Disclaimer! I don't know if the medical things are right. I did little research, but it's difficult. So I am sorry if there are things that are not right in the real world.
AU—OOC
TW: Strong Language — Graphic content — Violence —Physical Abuse — Emotional Distress
~ Chasing Flashbacks ~
• Part One •
Sweet dreams are made of this, who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas, everybody's looking for something
Some of them want to use you, some of them want to get used by you
Some of them want to abuse you, some of them want to be abused
- Eurythmics
Is it day or night? I don't know anymore. Time doesn't exist here—it's just a stretch of agony and confusion. How long have I been in this place? Hours? Days? Weeks? I can't tell. The fluorescent lights never turn off. They sear into my skull even when I close my eyes. The bright, unrelenting glow pierces through my eyelids, robbing me of even the smallest reprieve.
Everything hurts. My body. My mind. It's relentless. They don't stop. They won't stop. They just keep going, finding new ways to break me, to hurt me. Some sessions are shorter, but others stretch on for what feels like eternity. It's worse because there's no darkness here, no place to hide. Just blinding light and the constant hum of electricity, like the whole room is alive and feeding off my pain.
The collar around my neck is the worst of it. Heavy. Suffocating. It presses down like a weight, a constant reminder that I'm powerless and weak. Whenever I do something—anything—that doesn't fit their twisted expectations, they activate it. The electric shocks rip through me, some so intense I can't even scream, just convulse as my vision goes white with the searing pain. Why do they hurt me? What did I do to deserve this?
Why don't I remember? What happened to me? How did I let them capture me? I should have fought harder, should've… done something. But it's too late now.
The cold here isn't just physical. It seeps into my ghost skin, into the cracks of my shattered core. I feel colder than I ever have, even colder than my ice powers could make me. I'm naked. Why am I naked? My suit—they took it. Ripped it off to dissect me—no, vivisect me. The sharp tools. The way they pressed and prodded. And Mom… she was there. She tried to rip my core out of me. My existence. How long ago was that?
My core. It feels… wrong. Empty. Everything in me is wrong. I can't heal myself. I can't even transform into my human form because of this collar. It's draining me, holding back every shred of power I have left. Without my powers, I'm nothing but a fragile shell. Just a ghost—weak, vulnerable, and exposed.
Okay, Fenton. Think. Don't be such a miserable person. I can't let them see me like this. Can't let them know how broken I feel. This isn't the first time I've faced something impossible. I've survived before, haven't I? I just need to hold on. Need to think of a way out, to find whatever strength I have left.
"Wake up."
A voice. It's sharp. A woman?
Huh?
Mom? Jazz? Sam? Someone who cares?
"Come on. Don't pretend you're asleep now. Ghosts don't sleep. Ghosts don't need sleep."
"What?" Danny's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
He forced his eyes open, wincing as the harsh fluorescent lights above burned into them. He blinked rapidly, the room dancing into focus, a sterile, white ceiling glaring back at him.
A bitter, acrid stench assaulted his senses—a mixture of burned metal and something sharper, more alien. Ectoplasm. It made his throat tighten and his stomach churn. Hoping it wasn't his that he smelled.
Danny shifted slightly, only to feel the cold bite of the surface beneath him. The table. Its icy sting seeping into his bare back and limbs. It felt colder than his own ghostly skin—a biting cold that shouldn't have been possible. A shiver crawled up his spine, but he wasn't sure if it was from the cold.
He tried to sit up, instinctively bracing his hands against the surface, but his wrists didn't move. A metallic clink echoed faintly in the silence. He looked down, straining against the blinding lights, and saw the cuffs biting into his skin, locking his arms at his sides. The sharp edges of the iron dug into his wrists.
He tried his legs next—nothing. They were bound too, his ankles shackled and spread just far enough apart to make him feel exposed, vulnerable. The cold metal pressed hard against his bare skin, amplifying the discomfort with every breath. He tugged against the restraints, his muscles straining, but it was futile. The cuffs didn't budge.
Restrained. Of course.
Danny let his head fall back against the table, a hollow thud reverberating in his skull. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as he stared up at the ceiling again. He felt the humiliation creep in like a tide, mixed with fear and a gnawing anger that he couldn't quite push away.
