The pain settled into its usual place, coiled deep in my lower back, threading through my spine, running down my legs like a live wire, waiting for an excuse to flare. The doctors had their explanations—nerve damage, muscle deterioration, old fractures that never healed right. Scar tissue pressing where it shouldn’t. They listed treatments, therapies, things that might help but would never fix anything.

  None of it mattered. The end result was the same.

  I was stuck living in a body that didn’t work the way it should, with pain that never truly left.

  Moving carefully, I tested my legs before forcing myself upright. It was mail day.

  Not that it mattered much. No bills—autopay handled those. No letters from family—I had made sure of that. Just the usual flood of junk mail, pre-approved credit card offers, and whatever nonsense still found its way into a physical envelope.

  Still, I went through the motions. My keys sat in the dish by the door, right next to my painkillers. I ignored those. Slipping into my shoes, I braced myself against the familiar ache that came from leaning down, a small reminder of how much effort something so simple required. The hallway outside was silent. No sounds from the neighbors, no distant murmur of conversation. No one waiting for me. That was how I preferred it.

  Reaching the mailboxes wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t easy either. Every step sent a dull pulse of discomfort up my spine, a rhythmic beat of pain I had long since learned to live with. The cold metal of the key pressed into my fingers as I turned it, the door swinging open with a faint creak. Inside: the usual mix of useless mail. Junk. Junk. More junk. A handwritten envelope—that one got set aside. Then something heavier, its corners slightly worn, like it had traveled a long way.

  The name on the front made me pause. Marie Lenard.

  I opened it carefully, unfolding the letter tucked inside. A few short lines, simple but direct, with a photo behind them. Marie stood in the center, smiling, her arm wrapped around her husband’s waist. Between them, their daughter grinned up at the camera, bright-eyed and happy. The last time I had seen her, she had barely been old enough to walk. Now, she was growing, thriving. Alive. Because of me.

  The letter wasn’t much. Just a thank you. A small update. They had moved, found a better home. Their daughter had started school. Life had moved forward. My thumb traced the edges of the photo, careful not to smudge the ink. It had been years since I saved Marie’s life. I hadn’t expected anything in return, yet knowing she was okay—it mattered. More than I wanted to admit.

  A long breath left me, slow and measured. I should have put the letter back in the envelope, set it aside, moved on. But instead, I let my gaze linger on the photograph. There was a time when people reached out. When friends, family—people who once mattered—might have sent something like this, might have asked if I was okay. But I had made sure that stopped. Because it was easier to suffer alone. Because dragging someone else into my misery would only make them suffer too. Because at the end of the day, my pain was mine alone.

  My fingers curled slightly, creasing the edge of the letter. The weight in my chest wasn’t unfamiliar, but it settled deeper than usual, twisting in a way I didn’t like. A cruel contrast—Marie’s life moving forward while mine remained exactly where I had left it. I exhaled, tucking the photo back into the envelope, running my thumb over the paper before setting it aside.

  And that’s when I felt it. Another envelope, beneath my fingers. Not junk. Not handwritten like Marie’s. Just there.

  The paper was thick, heavier than the others. No return address. No postage. Just my name. Sylas Orread.

  A cold weight pressed against the base of my spine. Marie’s letter had made sense. It wasn’t really for me. It was for the man who had saved her, the one who had existed in her life for a single moment, a moment that had passed. But this? This was personal. The envelope felt wrong in my hands—too deliberate.

  I stood there for a long moment, staring at my own name printed on the front. Then, gripping it a little tighter, I turned and started the walk back to my apartment.

  The walk back was routine, the kind of movement I didn’t have to think about. My fingers flexed against the envelopes, the thick one pressing into my palm while Marie’s letter rested lightly on top. When I reached my door, I unlocked it and stepped inside.

  I set the mail on the table, Marie’s envelope sliding slightly to the side. The paper was creased where I had gripped it too tightly. It was good that she was doing well. That was the whole point. I had saved her, and she had lived. That was all there was to it.

  Flipping the lid of the trash open with my foot, I tossed the junk mail inside first. Pre-approved offers, fake urgency, useless reminders of a world that had no reason to reach me anymore. Then Marie’s letter. It slipped from my fingers without pause, falling between crumpled paper and forgotten notices.

