He had been awake for a long time.
But his eyes — dull, black, burned-out voids — reflected nothing.
He just lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling. In his head still burned the fever of memories — fire, flesh, screams. Even the thought of the past made his body convulse, as if pain was carved deeper into his muscles than into his mind.
"AAAAAAH!"
The scream tore itself out of him, slicing through the dead silence.
The sound bounced off the walls of the room, a place that looked like a psychiatric ward: white, peeling walls, a flickering ceiling lamp, the stench of medicine and decay.
"Why me?!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "What the hell did I do?! Someone tell me something!"
The door creaked open.
A tall, thin man stepped inside. His hair — gray, unkempt — framed a sharp face with square glasses and eyes colder than surgical steel. He stood perfectly still, as if he already knew how everything would unfold.
"Hey… please," the boy said, his voice trembling. "I don't know what's happening. Just help me, please, I—"
"Hold him down. Don't let him move," the doctor said calmly, without even looking at him.
Two orderlies stepped from behind him — massive, expressionless men, moving with machine-like precision.
He stumbled back, but they grabbed his arms.
"Let me go! Let me the hell go!"
With desperate strength, he lunged forward and bit into one of their arms. Blood filled his mouth — hot, metallic, salty — but the orderly didn't even flinch. No sound, no reaction.
He bit harder, tore out a chunk of flesh. The man didn't scream. The blood dripped slowly to the floor, thick and dark.
Then the orderly's hand clamped around his throat and slammed him down. The weight was crushing, bones cracking beneath the pressure.
"W-what the hell is happening?!" he gasped. "I just want to understand…"
The doctor approached slowly, like someone who had done this hundreds of times before. His movements were precise, deliberate. From his coat pocket, he took a syringe filled with a transparent yellow liquid that glowed faintly under the flickering light.
"Wh-what is that?" he rasped. "What are you going to do with that?"
No answer.
The doctor tilted his head slightly, as if studying an insect, and calmly injected the fluid into the side of his neck.
It burned instantly.
Cold fire raced through his veins. His fingers went numb, breath stuttered, vision swam.
"What… did you… inject into me?" he tried to lift his arm, but his body had stopped listening. The world spun and fell into darkness.
⸻
Consciousness returned like a violent slap.
His head throbbed as if someone had cracked his skull open from the inside.
He opened his eyes — and froze.
It wasn't the same place.
Now there was a massive laboratory. Harsh, sterile light. Rows of tables with glass tubes, bubbling liquids, the faint stench of chemicals and burnt metal.
He tried to move — nothing. His wrists and ankles were strapped tightly to a chair with leather belts. Panic hit instantly.
"Hey! Let me go! What are you doing?!"
He jerked, the chair screeched, toppled over — his head slammed into the floor. Stars burst behind his eyes.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Methodical.
Four figures approached — the same orderlies. They lifted him effortlessly, set him upright again.
The doctor stood in front of him — the same one — but now a group of teenagers stood behind him.
Sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. Dressed in white coats, faces empty, eyes glassy and dead.
"What are you gonna do?" he gasped, struggling to keep his voice steady. "If you're going to kill me, just do it already!"
The doctor didn't answer.
He turned to the students and spoke in a tone disturbingly cheerful.
"Today, my dear students, we'll be studying the effects of toxins on the human body."
His blood turned to ice.
"What… what did you just say?!"
No one reacted.
The students stood motionless, their eyes reflecting nothing.
The doctor continued, his tone smooth and confident:
"This morning, I visited the city psychiatric ward. They kindly provided me with a test subject."
He turned back toward the boy.
"Well then. Let's begin."
The doctor approached with a syringe filled with cloudy white fluid.
"The first toxin is Iscyan. It swells the throat, obstructs breathing, and paralyzes vocal cords."
"Please," the boy whispered. "Don't do this…"
The needle sank into his neck.
At first — nothing.
Then agony.
His throat clamped shut as if wrapped in barbed wire. He gasped but no air came. His eyes bulged, veins popped under his skin, his body convulsed against the restraints. The air was fire. Every breath was liquid pain. He tried to scream — only silence came out.
The doctor calmly observed, jotting notes as the boy's body spasmed. The students didn't move.
After a minute, the spasms weakened. Breath returned — ragged, shallow — and blood spilled from his mouth.
"Excellent response," the doctor said. "Now, the next one."
The syringe changed — blue liquid this time.
The injection made him retch violently, his body shaking, stomach twisting in waves. His skin turned gray. His eyes watered, bile burned his throat.
"P-please… stop…" he choked, tears streaming down his face. But the doctor was already loading the next dose.
Green this time.
The chill hit instantly, spreading through his limbs. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, skin covered in cold sweat. Then — the fever came. His heart hammered. He could feel his blood boiling, skin blistering from within.
"My… organs… they're burning…" he whispered, almost delirious.
Then came the fourth injection.
It tore his reality apart. The walls twisted, melted, breathing in and out. Shadows dripped from the ceiling like tar. He heard whispers — voices calling his name, begging him to join them. His own hands looked alien, his skin crawling with unseen movement.
The doctor's tone was still measured, almost pleased.
"Notice, students, that during the third toxin, the psychotic stage begins. Fascinating."
He wanted to die.
Tears streamed down, his body trembled uncontrollably.
He wanted silence. Just silence.
But the doctor reached for the final syringe — a thick, dark violet liquid that shimmered as if alive.
"This will be our final experiment," the doctor said softly, almost lovingly. "A rare compound. Lethal in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred."
The boy didn't fight. He couldn't.
The needle slid in.
Pain.
But not heat — explosion.
Every nerve caught fire. His insides liquefied. He felt blood bursting from his ears, his nose, his eyes. The light turned black. The sound turned to roaring silence.
His heartbeat slowed. His lungs seized. His muscles twisted until they snapped.
The pain went beyond pain — it was a living thing inside him, tearing him apart piece by piece.
He couldn't scream anymore.
Only one thought echoed in his head: make it stop.
The doctor leaned closer, studying him like a broken clock.
"A magnificent reaction," he murmured.
The boy's last sensations were the taste of iron and the warmth spilling from his chest.
One last twitch — and then stillness.
⸻
Silence.
The doctor took off his gloves, wiped his glasses.
"Class dismissed."
The students bowed in unison.
A lifeless shadow remained on the floor.
Everything that once had been human — gone.
Then—
A gasp.
He opened his eyes again.
Air rushed into his lungs like icy water. His skin was intact. His heart — still beating.
Alive. Again.
"No… no, no, no…" he whispered, staring at his clean hands. "This isn't possible…"
Before he could think, the world shifted again — flickered, warped.
Something new was waiting for him.
He screamed and thrashed, begging for death.
But death never came.
Each time the bones broke, each time the flames devoured his skin, each time poison filled his veins — he died.
And every time — he awoke.
At first, he counted.
The second time. The third. The fourth.
Then numbers lost meaning.
Each death was worse than the last.
Sometimes they boiled him alive.
Sometimes they tore him apart.
Sometimes he simply rotted on a cold floor, watching his veins turn black.
And whenever his breath stopped — he woke again.
No wounds. No scars. Only terror.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He stopped screaming.
Stopped begging.
How many times had he died?
Ten?
A hundred?
A thousand?
Ten thousand?
He didn't know.
He only lived.
And died.
Over and over.
They beat him, cut him, crushed him, drowned him — and he always came back.
Each time, losing another piece of himself.
Each time, believing a little less that it would ever end.
Until finally, he understood.
This was hell.
His own, personal hell.