His fingers curled into fists, the edges of the cuffs biting deeper into his skin. He clenched his jaw tightly, grinding his teeth against the swell of frustration.
"Phantom. Don't be so manipulative. I know you're faking it—all of it. Your feelings, your emotions. They're nothing but echoes of human behavior. You mimic them because you want to blend in, to belong among the human race. But you can't. You never will. You're an ectoplasmic entity—a ghost. A ghost that dares to call itself Phantom. Phantom, the parasite clawing into my son, feeding on him like a leech."
The woman's voice was cold, clinical. Each word struck like a needle, precise and calculated to pierce.
But she was wrong. So painfully, maddeningly wrong.
Danny wanted to scream it at her.
He wanted to spit the words back in her face, to tell her how very human he was.
He could feel.
He could hurt.
His emotions weren't some mimicry, some hollow act to blend in—they were raw and real, carved into his very core. He felt everything—the ache, the longing, the despair. Pain, both mental and physical, thrummed through him like a second heartbeat.
But...
Had he ever really left this place? The lab? The endless sterile walls of the GiW facility? Was all of it—everything—just a cruel fabrication?
His freedom. Dad's booming laughter. Jazz's calming voice. Valerie's concern when he begged her to help him. The kiss with Sam in the rain. His soft bed, the so-called safe haven of his room. The greasy comfort of the Nasty Burger. The chaos of ghost fights. Even his stupid eighteenth birthday, ruined in more ways than one.
Was any of it real? Or had it all been part of some twisted game?
The memories felt so vivid. He could remember the smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings, the sting of ectoblasts in battle, the warmth of Jazz's arms after a messed up nightmare. Even the smell of the wet asphalt because of the rain.
Could they fabricate that?
Could they make it all feel so fucking real?
What had they done to him? How far had they gone to make him believe he was free?
He tugged at his restraints, the sharp bite of metal against his skin a grim reminder that he wasn't going anywhere.
Not now.
Not ever, probably.
The realization hit him, and for a moment, he couldn't tell what was real anymore—the life he thought he'd lived for the past five months, or the suffocating prison that had never let him go.
Danny said nothing back.
He felt a sudden sting behind his eyes, tears welling up despite his desperate attempts to suppress them. His vision began to blur, and for a moment, the sterile white of the lab melted into a haze of light and shadow.
It was real. All of it. The lab. The restraints. The voice. The harsh reality that gnawed at the edges of his sanity.
His throat tightened as the confession clawed its way to the surface, choking him with its raw, bitter truth.
This is really happening.
This is real, isn't it?
It was all just a dream, wasn't it?
A shadow loomed above him, cutting through the searing brightness of the fluorescent lights. His core stumbled, his breath catching in his throat as he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears from his vision. His chest rose and fell in shallow, frantic gasps, the cold air of the room biting at his bare skin.
He finally managed to focus.
It was her.
Mom.
Mom.
"Mom?" His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.
She stood above him, her teal jumpsuit immaculate and cold, a far cry from the warmth of the woman he knew. Her red goggles glinted under the light, masking her eyes, her expression hidden behind the calculated facade of a scientist. The hood of her suit concealed her hair, leaving only the lower half of her face exposed—her nose, her mouth, her chin.
He searched desperately for any trace of familiarity, any hint of the mother he had grown up with.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but a scientist.
"Oh. You didn't lose your tongue. Good," she said flatly, her voice deliberate and detached.
He felt the tears threatening to spill over, but he clenched his jaw, fighting to keep them at bay. She wasn't supposed to see him like this.
Vulnerable. Broken.
She moved, disappearing behind him without another word. Danny craned his neck, straining to follow her, but the restraints dug into his skin, biting sharply against his wrists and ankles. His core purred in his chest as the sound of her footsteps echoed softly in the sterile space.
She wasn't here as his mother. She was here as his fucking captor.
He heard it before he saw her again—a sharp clang, the grating sound of metal scraping against metal. The noise echoed in the sterile room, sending a shiver down Danny's spine.
"So. Subject Zero Thirteen," her voice clinical and detached. "How are you feeling today?"
Why is she even asking that?
Did it matter how he felt?
Did she really want to know?
Danny pressed his lips together, refusing to answer. The words wouldn't come even if he wanted them to.
"Lost your tongue as quickly as it appeared?" she remarked, her tone sharp, mocking.
