TW: This chapter pretty edgy and/or vulgar. If you despise that sort of stuff, then skip ahead (I´ll put what chapter to skip to when I make it)
Suffering isn't loud. It's not the scream or the shatter—it's the silence that follows.
It's the echo of your own thoughts in the dark, asking questions that never get answers.
True darkness doesn't come from the absence of light, but from the absence of hope.
And once that's gone, pain doesn't need to hurt to win. It just needs to stay.
(Rei POV)
The room is too bright, too cold, like it's trying to burn me and freeze me all at once. My wrists sting where the straps dig in, the skin raw and wet, like it's crying for me because I can't anymore. The leather's chewed into me, leaving red, oozing marks that throb with every heartbeat.
I try to shift, to ease the pain, but the straps hold tight, biting harder, like they're alive and angry. The light above stabs my eyes, making them water, but I blink it away, refusing to let them think it's tears.
I'm thirteen, but I feel like I've been here forever, strapped to this hard table, the metal slick with my sweat. My chest hurts with every breath, and the air tastes sharp, like medicine and blood.
My ribs ache, bruised from thrashing, from trying to break free when I still thought I could. The table's cold seeps into my back, making my bones feel brittle, like they'll snap if I move wrong. I'm so tired, but sleep doesn't come—not here, not with them watching.
Above me, a machine stares down, all wires and needles, like a monster waiting to eat me. Its arms glint in the light, sharp and hungry, and I don't want to look at it, but my eyes keep flicking up, scared it'll move if I don't watch.
It's like a spider, waiting to strike, and every time I see it, my stomach twists tighter.
I try to focus on the ceiling, counting cracks that aren't there, but the machine's hum fills my head, low and mean, promising more pain.
The door hisses, and my stomach twists so hard I think I'll be sick. My heart's pounding, loud in my ears, and I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms.
I don't want to look, but I have to. I need to know who's coming, what's coming. The sound's too familiar now, like a warning bell in my head, telling me the hurting's about to start again.
A scientist walks in, his face blank, like I'm just a thing to him. He's skinny, with glasses that catch the light, making his eyes look empty. They call him Dr. Kuroda, but I don't care about his name.
He doesn't look at me, not really—just at the screens, the needles, the tools that could make me hurt. I'm not a person to him. I'm an experiment, a puzzle he's trying to crack.
But it's the shadow behind him that makes my heart slam against my ribs, so hard it feels like it'll break them.
I can't breathe right, my chest tight, my throat closing up.
I want to shrink away, to disappear, but the straps won't let me.
The shadow moves, slow and heavy, like it's eating the air, and I know who it is before I even see him.
All For One. He's here, like always, a darkness that fills the room, making it smaller, colder. His face is hidden, but I feel his eyes, like they're cutting into me, peeling me apart. He's the shadow I felt when I was nine, the thing that watched me in the dark, waiting.
Now he's real, and I can't escape him.
He doesn't need to say anything. Just him being there feels like a hand squeezing my throat, making my quirk twitch inside me, sharp and wrong, like it's trying to claw its way out.
My Ghost Hands, the ones I used to love, feel like a traitor now, twisting inside me, hurting me. Every time they come out, it's like they're tearing pieces of me away, leaving me hollow.
I hate how they make me feel, how they make me weak.
The scientist's talking, his voice flat, like he's reading a book about me. "Vitals stable. Quirk activity elevated. Pain response within parameters." I want to scream at him to shut up, to stop acting like I'm not here, but my throat's too raw, my voice gone from all the screaming before.
My lips are cracked, stinging, and I taste blood when I swallow. I want to tell him I'm a person, not a number, not a thing, but the words won't come. They never do.
I bite my lip instead, tasting blood, trying to keep still even though my whole body's shaking. My hands tremble in the straps, my legs twitch, and I feel like I'm going to fall apart. I'm so scared, but I can't let them see it.
I can't let him see it.
I bite harder, the pain grounding me, keeping me from screaming before they even start.
He holds up a syringe, the stuff inside it shining like liquid metal, catching the light like it's alive. I know what it does. It's fire. It's pain. It burns through me, makes my quirk go crazy, makes the Ghost Hands rip out of me like they're trying to run away.
I shake my head, just a little, pleading with my eyes, but he doesn't care. He never will. The needle stabs my arm, sharp and deep, and I can't stop the scream. It's loud, jagged, tearing my throat apart, and the fire spreads, burning through my veins, setting my blood alight.
My quirk explodes—ghostly hands burst from my chest, my arms, flailing, clawing at nothing. They're not mine anymore. They're wild, sharp, like broken glass, and every move feels like they're cutting me up inside.