  It was better that way.

  I had moved on. There was no reason to keep anything from her. No reason to hold onto proof that, for a moment, I had made a difference. I didn’t need to read it again. I didn’t need the reminder.

  But the photo was different.

  Their smiling faces. Their joy. Exactly what I needed to liven this place up. I moved to the small table by the wall. A framed military photo sat there, the glass still clean. My own face stared back, younger, belief still etched into his being. Belief that being a hero was worth it.

  I set Marie’s photo beside it, resting it against the frame. She had a future. I had a past. That was the way things were.

  The thick envelope still waited on the table, heavier than the others. I reached for the edge, ready to see what had found me after all this time.

  Mr. Orread,

  You have lost who you were.

  You who trained day and night to protect. You who withstood more in a handful of years than most do in a lifetime. You who stood out like a beacon, even among those who carried the same flag. You who shielded those who could not defend themselves.

  And now, you suffer. Alone. Almost forgotten. You have given up.

  But not all is lost. A new path still exists. A new fate. I cannot promise it will be free of pain, only that it will not be the pain you know now. That you will be able to start again.

  Simply drop some blood onto this letter.

  Sincerely,

  The letter ended there, with no sender, no explanation. Just... ominous vagueness. Classic.

  I stared at it for a moment, baffled. Then I crumpled it into my fist and stuffed it into my pocket, muttering something about "weird junk mail," and forced myself to my feet. Because, you know, nothing says "totally trustworthy" like a stranger demanding blood from a guy who could barely make the trip to the mailbox and back.

  I pushed away from the table, shaking my head as I moved toward the sink. The weight of the letter sat in my pocket, crumpled against my thigh, but I ignored it. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to sell me on some grand, life-changing opportunity. Usually, they just came with less bloodletting and more fine print.

  The faucet groaned as I twisted the knob, water sputtering to life. I splashed some onto my face, the cold biting against my skin. It did little to clear the fog creeping into my head. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe the words from that letter had dug in deeper than I wanted to admit. I needed sleep. Or at least something to distract me from the feeling that I wasn’t as alone as I should be.

  The air in the apartment shifted. Not colder. Not heavier. Just off. I turned the sink off, standing motionless as I listened. Then I heard it.

  A creak. Faint. Deliberate. Not from inside. Just beyond my door.

  I waited, my pulse steady, my mind catching up to what my instincts already knew. No reason for anyone to be out there. No reason for them to hesitate. The silence stretched, too long, too expectant. Another shift followed—the subtle drag of weight shifting over the floor. Not leaving. Waiting.

  A slow breath left me as I moved away from the sink, careful, silent, placing myself behind the door where the shadows stretched long. The knob turned. Not a rattle. Not a forceful shove. A slow, patient motion, controlled, confident, the kind that didn’t expect resistance. The latch clicked, and the door eased open while I held my breath, my muscles tight, my body coiled. Then she stepped inside.

  Tall, broad, moving with the weight of someone who didn’t need to rush. Even in the dim light, I could tell she was built for force, for taking people down hard and fast. She barely cleared the threshold before her head turned slightly—too aware, too practiced.

  I tried to shove the door forward, aiming to slam it into her back, but she reacted before I had even committed to the motion. Her body twisted, one thick arm swinging wide, and then something crashed against the side of my skull. Fist, elbow—something solid and merciless. The force sent my vision sparking, my balance breaking before I even realized I was falling. My knees hit first, and before I could brace myself, my shoulder struck the ground, my body failing to respond the way it should.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Boots stepped into view, heavy and sure, closing the distance before I could blink the haze from my eyes. She loomed over me, her form blocking the light from the hallway. I barely caught a glimpse of a face—then another sharp sting against my neck.

  A rush of cold fire burned through my veins. My limbs wouldn’t move. My thoughts scattered, distant and ungraspable. The world twisted, my body slumping, my mind narrowing to a single, final realization before everything went dark.

  I needed help.

  I wasn't where I'd fallen asleep—that much was clear.

  Instinct kicked in, and I scanned my surroundings. The room resembled a prison cell or maybe a holding area, but it wasn't just the plain walls and sparse furnishings that struck me. There was something deliberately lifeless about the space, as though it had been designed to wear down anyone unlucky enough to be inside.