He heard her footsteps again, measured and deliberate, before she reappeared at his right side. Danny's stomach twisted as her presence loomed closer, the smell of leather and faint ozone following her. She reached out, her gloved right hand brushing against his left cheek.
The touch sent a jolt through him—not pain, but discomfort so visceral it might as well have been. His body reacted instinctively, trying to jerk away, his muscles tensed, his breathing hitched, his eyes darted to the side, avoiding hers, even when she was wearing those goggles. He felt her gaze right through them.
He focused on the empty void to his left, his gaze lost in the nothingness.
Her thumb moved deliberately, pressing against the delicate skin just beneath his left eye. It lingered there for a moment, almost tender, before tracing a path downward. Her touch ghosted over the faint scar that marred his cheek, and then lower, following the curve of his jawline.
It hurt—not enough to make him flinch but just enough to remind him of how vulnerable he was. The ache settled into his nerves like a dull throb, making his breaths shallow and uneven.
He wanted to tell her to stop.
To yell at her.
To do something.
But his voice stayed trapped in his throat.
Her thumb hovered over his jawline for a moment, her touch both invasive and calculated.
"Hmm," she murmured softly, almost to herself, as though cataloging his reactions like data points. "I can't wait to have my son back. My Danny."
The words hit him harder than her touch ever could. They cut deep, the edges jagged and raw.
Danny clenched his jaw tighter, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to stay silent.
He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him break.
He wouldn't let her see how much her words rattled him.
But he couldn't stop the way his stomach churned, or the way the ache in his scar seemed to burn hotter, mixing with the emotional pain that her words ignited.
Her son.
Was that what she thought?
That by doing this—by hurting him—or better say, Phantom in her eyes, she could somehow reclaim the boy she thought she'd lost?
He tried to focus on the void beyond her, on the blinding fluorescent light above him, on anything but her. But her words echoed in his mind, relentless.
She wasn't his mother.
Not anymore.
Not in here.
Maybe not anywhere.
The thought repeated itself, but it didn't help. Not really. Not when she was right there, close enough that he could smell the faint chemical tang of ectoplasm clinging to her.
This… this person standing over him.
Dissecting, no—vivisecting every reaction like a scientist observing a test subject, was someone else entirely. Someone who saw him not as Danny or Phantom, or one and the same. He was one and the same. Right?
She saw him as Subject Zero Thirteen.
His hands curled into fists, the cuffs biting into his wrists, but he barely noticed the pain. It was easier to focus on that than the growing lump in his throat or the sting behind his eyes.
He wouldn't cry.
Not in front of her.
Instead, he bit back the words clawing at his throat, the pleas and accusations he wanted to hurl at her. He wouldn't ask why she was doing this—even when he already knew the answer in the back of his mind.
And he sure as hell wouldn't let her see how much it hurt him.
"Well, God. I've hurt my own son. That really wasn't supposed to happen. I should've been more careful with that," she said, pulling her hand away at last.
But Danny could feel her eyes still on him, hidden behind the opaque red goggles pressed against her face. Her gaze was invasive, even without seeing it directly.
"But I need to know how you're feeling today," she added, her voice softer, but no less detached.
Danny didn't respond.
He kept his mouth shut, his body stiff against the restraints. The words rattled around in his head like loose screws, but they didn't sink in.
They couldn't.
Feel? What was the point of asking him how he felt when she didn't even care?
His left eye—his vision blurred and scarred—throbbed faintly. It was a cruel reminder, one he couldn't escape, of just how fragile, weak, and powerless he was here. Of everything they'd done to him.
What she did to him.
Danny blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, but it didn't help. The tears still came, welling up until they blurred the world again. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, choking down the tremor that threatened to spill into his breath.
He wouldn't let her hear it.
"Reviving my Danny, my little boy with an electric shock…" She paused, as though mulling over her words. Her tone was clinical, almost bored. "While taking out your core… Hmm, I'm missing something here. Maybe… ah, yes!"
Her voice grew distant for a moment, as though she were lost in thought.
It was clear now—she wasn't really talking to him. She was talking to herself, piecing together whatever twisted logic guided her experiments.
Danny still said nothing.
He kept his gaze fixed to the side, staring blankly into the void of the sterile white room. He couldn't bear to look at her.
