บท 16: Chapter 16: Breaking Point
Rhys lay strapped to the cold, metal table, his body trembling from the agony of the surgery. The sharp sting of the Necrolythian surgeon's blade carving through his flesh was unbearable, yet he remained conscious—his body refusing to give in to the pain. His strong physique, once a source of pride, was not the source of his misery. Every nerve in his body screamed for release, but no release came. The perfect precision of the Necrolythian ensured that Rhys stayed awake for the full eight-hour duration of the procedure.
He tried to scream, but his voice was hoarse, almost gone from the countless hours of yelling and crying. His muscles tensed against the restraints, but there was no escape from the relentless hands of the Necrolythian, which moved with clinical precision. The cold, metal instruments cut into him again, and Rhys clenched his fists, desperately wishing for unconsciousness, for anything that could take him away from this living nightmare.
The Necrolythian injected something into him—he didn't know what, but it burned through his veins like liquid fire. He could feel the substance spreading through his body, changing him, but he had no idea how. His mind barely registered it through the haze of pain, too overwhelmed to think straight.
After eight long hours, the surgeon finally stepped back, the procedure complete for now. Rhys's body was trembling, his skin stitched together once more, though the pain still lingered in his muscles and bones. His vision blurred, and, mercifully, exhaustion took him. He fell into a fitful sleep right there on the operating table, his body and mind desperate for a brief respite.
***
He woke up to the same nightmare.
The cold air of the operating room hit his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. Rhys blinked, trying to make sense of where he was. His body was throbbing with pain, his muscles stiff and sore. He had been stitched back together, but the pain hadn't faded. If anything, it felt worse.
And then the Necrolythian returned.
The creature approached him with the same cold efficiency, its mechanical hands already reaching for the tools on the nearby tray. Rhys's eyes widened in horror as he realized what was about to happen. His heart raced, panic setting in, but he was powerless to stop it.
The Necrolythian started the process all over again.
The scalpel sliced through his skin, the pain immediate and excruciating. Rhys gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the scream building in his throat, but it was useless. His body arched against the restraints, his muscles trembling with the effort to escape. But there was no escape.
They opened him up again, cutting deeper this time. He could feel his insides being pulled and manipulated, his body little more than a canvas for their cruel experiments. The injections came again—burning, twisting, transforming him from the inside out. Rhys cried out, his voice raw, his throat aching from the constant screams.
But the Necrolythian didn't stop. It never stopped.
Hours later, the procedure ended, and Rhys was left in a heap on the table. His body stitched together once more, but the pain remained, pulsing through him like a living thing. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath, his mind slipping in and out of consciousness. All he wanted was for it to stop.
But it didn't.
Rhys woke up again.
The sharp, metallic scent of the operating room was the first thing he noticed. Then the pain. The deep, throbbing ache in his muscles and bones that reminded him of the countless times his body had been torn apart and put back together.
The Necrolythian surgeon was already there, looming over him with its tools gleaming in the harsh light. Rhys's heart sank. He wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, but he knew it wouldn't matter. The Necrolythian didn't care. It never cared.
The scalpel cut into him once again.
Rhys's vision blurred as the pain tore through him, sharper and more intense than before. His mind screamed for relief, for anything that could take him away from this, but his body remained trapped in the hellish cycle. He had no control, no way to stop it.
And when it was over, they stitched him back together, leaving him broken and trembling on the table.
He passed out, not from the pain, but from sheer exhaustion.
He woke up again.
Rhys didn't know how long it had been. Days? Weeks? Time had lost all meaning in the endless cycle of pain and sleep. Each time he woke, his body had been opened up again. Each time, he was torn apart and put back together, the pain becoming a constant, unrelenting companion.
He no longer knew how many times his body had been sliced open, how many injections had been pumped into his veins. It all blurred together in a nightmarish haze of agony and confusion.
With each procedure, he felt less and less like himself. His body didn't feel like his anymore. It had been changed, altered in ways he couldn't understand. The injections—they were doing something to him, something he couldn't control. He could feel it. He was becoming something else, something not entirely human.
But no matter how much they changed him, he clung to one thing—Jax.
He held onto the hope that Jax would come for him. Jax wouldn't leave him behind. They had been through too much together. Rhys believed that with everything he had, even as his body was torn apart again and again.
But as the hours dragged on, as the pain became his constant reality, doubt began to creep into his mind.
What if Jax was suffering the same fate? What if Jax had been captured, subjected to the same endless surgeries? Or worse, what if Jax had been killed?
Rhys tried to push those thoughts away, but they lingered at the edges of his mind, gnawing at his already fragile sanity. He didn't want to believe that Jax would leave him to die, but the longer he waited, the more the doubts grew.
Where was Jax?
Was he dead? Or had he left Rhys to die alone?
Rhys's chest tightened with a mixture of fear and frustration. His thoughts spiraled into a mess of anger and hopelessness as he stared at the ceiling, his body weak, his mind desperate for answers.
Suddenly, the door to the operating room hissed open. The familiar figure of the Necrolythian surgeon entered, its cold, mechanical eyes locking onto Rhys as it prepared for another set of procedures. The sight of the creature, with its surgical tools gleaming in the sterile light, sent a wave of rage coursing through Rhys's veins. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't go through another round of torture.
Something inside him snapped.
With a surge of strength he didn't know he had, Rhys tore at the metal restraints binding him to the table. His muscles bulged, his body shaking with fury as the metal groaned under the force of his struggle. The Necrolythian looked at him, surgical instruments in hand, but it was too late.
Rhys ripped free from the restraints, the metal snapping like brittle twigs. He shot up from the table, his vision red with anger. Without thinking, he launched himself at the Necrolythian with blinding speed, his body moving faster than he thought possible.
His fist connected with the Necrolythian's face, the impact reverberating through the room. The force of the punch tore through the creature's metal-plated skull, spilling its internal components across the floor in a mess of wires and mechanical fluids.
Rhys didn't stop.
With every ounce of fury he had, he pummeled the Necrolythian, driving it into the wall with rapid, vicious strikes. His fists moved faster than he could comprehend, each punch landing with devastating force. He could hear the metal of the walls crumpling under the onslaught, and could feel the Necrolythian's limbs breaking as he smashed it again and again.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Rhys stopped. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline. He blinked, coming back to his senses as he looked at the destruction he had caused.
The room was a mess. There was a crater in the metal wall where the Necrolythian had been pinned, its limbs scattered across the floor. The creature lay in a broken heap, its face smashed in, its once-terrifying presence now reduced to a pile of scrap.
Rhys stared at the scene in disbelief, his chest heaving. He looked down at his own hands, bloodied and trembling. His heart pounded in his ears, his mind struggling to make sense of what he had just done.
"What have I become?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the silence.
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