  A faint, metallic scent hung in the air, clinging to me like an unwelcome ghost. My nose wrinkled involuntarily, but I couldn't shake the smell.

  "No one will miss him," a distinctly feminine voice said from somewhere beyond my line of sight. There was a lilting amusement to her tone, like she was savoring some private joke. "He lives alone. No one comes to visit... not even once."

  She sounded like she was smiling.

  A gravelly voice responded, male and hoarse, like he'd smoked a pack of cigarettes before screaming into a void for hours. "He's perfect. Ready him. Don't hurt him anymore—we need all of his organs as healthy as possible. I'll go and change. Good work."

  Wait. Did I hear that right? They need my organs?

  What the actual fuck.

  I froze, forcing myself to stay still despite the panic clawing its way up my throat. My mind raced, formulating a plan. I'd wait for her to get close, then strike with everything I had. They weren't going to take me down without a fight.

  But of course, my back had other ideas.

  As she moved closer, her steps echoing in the sterile silence, I waited for my moment. When she was finally within reach, I twisted as hard as I could toward her, ready to act. Not with lethal intent—at least not immediately—but to subdue her.

  Instead, my back spasmed so violently that I couldn't stop myself from screaming in pain.

  So much for the element of surprise.

  It turned out that my flailing, spasmodic twist was the correct move—if only because it gave me a second to process the sheer size of her.

  She was gigantic. Like every Amazonian warrior I'd ever read about in my books, but bigger. More imposing. Her broad shoulders and towering frame seemed exaggerated, almost cartoonish, and yet she was real—terrifyingly real.

  And she was smiling.

  Not a kind smile, though. It was the kind of smile that said she'd been expecting me to try something. That she wanted me to. Like she was savoring the idea of putting me back in my place.

  As I shrieked in pain, she scooped me up with startling gentleness. The contrast was jarring. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and soothing, like a mother calming a restless child. "Now, now. Enough of that. You are strong, and I am here to take care of you."

  Her smile widened, stretching her face in a way that seemed unnatural, like a mask cracking at the edges. The longer I stared at her, the more wrong she looked—like something human-shaped but not quite human.

  She cradled me in her arms, walking around the room with slow, deliberate steps, as though rocking me to sleep. The pain in my back began to subside, though not because of any relief she offered—more like my body had simply given up on feeling.

  Then, as she paused, she began removing my clothes. Her hands were surprisingly careful, peeling away the fabric as though unwrapping a fragile gift. It wasn't hurried or rough—she worked with a bizarre tenderness, folding each piece neatly before setting it aside.

  I could only watch, horror and humiliation warring within me, as she stripped me down to nothing. It felt more clinical than lewd, but that only made it worse. I was being reduced to an object, a task she needed to complete.

  Once I was bare, she gently laid me back on the cold table.

  With meticulous care, she straightened me out, smoothing my limbs into position as if arranging a doll. Then, without hesitation, she began strapping me down.

  Each movement was tender, almost reverent, as though she thought this was an act of kindness.

  It didn't make it any less terrifying.

  The man returned shortly after. I recognized his voice immediately, even though he was now dressed in a pristine white coat that seemed out of place in this grim setting.

  "Good job getting him ready," he said, his tone dripping with unsettling cheer. "You really are the best." He gave the woman a patronizing pat on the arm, like she was a pet who'd fetched a ball.

  "Be a dear and fetch my tools. And the freezer," he added with a smile.

  She nodded, her movements deliberate and obedient, before lumbering out of sight.

  I had no choice but to focus on the man standing over me. His wide smile gleamed with a strange, manic glee, his eyes sparkling as though he'd just won the lottery.

  Leaning in close, his breath was hot and wet against my ear, thick with the scent of stale coffee and something metallic, like blood left to dry. His voice was barely a whisper, a mockery of intimacy, as though he were sharing a secret only meant for me.

  "I'm not going to give you any pain meds for this. I enjoy hearing people scream."

  A shudder ran through me, deep and involuntary. Fear had a taste—bitter, acrid, pooling beneath my tongue. I swallowed it down, but it did nothing to steady my breathing. My body knew what was coming before my mind could fully accept it.

