[UNKNOWN MEDICAL FACILITY — OBSERVATION ROOM 4A]
He whimpered in his sleep.
Eyes shut. Jaw clenched. Muscles twitching under bruised, swollen skin.
His breath stuttered in his chest.
Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. Silent. Unnoticed.
His mouth moved.
"...he's gonna get up…"
Barely a whisper. A ghost of breath.
His leg kicked once. Weak. Reflexive.
The restraint caught it.
He winced.
Didn't wake.
His lips moved again. Same words. Splintered. Desperate.
"...get back…"
Faint. Broken.
His hands twitched against the cuffs. The right more than the left—the left was too damaged to move much at all. Fingers bent wrong. Bandaged tight.
The tear line deepened under his eye.
"...he's gonna kill them…"
His face tensed. His jaw clicked. One eye fluttered. Shut again.
Still asleep.
Still there.
Still hearing Diaz.
"Still twitching?"
"I'll make her crawl through your blood."
"You're just meat."
Darren jerked.
Tried to move.
Pain shot through his ribs. Something shifted. Bone to lung.
He flinched. Grunted. Twitched again.
"Get back… get back… get back…"
The monitors spiked. Beeping rapid. Sharp.
Voices stirred behind the glass. Footsteps shifted.
He didn't hear them.
Choking on the fire in his chest.
"…he's gonna…"
"…gonna get up…"
"…get back…"
His eyes snapped open.
He flinched. Grunted. Twitched again.
He was still in the plaza.
Still bleeding. Still screaming.
He gasped.
Air stabbed down his throat. Sharp. Too much. Too fast.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
"Get back… get back… get back…"
The suit was still humming. He could hear it.
Still glowing.
Still on.
Darren thrashed.
"Get back!"
No one listened.
He tried to shout louder.
"He's gonna, he's gonna get up, he's gonna kill them, get back."
He strained, yanked, pulled...
Pain exploded through his ribs. Fire laced his side. He bucked once, then crumpled back down, gasping.
"Back…" he hissed. "Get back... get back..."
He's getting up.
He had to move.
He had to stop him.
The strap across his chest tightened as he fought.
NO.
NO.
NO!
He thrashed hard.
The leather groaned. Stitching popped. Something tore.
"GET BACK!" he roared.
The restraint snapped.
Pain ripped down his arm.
Didn't matter.
His right hand tore free, blood trailing from raw skin.
Not a thought.
Just motion.
Just MOVE.
He clawed at the next restraint. The cuff shredded, metal groaned, snapped.
He kicked. Left leg buckled. Right leg shot forward.
The ankle strap tore loose with a violent snap.
He rolled off the table.
Crushed his shoulder. Nearly blacked out.
Didn't care.
The floor slapped cold against his knees.
He staggered up.
No direction. Just instinct.
Gotta stop him.
Gotta stop him.
He stumbled toward the door—hands bleeding, chest heaving, vision pulsing.
The girl. The shelter. Diaz. Diaz. Diaz.
There were people in the room now.
Strangers. Hands. Arms. Too many.
They grabbed him. One around his waist. Another at his back. One grabbed his wrist, he spun, kicked, swung wildly.
"HE'S NOT DOWN!"
He thrashed. Elbowed someone in the jaw. Bit down on another's shoulder, tasted blood. Didn't stop.
He sent one of them flying into the wall.
He screamed, raw and wordless.
"GET OFFA ME!"
The floor slipped beneath him. Legs gave. He shoved forward anyway.
Diaz is getting up.
Diaz is getting up.
Diaz is gonna kill them all.
He was shaking, screaming, breaking...
"HE'S GONNA KILL THEM! LET ME GO!"
A voice shouted:
"Get the sedative in him, NOW!"
He turned. Reached for the doorway
—just one step, just one more—
A sting in his neck.
The world tilted sideways.
His arms went limp.
His knees buckled.
He dropped.
Still whispering.
"...he's gonna get up…"
"...get back…"
"...stop him…"
His mouth kept moving. Soundless now.
A calm voice above him:
"Stronger restraints. Reinforce everything."
And then...
Gone.
[One Hour Later]
[One and a Half Hours Later]
He drifted.
Not asleep.
Not awake.
Just somewhere in the middle, suspended in heat and static and nothing.
His body didn't feel like his.
Too heavy.
Too far away.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't open his eyes.
Couldn't scream.
But he could hear.
Beeping.
Soft. Steady. Insistent.
The beeping jumped.
A monitor to his left. Tracking him.
He couldn't see it.
But he could feel it. Somehow.
The sound lived behind his eyes.
He was aware of the table beneath him.
The cuffs on his arms.
Cool metal against warm skin.
They didn't bite like before. But they were still there.Still holding.
Pressure at his chest.
The strap. Still locked tight.
He was restrained.
Why?
His breath came in slow, shallow tugs.
Not sharp anymore. Just wrong.
Like dragging something broken through water.
He could smell disinfectant.
Blood.
Old sweat.
Metal.
And he could hear.
Monitors. Beeping. A valve hissing somewhere to his left.
And voices.
There were voices behind a wall.
Thin.
Muffled.
Close.
"He's conscious?"
"Impossible....only.... hours."
"0.3 micrograms... Carfentanil.... down... four hours."
"…extensive blunt force trauma… multiple fractures, soft tissue damage, internal bleeding…"
"…should have gone into shock… blood loss significant before retrieval."
"He ran on this. Fought on this."
"Rotator cuff torn… intercostal muscle damage…"
"Bilateral hand trauma. Knuckle fractures. Metacarpals cracked."
"Adrenaline masked most of it. That and—well. Him."
The ringing in his head climbed again.
Piercing. Sharp. Angry.
Like it didn't want him to hear any of it.
Still, he caught more.
"Not indexed."
"He is now."
They were still talking.
He was shaking.
His heart raced.
His skin felt too tight.
He didn't know where he was.
Didn't know if Diaz was outside the door.Or still beneath him.
He tried again.
A whisper.
This time it came out.
"...he's gonna..."
The room felt too still.The lights behind his eyes—too white.
The voices blurred again.
"Restraints holding?"
"Yes. Reinforced as ordered."
"Keep them on. He's not ready yet."
He knew that phrase.
He's not ready.
His mouth moved again.
Weak.
"...kill them..."
Barely audible.
Just air.
Just the shape of a sound.
He didn't know if the words were real anymore.
Or if he was.
Something deep inside him wanted to scream.
But he didn't.
Couldn't.
Too tired.
Too broken.
Too much.