It was too much.
Too painful.
Too wrong.
It is—was his fucking mother.
He heard her footsteps fade into the distance, the sharp click of her boots against the tiled floor growing fainter. A momentary relief washed over him.
But it didn't last.
The echo of her footsteps returned, growing louder as she approached once more. Whatever brief moment of respite he'd had was gone.
Danny turned his head to the right and saw her again, standing close, her lips curved into a narrow smile.
An expression.
An emotion? That was new.
How generous.
But he couldn't hold her gaze. It churned something too raw, too complicated inside him. He looked away again, his eyes falling back to the other side of the room.
Suddenly—a touch of her gloved fingers brushed against the bare skin of his right arm. Cold, invasive. Then something else followed—colder, wetter. But Danny's instincts betrayed him, and he turned his head, unable to resist seeing what she was doing.
The sharp sting came next. A needle pierced the crook of his elbow, burrowing deep into his vein.
He hissed, the pain was sharp and immediate, but he didn't flinch—not that he could if he wanted to. He watched, as the thin, transparent tube connected to the needle that led to a metal hook above him.
Hanging from it was a bag, clear plastic filled with a pale, light green fluid that shimmered faintly under the harsh lights. Danny's core sank at the sight and felt his stomache churn.
"What are you doing?" The words rolled over his lips before he even realized he was speaking.
She smiled again, that same narrow, calculated curve of her lips.
It wasn't comforting.
It wasn't meant to be.
"Getting my son back, Phantom," she said.
His chest tightened at the word—Phantom.
At least she's calling him Phantom now.
Not Subject Zero Thirteen.
But was that really better? Was it supposed to mean something? To make any of this less terrifying?
She turned away from him, her movements precise, calculated. Danny watched as she reached for a white handle on the apparatus connected to the bag. With a deliberate twist, she redirected it.
Not even a second later, the greenish fluid began to flow through the thin tube. Danny's eyes tracked its progress, the pale, luminescent liquid snaking closer, inching toward the needle embedded in his arm.
When it entered his vein, he felt the sensation hit like an icy dagger, slicing into his ectoplasmic bloodstream, colder as ice. But then came the burn—a searing, fiery pain that spread with every purr of his core. It clawed through his body like jagged shards of ice dipped in molten lava.
It wasn't just pain.
It was wrong.
His muscles tightened involuntarily, the cold fire seeping into every inch of him, radiating outward from his arm until it wrapped around his chest, his legs, even his skull.
Danny squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to block out the torment.
But it didn't help.
Of course that didn't help.
The pain was everywhere now, threading through his veins like barbed wire. His teeth pressed together so hard his jaw throbbed, the ache of his clenched muscles only adding to the unbearable sensations.
And then the spasms started.
His body jerked violently against the restraints, his back arching as the substance ravaged him. Every nerve on his entire being screamed in protest, his limbs trembling uncontrollably as though they were trying to escape his own skin. The cuffs dug into his wrists and ankles, biting deep.
But it barely registered in comparison to the liquid cold fire coursing through his veins.
He let out a raw, guttural scream, the sound tearing from his throat. It felt like sandpaper scraping against his vocal cords, every cry shredding him further. His chest heaved, but no amount of air seemed to fill his lungs.
He gasped and screamed again.
"Don't fool me or yourself, Phantom," she said, her voice cold, detached. "You are a danger that has to be erased."
Her words pierced through the haze of his agony, but they sounded distant, as though she were speaking from the other side the room.
he couldn't respond.
Danny's ears buzzed, a high-pitched ringing that quickly morphed into a series of erratic beeps, changing frequencies as though his body couldn't process sound properly anymore.
The world around him began to blur and distort, the lights above him flickering, dimming, and then flaring impossibly bright.
He could feel the fluid still moving, filling every corner of him, every cell, every part of his being.
He could feel it climbing into his chest, wrapping around his core, squeezing until he thought it might stop altogether.
"This will only hurt for a moment, Danny. I need to save you from this monstrous parasite that lives inside you," she murmured, her tone unnervingly soft, almost maternal.
Danny felt her hand again, gently cupping the left side of his face, her gloved fingers brushing his scarred cheek. The gesture might have seemed comforting under different circumstances—if it weren't for the needle pumping this liquid of cold fire into his veins.
