The cell was a perfect, silent cube of white. No bloodstain remained on the floor where Derek had been deposited, no smudge of grime from the Culling Floor. It was as if the horror had never happened, which was its own form of psychological torture. The memory was vivid, searing, but the environment offered no proof, no solidarity in its filth. It was just him, the hum, and the ghost of Jordan's blood on his hands.
He had sat for hours, maybe days—time was a flat, featureless plain—replaying the moment the bone shard had sunk into Jordan's side. The gasp of pain, the welling crimson, the pallor of his friend's face. The image was a spike driven into his mind. He hugged his knees to his chest, the phantom sensation of warm, sticky blood coating his fingers. He had failed. He'd been too slow, too weak. The guilt was a physical weight, a cold stone in his gut.
As he sat, a dull ache began to throb in his right shoulder. He rolled it, wincing. He remembered now—in the chaos, a wild elbow had caught him with a solid, jarring impact. At the time, it had been a fleeting sensation swallowed by adrenaline. Now, in the sterile silence, it bloomed into a deep, persistent pain. It felt bruised, perhaps even mildly separated. He probed it gently, hissing through his teeth. It was a tangible reminder of the fight, a pain he understood. He welcomed it. It was a punishment he deserved.
He must have fallen into a fitful sleep, because he awoke with a start, his neck stiff. The first thing he noticed was the silence. The ever-present hum of the facility was gone. The second thing he noticed was the absence of pain.
He sat up, confused. He rolled his right shoulder. Nothing. Not a twinge. He moved it in a full circle, then pushed against the wall with that arm. The joint felt… perfect. Better than perfect. It felt loose, lubricated, as if he'd spent a month in physical therapy. The deep ache was simply gone.
A cold dread, sharper than any pain, trickled down his spine. This wasn't right. Injuries didn't vanish. Not like this. He scrambled to his feet, patting himself down. He found other souvenirs of the fight: a tender spot on his ribs, a scrape on his knuckles he'd gotten deflecting a blow. All of them, gone. His skin was unblemished. The only evidence that remained was the memory, and the chilling cleanliness of his body.
He was still staring at his perfectly intact knuckles when the hum of the facility returned, a soft, mocking purr. The message was clear: Your pain is not your own. It is on loan from us.
---
In another white cube, Leo paced. His knuckles were a mess of split skin and swollen, purple flesh. He'd driven them into a man's face, over and over, feeling the cartilage of the nose give way, the teeth break under the impact. The pain was a fire in his hands, a righteous burn that matched the fire in his soul. Every throb was a testament to his violence, a penance he was willing to pay.
He looked at his hands, the blood dried in the crevices of his knuckles. Good. Let it scar. Let him carry the reminder of what he had become in that room.
The exhaustion eventually overpowered the adrenaline, and he slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor. His last conscious thought was the rhythmic, punishing pulse in his fists.
He awoke with a gasp, jerking upright. His mind immediately went to his hands, bracing for the fresh wave of pain. It didn't come.
He brought his hands up to his face, his breath catching in his throat.
They were clean. The blood was gone. The swelling had completely receded. The split skin had sealed over, leaving only faint, pink, hairline marks that looked weeks old, not hours. He flexed his fingers. There was no stiffness, no deep, bone-deep ache. He made fists, the skin pulling taut but not splitting. It was impossible.
A snarl ripped from his throat. He slammed his newly healed fist into the white wall. The impact was solid, satisfying. A jolt of pain shot up his arm—a normal, human pain. He did it again, and again, watching the skin redden, hoping to see it break, to prove that his body was still his own. But even as he watched, the redness began to fade, the minor ache subsiding far quicker than it should. They had taken his punishment from him. They had stolen his atonement.
---
Jordan lay on the cold floor, his mind a thousand miles away. The wound in his side was the only thing that felt real. It was a blazing sun of agony, a focal point that kept him anchored to the moment, to the consequence of his action. He had let his guard down. He had failed in his one purpose: to be the shield. The pain was his teacher, his judge.
He didn't try to stem the bleeding. He simply pressed his hand against it, feeling the warm seep of his own life through the grey fabric. He welcomed the lightheadedness, the cold sweat. This was the price. This was the balance.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, the line between sleep and waking blurred by blood loss and despair. In one lucid moment, he peeled back the torn fabric of his uniform to assess the damage. The gash was deep, ugly, the edges inflamed. It needed stitches, antibiotics. It would fester. It should kill him.
When he awoke again, the first thing he noticed was the silence. The hum was gone. The second was the smell. The metallic tang of his own blood had vanished, replaced by the sterile, empty air.
He moved, expecting a crippling wave of pain. There was only a mild stiffness. He sat up, his movements cautious, disbelieving. He looked down at his side.
The blood was gone. The fabric of his uniform was still torn, a testament to the injury, but the skin beneath was… whole. There was a scar, yes, but it was a thin, silvery line, neat and precise, as if drawn by a skilled surgeon after months of healing. He ran his fingers over it. It was smooth, firm, completely sealed. There was no tenderness, no heat, no sign of infection.
A profound, unsettling cold settled in his chest. This wasn't healing. This was replacement. They had taken his failure, his mortal wound, and filed it away as a closed case. He was a weapon that had been damaged and efficiently repaired, ready for the next trial. The lesson of the pain had been erased. All that remained was the chilling efficiency of the machine.
---
Maya felt the change not as an absence, but as a presence.
The deep, systemic weakness that had forced her to collapse was receding. The leaden feeling in her limbs was lifting, replaced by a low, humming energy. It felt alien, like a current being fed into her from an external source. She could feel her cells buzzing, repairing, operating at a speed that was not natural.
But it was the other thing, the Regulator, that commanded her attention. In the silence of her cell, she could feel it more clearly than ever. It wasn't just a passive presence anymore. It was… integrating. Twining itself through the pathways of her body like a vine. As her physical strength returned, she realized it was the source of that strength. The energy she was feeling was its energy.
She sat up, her movements smoother, more controlled than they had been in weeks. There was no dizziness, no tremor. She felt… optimized. The horror of the implantation was now coupled with a terrifying, practical benefit. The Architects hadn't just violated her; they had upgraded her. Her body was healing itself at an impossible rate, and the catalyst was the very parasite they had planted inside her.
She placed a hand on her lower abdomen, over the faint, hairline scar. There was no squirming now, just a deep, resonant thrum, a synchrony with the newfound power in her muscles. She was no longer just healing. She was being remade. And the worst part was the traitorous thought that crept in, whispered by the new coldness in her mind: This could be useful.
The hum of the facility returned, a familiar, oppressive sound. But now, to Maya, it sounded different. It didn't just feel like the sound of the prison. It felt like the sound of her own body. The line between where she ended and the Laboratory began was starting to blur. Her injuries were gone, but the cure was a disease far more insidious than any wound.