pain. A haze of red clouded her vision, and hot gore slid across her skin. She couldn't stop—the tearing of flesh, the sting beneath her fingernails—it all blurred into sensation.
Then, darkness again.
She drifted in and out of it. Cold metal cuffs bound her wrists above her head. Her exposed back scraped against a steel floor as the stench of blood and rust filled her nostrils, setting her lungs ablaze. It was sharp, acrid—like breathing in fire-drenched iron.
Rina twisted in place, skin catching fire with every drag against the ground. Each movement sent sparks of pain through her spine. She was raw. Pulled. Degraded.
The motion stopped. A groan slipped from her throat as she blinked up at the shadow looming above her.
"Could you—fucking—stop?" she snapped. Her shirt had ridden up, exposing her stomach. The guard dragging her leered, his eyes crawling over her like grease.
Disgust prickled across her skin.
"I'll stop when you stop being a damn creep," she growled, yanking her shirt back down with all the dignity she could muster. The guard's grin faltered. He turned away, muttering.
Thank god.
Her breath hitched. The dragging had stopped, but her body was still on fire, the phantom pain of his grip digging into her arms like iron cuffs.
Then—actual bile.
She turned her head just in time as her stomach wrenched itself empty. Dry heaving into a puddle of acidic sheen that glistened against the floor.
"Fucking yikes," the guard muttered. His voice was thick and grating, like he hadn't cleared his throat in years. The way he said it made the curse sound cartoonish—laughable, if she hadn't just puked up the nothing inside her.
He coiled the chain around his hand and knelt down beside her.
"I was gonna knock your bloodsucking ass out, but…" He studied her, expression unreadable. "Clearly, you don't need another head injury. So I'll do you one better."
A click.
Her cuff beeped, and suddenly her body slackened. The tension—gone. Muscles melted. Her breath steadied.
An eerie calm seeped in.
The anxiety didn't just lessen—it vanished, like someone had turned off a switch inside her brain. The floor no longer felt cold and stained. It felt… velvety. Her eyes blurred, vision swimming in pastel hues.
The air became thick and sweet, like breathing in cotton candy.
The steel walls faded at the edges, shimmering like something from a dream. The whole world bent into a soft mirage. Her restraints glowed. Her skin tingled. Her lungs sang with relief.
She didn't question it.
What was this?
The thought passed like a leaf in wind.
Everything softened. She sank beneath the surface of consciousness, floating on warm syrup. The room dissolved into something surreal—like she'd stepped into The Birth of Venus. Or a memory of it. Something elegant. Holy.
It felt expensive. Pampered. Like she mattered.
And then it all vanished.
The high left her like a wave crashing out to sea, dragging her body with it.
Reality snapped back with a vengeance.
The cot dug into her spine. Her back ached. Her lungs, now dry and sore, felt like they were filled with dust and broken glass. She sat up slowly, every joint resisting her.
Her cell was even smaller than she remembered. A cramped space—just enough room for a cot, a toilet-sink combo, and the heavy air pressing against her chest. Silver walls, grimy with old sweat and rust, boxed her in. A glowing forcefield sealed her off from the corridor beyond.
The walls pulsed, breathing in on her.
Her throat tightened.
Her hands slicked with sweat.
The panic came fast.
It crept up her body, slithering like a serpent around her ribs, coiling into her lungs. Her skin prickled, throat closing. She couldn't breathe.
She gasped, but it felt like inhaling through a straw.
The forcefield shimmered in front of her like glass coated in syrup.
She slammed her fists against it. The slick, humming surface pushed back with a hum. She hit it again. Harder. Her palms split. Skin tore. Her knuckles flared with pain.
Still, she hit it. Again. Again.
Blood smeared across the forcefield in jagged patterns.
She couldn't stop.
A shadow moved outside her cell.
A voice followed—muffled, uninterested:
"You should stop before we all get in trouble, freak."
She froze. Pressed a bleeding hand to the barrier, trying to see.
A tall figure stood on the other side. His silhouette leaned in, sighing with theatrical boredom.
"I guess we'll have to move her," he said to someone out of sight. "Being alone's not good for these types."
These types.
Her chest rose sharply.
Who was she?
She didn't remember.
Twelve hours. Gone. A chunk of her identity erased.
"Why the fuck am I here?" she yelled, her voice raw. "I didn't do anything!"
Her arms dropped to her sides, trembling. Pain overrode everything else. Her hands throbbed, her breath faltered.
"They all say that," the man replied, unmoved. He tapped the control panel beside the door.
A mechanical shushk echoed.
"Back up," he said. The words had weight—but no care.
The forcefield hissed and disappeared. Another guard entered, gripping a long, mechanical rod—like an oversized trash picker from some twisted sanitation department.
The clamp snapped shut around her neck. Cold metal dug into her collarbone.
"Get up."
Another pair of hands grabbed her wrists and yanked them behind her. The cuffs clicked, sharper this time. Crueler.
"You're treating me like a crimina—"
"You are in prison, for Albe's sake," the man said flatly. "Shut up and start walking."
She wanted to pray. To scream. To vanish.
But instead, she moved.
Her feet shuffled beneath her like lead. She didn't know where they were taking her. She didn't care. Maybe a medical ward. Maybe a pit.
She just wanted to stop bleeding.
The corridor was filthy—walls peeling with rust, air stale with cigarettes and disinfectant. Shadows from flickering lights danced on the floor.
Other inmates watched her pass.
They laughed.
Mocking snorts, cruel whistles. One pounded on their cell wall as she passed. Another howled, "Fresh meat!"
Rina dropped her eyes to the floor. Her cheeks burned.
She couldn't even give a school presentation without panicking. Now she was a one-woman parade in a prison zoo.
The hallway stretched too long. Her legs dragged. Her hands screamed with every step as the cuffs rubbed against raw flesh.
Fuck, it hurt.
The sharp metal edges of the cuffs bit into her skin. Each step felt like a punishment. The pain grounded her—but only barely. Only enough to remind her she was still alive.
Barely.
She didn't know how much longer she could take this.
And no one cared.