They slash at the air, at the table, at the walls, and I feel every hit like it's my own body breaking. My chest burns, my head throbs, and I'm screaming, or maybe I'm not—just gasping, choking on the pain as the hands thrash, out of control.
My head's pounding, like someone's driving nails into it, each one deeper than the last. The hands smash against the table, the walls, leaving dents, sparks, and I try to pull them back, to make them stop, but they won't listen. I'm not strong enough. I'm just a kid, and I'm not enough. I'm not like Dad, who was strong, who could've fought. I'm not like the heroes on TV, who always win. I'm just me, and I'm failing, breaking, falling apart.
The scientist's writing something, his pen scratching like it's laughing at me, mocking my pain. One of the hands grazes his arm, and he jerks back, his face twisting like I'm disgusting, like I'm a monster. I hate him. I hate them all. I want to scream, to make the hands grab him, hurt him, but they don't listen to me. They're not mine anymore.
They're theirs, twisted by their needles, their machines, their lies.
"Control it," All For One says, and his voice is like a knife, cold and sharp, slicing into me deeper than the needles. I feel it in my chest, my bones, my soul.
I try—God, I try—to make the hands stop, to pull them back inside, but they're too big, too angry, like they're screaming for me. My chest heaves, and I'm choking on sobs I don't let out. My eyes burn, but I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall. I won't give him that.
I won't let them see me cry. Not him. Not ever. I'm thirteen, and I'm not supposed to be here, but I am, and I won't let him win. I bite my lip harder, the blood warm on my tongue, and I hold onto that pain, that small thing I can control.
Another needle. This one's different, colder, like ice sinking into my bones, freezing me from the inside. It's worse than the fire, somehow, like it's turning my blood to frost, locking me in place. My vision blurs, and suddenly I'm not just here.
I see Dad, smiling in the backyard, teaching me how to make the hands appear, his voice warm, proud. I see Mom, her hands soft, tucking me in, singing softly.
But then it twists—Dad's face melts into All For One's, his smile cruel, his eyes empty. Mom's hands turn into the straps holding me down, tightening until I can't breathe. I scream, but it's stuck in my head, echoing with the pain, bouncing around like a trapped bird. I want to go home, to be five again, to be safe, but the memories keep breaking, turning into nightmares that feel too real.
"You're fighting," All For One says, stepping closer, his voice everywhere, like the shadow that's followed me since I was five. "That's good. It makes the breaking sweeter." I want to spit at him, to tell him I'll never break, that I'm stronger than he thinks, but I'm so tired, and the pain's eating me alive. My body's heavy, my mind's fraying, and I feel like I'm slipping away, like I'm losing myself.
The machine moves, its arms whirring, and needles stab into my temples, my arms, my chest. My body jerks, the straps cutting deeper, drawing blood, and I'm screaming again, or maybe I'm not—everything's blurring together, pain and fear and noise.
The Ghost Hands go wild, thrashing, tearing at the air like they're trying to rip the world apart. It feels like they're ripping me apart, like my quirk's turning on me, breaking me from the inside. Every move is a knife in my chest, a hammer in my head, and I can't stop it.
My head's full of noise—Dad's voice, calling my name, Mom's laugh, soft and warm, the forest, the blood, All For One's laugh, cold and cruel, all twisting together until I don't know what's real.
I see the moment Dad fell, his body crumpling, his eyes empty. I see Mom's face, fading, like she's already gone. I see myself, five years old, feeling the shadow watching, not knowing what it meant. It's all here, in this room, in this pain, and I can't escape it.
I'm not strong like the heroes on TV. I'm just Rei, just a kid, and I'm breaking.
The pain's too big, too much, and I want to disappear, to just stop. I want to close my eyes and never open them again, to be nothing so they can't hurt me anymore. But there's something in me, something small, like a spark in the dark.
It's angry, burning, screaming that I'm still here. It's mine, and they can't have it.
The machine stops, and I'm barely here, my body heavy, my mind foggy, like I'm floating in a sea of pain. The straps loosen, but I can't move. My arms are numb, my legs limp, and my head's too heavy to lift. I'm just a shell, hollowed out, but that spark's still there, flickering, refusing to die.
The scientist's voice cuts through, cold as ever. "Quirk core stabilizing. We'll push harder tomorrow."
I want to laugh, to scream, to tell them there's nothing left to push, that they've already taken everything. But I don't. My voice is gone, my strength is gone, and all I have is that spark, burning in the dark.
I just lie there, feeling All For One's eyes on me, heavy, waiting, like he knows I'll break soon. He's wrong. He has to be. I'm thirteen, and I'm breaking, my body torn, my mind shattered. But that spark's still there, burning, angry, alive. They can't have it.
Not yet.