I shall die, but that is all I shall do for death.

"Can you tell me why you're here, Isaac?" Her voice is so fucking dull, and her eyes are so goddamn dead, he doesn't even remember her name but she's a doctor – probably – all he can focus on is the repeated click of her pen against the clipboard. It's annoying – it's fucking infuriating. He wants to snap the pen in half, he wants to snap her wrist in half. He wonders what she'd look like in pain, god, he wants to hurt her –

"Isaac?"

"Fuck off," he grunts, he's supposed to be playing nice, otherwise they'll lock him up in that padded room again with the flickering lights.

"Isaac, you've got to talk about it. You've been through some serious trauma –"

"That's what they tell me doc," He shrugs while absentmindedly picking at a loose thread, he'd like to unravel the whole fucking chair, but he supposed that didn't count as playing nice, "thing is, I can't remember it. So, what's there to habiltate or what the fuck ever you just said."

"Our job is to help you remember," the woman persisted, he focused on her mouth, she had a deep red lipstick, it reminded him of blood, but it was smudged across her chin and made her look like a fucking dumbass, "to help you cope,"

"What, so I can spend the rest of my life in fucking fifty cent scrubs eating mashed potatoes next to a bunch of nutcases?"

The woman's voice turned cold, "That's not very nice Isaac,"

It was a warning as much as it was anything else.

He rolled his eyes in defiance but firmly pressed his lips together lest he says something else and gets sent back to the basement – he didn't like the basement, didn't like being underground for that matter. It made him feel trapped, suffocated. It made him feel caged and cages were for animals. Isaac Foster wasn't a goddamn animal. He was a person – a mangled, ferocious beast of a man – but a man all the same.

"Tell me one thing, one real thing," The woman – doctor – tried again.

Isaac slowly dragged his head up to meet her lifeless gaze, her brows were furrowed, and her lips were pressed firmly together but there was no emotion in her eyes. He didn't owe this bitch anything. In fact he wanted to break her fucking neck.

"Just one thing and we'll transfer you to the top floor, you won't go back to the basement."

Isaac sighed and adjusted uncomfortably in his seat. The woman smirked and leaned back in her chair. He wanted to wipe that ugly ass smile off of her face, she was looking at him like she had won. But the bitch hadn't won anything, and before he left this shit hole, he would make sure she knew that.

"I don't remember shit, but, uh, I guess there was a light. Or maybe not a light, fuck I don't know. It was like blue, everything feels, or I guess felt blue. I don't know what that means, but there you go, there's something real. Churn out some fake ass metaphors if you will doc and send me on my way please."

"Hmm, that's not enough Isaac."

"What do you want from me? I told you I can't remember."

"I think we'll try again tomorrow."

"No, no you said one thing! That was one fucking thing."

"Isaac, we both know, pardon my French, you pulled that out of your ass. I asked for something real. But, don't worry, you'll have plenty of time to think about it tonight, in the basement."

"No, you said, you –" Isaac rose to his feet, an anger, tangible and intense permeated the silence, his whole body shook with the weight of his fury. She clicked her pen again.

"Now don't get riled up Isaac, you know what happens when you get angry."

He did know, fuck, he knew exactly what was going to happen, but the problem was, he was angry. A blistering kind of heat, then. One that sat in his chest and sent violent tremors down the length of his spine. A kind that set his nerves on fire, he wanted to smash her face in, he wanted to paint the walls with her blood. He was so goddamn angry. She lied to him, and he fucking hated liars.

He didn't have much, but he had his hands, and he supposed those were as good a weapon as any. Supposed they could choke the life out of her just the same.

"I need backup in room B2," The doctor cried into her speaker.

Before Isaac could react, he was tackled to the ground, a syringe was violently jammed into his shoulder. The drug worked quick, he flung his arms around wildly to thwart his attackers but already his body was reacting, his arms were too heavy to lift, and his legs didn't work right. His heart thumped slowly at odds with the plethora of thoughts racing through his mind.

While his mind went impossibly hazy, and he lost sight of his surroundings one thing and one thing alone remained. The anger.

The padded room isn't so bad, there aren't windows and the lights are always on, so you can't really know much time has passed but you could throw yourself at the wall and it wouldn't hurt that bad, just a little. Not so bad at all, except the lights flickered unceremoniously and the walls leaked enough to soak the padding and in turn his scrubs.

It was hot too. An uncomfortable heat, one that reminded him of burning, of being burned.

Which he must have been, his skin was proof enough of that. Isaac wasn't particularly vain, he didn't give a damn about what he looked like, yet he wasn't so unbothered that he could ignore the way his ashy flesh looked warped and mangled in the false light.

They didn't let him wear bandages here. Which was fine, fucking fine, it's not like he got any company.

Since he'd been brough to this shit hole he'd seen very few people. The doctor, some security guards, and a man with empty eyes. They usually kept him locked in the basement but allowed him out of his daily therapy sessions.

His doctor, he couldn't be bothered with her name, she was a fucking bitch anyways, often tried to lure information out of him with the promise of transferring him to the top floor. He'd been here 263 days and they still showed no signs of following through with their promise, he was starting to believe that there wasn't a top floor.

No, no he'd seen it. He knew it existed; it was just easier to pretend it didn't. To pretend there weren't lunatics living up there, with actual fucking windows, muttering to themselves about god knows what.

He didn't belong in a psych ward, there wasn't anything wrong him, I mean he had an insatiable blood lust, but he supposed everyone did. They just ignored it, pushed it down. Thing was that Isaac wasn't really interested in suppressing anything. Why shouldn't he indulge? Why should he give a damn about anyone else?

No, Isaac supposed he had every right to dole out death.

The only problem was Isaac couldn't remember why he was here, or what had brought him here. He can remember his shit childhood and the need to kill and then it all just went blank.

He couldn't remember much but he knew he didn't belong here, not really. He didn't belong in this body either, something had happened to him, he felt clumsy and slow. He had probably been in perfect shape once; he'd probably been impossible to hunt once. Why also would he be so annoyed at the annoying pudginess of his stomach?

He needed to get out of here, he needed to escape. Brute strength wasn't an option, obviously. He needed to get to the top floor, and then he could work it out from there. Obviously there just wasn't much he could do locked in a basement.

He'd need to cook up some half-baked bullshit about his feelings and what the fuck ever, he'd need to really lay it on thick. Suck it up to the stupid bitch, which wasn't in his nature. He knew that, knew it like he knew everything else, it wouldn't be easy. He couldn't play nice, not really.

But he had to get out of here. He couldn't stay locked in this basement forever; he wasn't going to. He could already see the future version of himself, escaped and better than ever. He'd get back into shape and then when possible, he'd come back, and he'd lay waste to this shit hole.

He'd burn the entire place down and kill anyone who got in his way.

Isaac Foster was a lot of things, but he wasn't fucking crazy.

Revenge was going to be sweet.