I've been hurt before. Cut open. Lacerations from claws. Bruises from punches. Broken ribs and bones and even a crash landing on Mars.
But this? This was a different kind of agony.
It wasn't the injection itself. That came early. Clean. Efficient. A needle thin as hair slid into the crook of my neck, and whatever they pumped in felt less like fluid and more like frostbite—liquid ice, threading through arteries, crawling up my spine like it wanted to colonize my brain. My jaw locked halfway through a breath. My fingers twitched. My lungs forgot how to pull in air for a full three seconds.
And then the machine hummed to life.
What followed wasn't pain the way I'd ever known it. It was a violation.
The table I was strapped to felt welded into the floor, cold steel digging into my shoulder blades. Restraints clamped over my forearms, ankles, and neck—mechanical, hissing slightly every time they adjusted their grip. Not to stop movement. To measure it.
