A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 21: No One Is Coming

Michael's body felt like it was on fire. Pain radiated from every nerve, sharp and relentless, searing through him with every shallow breath. His head throbbed, and the restraints bit into his wrists and ankles, leaving deep grooves in his skin. The antiseptic smell of the room filled his nostrils, mingling with the metallic tang of his own blood.

He had been in pain before—fights, experiments, even the werewolf blood infusion—but this was something entirely different. His body's heightened sensitivity from his werewolf-like enhancements only made it worse, amplifying every bruise, cut, and lash of agony.

Jonathan Bennett leaned back in his wheelchair, observing him with cold detachment, a faint smirk playing on his gaunt features. "You're healing rather quickly, aren't you?" he mused, his raspy voice barely louder than a whisper but filled with curiosity. "Most people would still be writhing in agony after what we've done to you. Yet here you are... already mending."

Victoria stood nearby, her sharp eyes narrowed as she examined Michael like a predator assessing its prey. "It's unnatural," she said, her voice clipped. "No one heals that fast. Not without help."

Michael's head rolled to the side, his breath ragged as he stared at them through half-lidded eyes. The gag muffled his voice, but he forced a low growl from his throat, the only defiance he could muster.

Victoria chuckled coldly. "Still has fight in him," she said, almost impressed. "Though I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. It takes a certain... resilience to survive Marcellus DeLucia, after all."

Jonathan's bony fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of his wheelchair. "It's fascinating," he said, his voice thoughtful. "Whatever you've done to yourself, Michael, it's made you... different. Stronger, perhaps, but also... cursed."

Michael gritted his teeth against the gag, his mind racing despite the pain. He couldn't rely on anyone coming to save him—no cavalry, no swarm, no last-minute intervention. He was utterly alone. If he wanted to survive this, it was on him.

Victoria stepped closer, her sharp heels clicking against the tiled floor. She crouched beside him, her face inches from his. "You think you're tough?" she sneered. "That you can just walk into our lives, take one of ours, and walk away unscathed? You're a fool. You're strong, yes, but not strong enough to take us on. And now... now you're going to pay for your arrogance."

Michael stared at her, his jaw tight, his muscles straining against the straps. The healing wasn't fast enough, not enough to undo the damage they'd already done. But it was enough to keep him alive, to keep him thinking.

Jonathan's rasping voice cut through the tension. "Do you know what I admire most about the Nightside, Michael? It isn't the power, the chaos, or even the endless potential for destruction. It's the way it tests people. Pushes them to their limits. Breaks them, if they aren't careful." He leaned forward slightly, his hollow eyes boring into Michael. "The question is... will you break?"

Michael's vision blurred for a moment, but he forced himself to focus, to think. He couldn't let them see his fear, couldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing they were breaking him.

Victoria straightened, crossing her arms as she looked down at him. "You're alone, Michael," she said coldly. "No one's coming to save you. Whatever friends you think you have, they're smarter than to cross the Bennetts. So, let's make this easy. Tell us what we want to know, and maybe—just maybe—we'll let you live."

Michael's breathing slowed, his gaze sharpening as he stared back at her. The faint hum of the room, the sterile light, the distant sound of Jonathan's raspy breathing—all of it faded into the background.

No one was coming.

That realization hit him like a thunderclap. He was on his own. If he wanted to survive, he'd have to rely on himself—his mind, his resilience, and the determination that had kept him alive this long.

His fingers curled into fists as he tested the restraints again, feeling the sting of the leather against his skin. Pain was an anchor now, keeping him grounded, reminding him that he was still alive. And as long as he was alive, there was a way out.

Jonathan watched him closely, his smirk widening slightly. "Ah, I see it now," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. "That spark. That defiance. You think you're going to get out of this, don't you?"

Victoria scoffed. "Let him dream. It'll make it all the more satisfying when he realizes how wrong he is."

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his breathing. The pain was still there, sharp and relentless, but it wasn't the end. It was fuel.

When he opened his eyes again, there was no fear in them—only cold, calculating resolve. Jonathan's smirk faltered for a moment as he caught the shift in Michael's expression.

"You're not broken yet," Jonathan murmured, almost to himself. "Interesting."

Victoria frowned, her sharp gaze flicking between Michael and her father. "Don't let him fool you, Father. He's just a man. And men bleed."