If it weren't for the cold detachment in her voice.
If it weren't her.
She was trying to calm him down, maybe. But he barely registered it. The pain consumed him, roaring through every nerve like a violent storm, drowning out everything else.
It was too much.
The cold fire in his veins didn't just hurt—it shattered him, dragging him back to a memory he wished he could forget. The sting, the burn, the electric shock searing through his body—it was all the same.
The same as that day.
The day the portal roared to life around him, engulfing him in blinding white light.
The day he felt his atoms and molecules rip apart and reassemble in a way they were never meant to.
The day he stopped being just Danny Fenton.
The day he became half ghost.
The day he became Danny Phantom.
The memory slammed into him with as much force as the pain itself, twisting his insides and stealing the breath from his lungs. He could almost hear the crackling hum of the portal, feel the sting of ectoplasmic energy coursing through his body as it fused his human soul with something alien, something otherworldly.
It wasn't just the day his life changed.
It was the day his life ended.
Danny's body convulsed violently, the restraints cutting into his skin as he thrashed against them. He tried to scream, but his throat was too raw now.
"Stop…" The word fell from his lips in a broken whisper, barely audible over all the fucking chaos in his head, his body and surroundings.
He didn't know who he was begging—her, himself, the universe. He didn't care. He just wanted it to stop.
The pain, the memories, the guilt, the anger—he couldn't hold it all anymore. It was spilling over, suffocating him, drowning him in its intensity.
But she didn't stop. Her hand lingered on his face.
"Don't fight it, Danny. I'm doing this for you," she said softly, as though her words could mask the agony she was inflicting.
Danny?
For him?
She was destroying him.
"M—mom, please, stop!" Danny cried, his voice raw, breaking under the strain. Tears spilled down his cheeks in endless streams. His breath hitched, coming in shallow gasps between sobs, his chest heaving as he sniffled.
"No, I can't do that, sweetie," she said, her voice gentle, almost loving, as though she didn't hear his agony—or didn't care. "It's for your own good."
Sweetie?
Her hand withdrew, leaving his face cold and abandoned.
Danny's eyes snapped open, staring up at the ceiling, searching for something—anything—to anchor him. The sterile white seemed to blur and pulse in time with the pounding ache in his skull. He tilted his head back, curving his neck, his teeth grinding together tightly.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, his face twisting in pain.
The pulsing in his veins was unbearable now, a relentless pounding like they were about to burst. The green liquid burned hotter and colder with every purr of his core, spreading its torment further, deeper, until it reached even places he didn't know could feel pain.
The escalation was brutal. The pressure mounted with each second, a crescendo of agony that left him gasping for air.
His body jerked violently, his back arching off the table again.
It was like his ghost form was fighting to emerge, desperate to escape the torment. His ectoplasm thrashed against the human half of his being, the two sides colliding in a catastrophic battle. His core purred erratically, as if it might implode under the strain.
The sensation was like being torn in two from the inside out, as though his very existence was unraveling.
It felt like everything of his being was at war, each one screaming for release.
It hurt.
It hurt.
It FUCKING HURT!
"It hurts! Just stop! Please! You're killing me!"
Danny's voice cracked, shattering into a desperate, broken plea. His throat burned, his vocal cords raw and frayed from screaming.
"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Danny," she said, her tone icy, devoid of any warmth.
And why was she calling him Danny all of a sudden?
Danny's eyes fluttered open, his chest heaving with labored breaths. Slowly, he tilted his head up. The pain made every motion feel like dragging himself through broken glass, but he couldn't stop himself from looking.
His body wasn't just trembling—it was shifting. The edges of his form flickered erratically, like static on a broken television.
His veins glowed an eerie green, every branching capillary illuminated beneath his pale skin. The glow pulsed in rhythm with his erratic purr, spreading from his core outward until even the smallest veins shimmered faintly.
And then there was the fog.
It was leaking through him, tendrils of translucent white blue-ish smoke curling and twisting out of his body. His torso shimmered like rippling water, his whole body flickered, one moment solid flesh, the next a swirling mass of ectoplasmic energy.
He could see it.
He could feel it.
His ghost half trying to emerge from his human body, clawing its way to the surface, desperate to free itself from the agony. But it was unstable, glitching in and out of existence as though trapped between two worlds, neither able to fully emerge.