  His fingers, too warm, too steady, trailed along my cheek before giving it a light pat, almost affectionate. He pulled back just enough for me to see his face. His grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting his expression in two like something barely stitched together.

  "Besides," he murmured, his tone almost fond, "you're used to pain, aren't you?"

  My throat burned, raw from the earlier screaming. The taste of iron coated my tongue, thick and suffocating. I swallowed hard, forcing my breath into something steadier, something that might hold onto what little control I had left.

  "Why?"

  It came out as barely more than a rasp, thin and weak, pathetic. It was all I had left.

  He let out a short, amused breath, as though I had just asked him the stupidest question in the world. "Why not?"

  A choked sound left me—not a laugh, not a sob. Just air, escaping like something had finally given way inside me. I shut my eyes, knowing there was no saving me. No one was coming. No one was looking. I had built this life, brick by brick, made myself bitter, unlikable, alone. Now I was going to die that way.

  His heavy boots scuffed against the floor as he stepped back. Waiting.

  I heard her return—her steps slower, more deliberate. No reason to hurry. The sound of metal clinking together followed her, sharp and purposeful. The scrape of steel against steel. A rustle of fabric. A loud thud as something heavy was dropped beside the table.

  I clenched my jaw. My heart pounded so hard it felt like my ribs would crack under the force of it. I could hear it in my ears, a dull roar, almost drowning out the words he spoke next.

  "Let's begin."

  The first cut wasn’t rushed.

  It was careful. Precise. The blade pressed against my skin, not slicing right away, just hovering there, teasing. Then, with unbearable slowness, he dragged it forward.

  The pain was instant. A sharp, searing fire that tore through flesh like paper. My body recoiled on instinct, but the straps held me down, tight enough to bite into my skin.

  He waited.

  I gritted my teeth, pressing my lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

  "Come on, Mr. Orread," he murmured, voice laced with amusement. "I know you can do better than that."

  The blade pressed deeper, muscle parting beneath its edge, the wound spreading open like a gaping mouth. The pain escalated into something raw, something unbearable. It wasn’t like taking a hit, like being shot or broken or burned. This was slow. This was deliberate. This was pain drawn out, savored.

  I clenched my jaw, my entire body locking up in an effort to keep it in.

  Then he twisted the knife.

  A scream ripped from my throat before I could stop it.

  It was raw, hoarse, ragged, scraping its way out like it had been torn from the deepest part of me. I gasped for air, but it wasn’t enough, the pain still there, still growing.

  "That’s better," he purred, pleased, savoring it.

  The blade withdrew, only to be replaced by something colder, sharper.

  Another cut. Deeper.

  My back arched as much as the restraints allowed, my muscles seizing. Blood spilled freely now, running in hot rivers, thick and slow. The metallic scent filled my nose, overwhelming. I was drenched in it, soaking into the table, sticky against my skin.

  "Oh, you scream well," he mused, as if complimenting an artist’s brushwork. "I could listen to this for hours."

  The knife slid lower.

  A new cut.

  I choked out a sob, my mind splintering under the agony. My body was shaking, twitching uselessly. No matter how I struggled, there was nowhere to go. The straps were tight, biting, the cold of the table leeching into my bones, merging with the pain.

  "Let's see how much you can take," he murmured.

  I would have begged. I would have pleaded. But the screams stole every ounce of air I had left.

  The pain wasn’t just in my body anymore. It was in my skull, in my mind, splitting through me in ways I hadn’t thought possible. My vision blurred. Black spots spread across my sight, a warning.

  Blood loss.

  Shock.

  I was slipping.

  His voice reached me, distant now, words twisting at the edges of my fading consciousness. "Don’t pass out on me now, Sylas. We’re only just getting started."

  His fingers pressed against the fresh wound, inside it, spreading it wider. My entire body seized violently, my eyes snapping open with pain.

  And I saw the blood. I saw it run like a river, soaking through my clothes and creeping across my pants.

  My pants.

  Where I had crumpled the letter from earlier.

  A spark of memory flickered in my mind, faint but insistent, as though trying to pull me back from the brink.

  But then, everything around me began to brighten—not fade into darkness, but surge. The metallic scent, the cold table beneath me, and the pain itself all dissolved into an overwhelming brilliance.

  I saw no more, but it wasn't blackness. It was white.