Jonathan leaned back, his smile returning. "Perhaps. But some men are worth watching. Let's see how long this one lasts."

Michael didn't respond, not with words or even a muffled sound. He simply stared back at them, unyielding, already planning his next move. Because no one was coming for him—but that didn't mean he couldn't save himself.

The hours had stretched endlessly, a haze of pain and exhaustion clouding Michael's mind. His body ached, every nerve raw from the torment he'd endured. His head throbbed, and the cold, sterile air of the room scraped against his skin like sandpaper. He could feel the dried blood sticking to his chest, and the restraints bit into his wrists and ankles, leaving his limbs numb.

Jonathan and Victoria had finally left, their voices still echoing faintly in his ears—mocking, cold, and calculating. The weight of their presence lingered, an oppressive shadow that seemed to cling to the walls even in their absence.

Michael's breathing was shallow, each inhale rattling painfully in his chest. He was too tired to test the restraints again, knowing they wouldn't give. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but his mind wouldn't let him stop. He couldn't stop.

He stared at the ceiling tiles, their geometric patterns blurring as his vision swam. His thoughts were fractured, jumping between the agony in his body and the emptiness in his mind where his swarm should have been. Without them, he felt exposed, vulnerable. He hated it.

The guard by the door was silent, standing like a statue with a blank expression. Michael's mind darted toward the possibility of escape, but the thought was quickly smothered by the reality of his situation. Bound, gagged, and watched—he was trapped, and any move could lead to something worse.

But then, the faint crackle of an intercom broke the silence, followed by a distorted voice. Michael couldn't make out the words, but whatever was said seemed to draw the guard's attention. The man straightened, nodded to himself, and stepped out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

Michael froze, his heart pounding in his chest. For the first time in hours, he was alone. The sudden absence of another presence felt surreal, as though the air in the room had shifted, granting him a moment of clarity.

He couldn't waste it.

Pain and exhaustion clawed at him, but he pushed them down, focusing instead on the faint pulse of hope. He tested the restraints again, his fingers curling into fists as he strained against the leather straps. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his body, but he didn't care.

This was his chance, and he couldn't let it slip away.

Michael stared at his bound wrist, the leather strap digging into his skin, cutting off circulation. The room was silent now, except for his ragged breathing. He flexed his fingers as much as the restraints allowed, the movement sending a sharp ache through his forearm. The reality of what he was about to do loomed over him, his pulse hammering in his ears.

It would hurt—no, it would be agony—but it was the only way.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. His eyes darted to the tools on the tray nearby, gleaming faintly under the sterile light. If he could just get one hand free, he could use them to undo the rest of the straps. He had no other choice.

Michael took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his nerves. He shifted his wrist against the table, feeling the strap's unyielding pressure. His thumb pressed against the edge of the restraint, testing the gap—small, too small. He would have to dislocate it or break it entirely.

"This is going to suck," he muttered under his breath, the sound muffled by the gag. He gritted his teeth, bracing himself.

In a sudden motion, he twisted his wrist sharply to the side, forcing the bone against the restraint's edge. The pain was immediate and blinding, a sharp, white-hot bolt shooting up his arm. He clenched his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth might crack, his muffled scream swallowed by the gag. His thumb bent at an unnatural angle, a sickening pop echoing in the still room.

Tears blurred his vision as he gasped for air, the agony pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His body screamed at him to stop, but he pressed on, using his good hand to twist his wrist further. The broken thumb gave him just enough room to wiggle his hand through the strap, the rough leather scraping against his skin.

When his hand finally slipped free, it flopped limply to his side, the fingers trembling with pain. He forced himself to focus, ignoring the searing ache as he reached toward the tray of tools. His fingers closed around the handle of a small scalpel, the sharp blade cold against his palm.

He worked quickly, slicing through the straps around his other wrist. Each movement sent fresh jolts of pain through his broken hand, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through it. The straps fell away, and he flexed his free hand, wincing as the blood began to flow back into his fingers.

Michael shifted his focus to the straps around his ankles. His hands were shaking now, his body weak from the effort and the lingering pain. The scalpel slipped once, the blade nicking his skin, but he didn't stop.

Finally, the last strap came loose, and Michael swung his legs over the edge of the table, his bare feet touching the cold tiled floor. He sat there for a moment, his head spinning, the room tilting as he tried to gather his strength. His broken thumb throbbed relentlessly, and every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his body.