"No…" Danny whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling.
He couldn't stop staring at himself, horrified. His arms twitched involuntarily, the restraints cutting into his wrists, but his focus was fixed on the white glow radiating through his chest, the faint outline of his ghost insignia flickering like a dying light.
Phantom.
Himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her—his mom. She was still standing on his right side, arms crossed over her chest. Her hands gripped her upper arms, her lips pressed in a narrow smile.
"It's working," she said, her voice laced with satisfaction. "I think I finally have a breakthrough."
She is having a breakthrough?
And he was almost having a breakdown.
Danny's stomach twisted at her words, but he couldn't summon the strength to speak.
She uncrossed her arms, bringing a hand to her chin, tapping her index finger thoughtfully against it.
"Only thing is, why does it take so long?" she mused, as if she were merely troubleshooting a machine rather than watching her son break apart in front of her.
Danny's head fell back against the table with a dull thud, his eyes squeezing shut as the pain surged through him again.
He felt like he was being torn in two, no—he was being torn in two, his ghost half screaming to break free while his human half clung desperately to what little remained.
His breaths quickened, each inhale sharp and shallow as though he couldn't draw in enough air.
A tingling that started in his fingertips, a faint, prickling sensation that rapidly spread up his arms, leaving them feeling numb and weightless.
His vision blurred again, but now with dark spots creeping into the edges.
Was he going to pass out?
No.
He wouldn't pass out.
He couldn't pass out.
"Please," he whispered in a plea, his voice trembling, barely audible. "Just… stop."
His voice cracked on the last word. It was weaker now, each syllable laced with defeat. He could feel himself slipping—his strength, his resolve, his very being unraveling.
He couldn't…
He couldn't do this anymore.
He didn't have the energy to fight, to resist. It hurt too much, in every possible way. He just wanted it to end.
And then…
It did.
The pain stopped.
It didn't fade or ebb away—it just stopped.
Danny froze. His mind struggled to process the sudden stillness, his senses raw and disoriented from the onslaught of torment. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he was even alive—if he was still here at all.
His breaths slowed but remained shallow, his chest rising and falling like a fragile thread holding him to reality.
Danny's eyelids fluttered open, heavy and reluctant. He stared up at the blinding lights overhead, his vision dancing.
"Hmm. I really thought this was going to work," she said, her voice thoughtful, almost disappointed. Her head tilted slightly as she stared down at him, the red glow of her goggles reflecting off him. "But something is holding Phantom clawed to my Danny."
Danny gasped for air, his chest rising and falling as though he'd been submerged underwater and only just broken the surface.
"Why… all this effort?" he rasped, cracking under the weight of his exhaustion. His head turned weakly toward her, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on her form as she stood motionless at his side.
"Hmm?" she responded absentmindedly, that cold, calculated hum that made his skin crawl.
"Why all this effort?" he repeated, louder this time, though his voice trembled with every word. "Why don't you just…"
Danny hesitated, his throat tightening. He knew he shouldn't say it, but the words were already forming, clawing their way out before he could stop them.
"Why don't you just use… the Ghost Catcher?"
Her head snapped toward him, her gloved hand falling from her chin. The faintest twitch of surprise flickered across her lips.
Danny's core sank.
He knew he'd made a mistake.
"Ah, that's actually a remarkably excellent question," she said, her tone deceptively light, almost amused.
But Danny could tell she wasn't finished.
She never was.
"The Ghost Catcher is designed, yes, to split a ghost from a human body. But." She paused. "The goal here is to destroy Phantom—you, while taking you out of our son's body. It's a win-win for everyone."
Win-win?
Of course, that had to be her answer. It wasn't a win for him—how could it be? Danny's chest tightened as the realization solidified.
This wasn't about him.
Not about Danny or Phantom.
It was about her, about her twisted version of victory.
He let his head fall back against the cold metal table, his vision dancing with fatigue and disbelief.
Winning?
He wasn't sure what winning meant for him anymore—if it even existed. All he could see was what he'd lose.
End of part one. It was one long chapter first, but I needed to break it down in two separate chapters. It was getting too long.
Yes, this was very hard to write. Damn it.
Next part is sick and twisted (I say it myself). So embrace yourself.