But he was free.

He stood slowly, his knees wobbling as he adjusted to the weight of his body. The tools on the tray caught his eye, and he grabbed a pair of forceps and a sturdy scalpel, tucking them into the waistband of his pants. They weren't much, but they were better than nothing.

Michael glanced at the door, his breathing heavy. His captors would return soon, and when they did, he couldn't be here. He had to move, broken thumb and all.

Michael's eyes locked onto the device sitting on a nearby console, its dull hum faintly audible even over the ringing in his ears. It was covered in unfamiliar runes and blinking lights, emanating an oppressive presence that felt like static pressing against his mind. He didn't fully understand how it worked, but he knew one thing: it was blocking his connection to his swarm. Without it, he was blind in a way that left him vulnerable—and that was unacceptable.

He staggered toward it, cradling his broken hand against his chest as he reached out with the other. The device was heavier than it looked, its edges cold and sharp against his fingers. The moment he lifted it from the console, a sharp, high-pitched whine began to emit from it, the lights flashing erratically.

"Great," Michael muttered through clenched teeth. "Of course it's loud."

The whine escalated into a blaring alarm, piercing the sterile quiet of the room. Almost immediately, heavy footsteps echoed in the hall outside, growing louder with each second.

Michael's heart pounded as the door burst open, two guards storming in with weapons drawn. One carried a stun baton crackling with energy, while the other leveled a pistol at him.

"Put it down!" the one with the baton barked, his eyes narrowing as he took a step forward.

Michael didn't bother answering. He hurled the device at the guard with the pistol, the impact knocking the weapon from his hands. Before they could react, he lunged forward, grabbing the scalpel from his waistband and slashing at the second guard's hand. The stun baton clattered to the floor, the guard crying out in pain.

The first guard recovered quickly, throwing a punch that caught Michael in the ribs. Pain exploded through his side, and he stumbled back, gasping for air. The scalpel slipped from his grasp, skittering across the floor.

"Enough!" the second guard growled, retrieving his pistol.

Michael's mind raced, the edges of his vision blurring. He needed to act fast. With a burst of adrenaline, he grabbed the fallen stun baton and jammed it into the first guard's stomach. The electric crackle filled the room as the guard convulsed, collapsing in a heap.

The second guard raised his pistol, but Michael was already moving, his body reacting faster than his mind could process. He slammed the baton against the guard's wrist, forcing the weapon to discharge harmlessly into the wall. The guard swung wildly, landing a blow against Michael's already bruised face, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Pain radiated through his skull, but something shifted in his mind—a sudden clarity, a presence. The oppressive weight was gone, and with it came the familiar hum of his swarm. They were back.

He could feel them.

Insects surged from the cracks and shadows, a wave of buzzing wings and skittering legs. The guards froze, their eyes wide as the swarm enveloped them. Michael didn't hesitate. He directed his swarm to disarm and disorient the remaining guard, his breath heaving as he struggled to his feet.

The fight left both guards incapacitated, their screams muffled as the swarm receded. Michael staggered to the console, bracing himself against it as he caught his breath. The room seemed to tilt, his vision swimming from the beating he'd taken.

Then the alarm blared, louder and more insistent, its shrill tone cutting through the air.

"Fantastic," Michael muttered, wiping blood from his face. He focused on the swarm, sending it out like an extension of himself. The insects spread through the hallways, mapping the space and giving him a clear layout of the building.

"Come on, come on," he whispered, his mind racing. Through the swarm's eyes, he saw a path—a way out. But more guards were converging, their movements coordinated and relentless. He had to move, now.

Clutching his side, Michael stumbled toward the exit, his swarm creating distractions and blocking the paths of his pursuers. The sound of boots pounding against the tiled floor echoed behind him, but he didn't look back. The escape route was clear in his mind, the swarm guiding him like an unseen compass.

He burst into a larger corridor, his breaths ragged as the alarm's blaring grew louder. Red emergency lights bathed the hallway in an ominous glow, casting long, shifting shadows. The exit was close—he could feel it.

Then, just as he reached the final stretch, the sound of more guards closing in filled the air. His grip on the stun baton tightened, his injured hand trembling as he prepared for another fight.

"Not today," Michael growled, his swarm surging forward like a living shield. With a defiance born of desperation, he pushed forward, determined to reach the outside world before the Bennetts could drag him back into their nightmare