The pain was a constant. It was like a storm brewing within my veins, a tempest of agony that refused to stray. I had been through a lot in my life, seen things that would shatter most men, but nothing had prepared me for the electricity coursing through my body. At first, it felt as if a thousand needles were piercing my skin, each one delivering a jolt of unadulterated pain, but it began to evolve, becoming a rampaging beast that charged right through me, trying its hardest to escape my vessel.

Numbness.

It crept in slowly, spreading from the tips of my fingers and toes, up through my limbs, and into my chest. The numbness was a betrayal, a false reprieve that made the pain seem distant, almost bearable. But I knew better. The numbness was just a precursor, a herald of the real suffering to come.

I could barely keep my eyes open as I hung there, shackled to that cold iron chair, my head lolling forward like a puppet with its strings cut. My muscles twitched involuntarily, remnants of the electricity that had ravaged my body. I felt my skin being stretched too tight, too hot, as if someone had stretched it over a furnace. Every breath was a struggle, every heartbeat a reminder that I was still alive—still trapped in this waking nightmare.

And then, just as the fog in my mind cleared, the door creaked open.

Through the haze, I saw her, a figure draped in the shadows, her presence as sharp and menacing as a blade. Elektra Voltaire. Her name alone was enough to send a fresh wave of dread crashing through me. She was everything I hated about this world, everything that was wrong with Havana and its cursed walls. A predator in human skin, taking pleasure in the torment of others.

But today, she wasn’t alone.

Behind her, a frail boy shuffled into the room, his steps hesitant, as if he was walking to his own execution. He couldn’t have been more than a year or two younger than me, but there was something almost childlike in his demeanor, a vulnerability that made me pity him the moment I saw him. His hair was a mess of brown curls, his clothes hanging off him like he was drowning in fabric. And his eyes—God, his eyes—were wide and frightened, darting around the room like a cornered animal.

My heart ached as I watched Elektra drag him forward by the hair, her grip tight and merciless. She didn’t care about the fear in his eyes, the way his body trembled under her touch. She only cared about power, about proving that she was the one in control. From my point of view, it was all just an act, an act of melodrama, a tirade of an unloved child. An incessant need for approval made me her punching bag.

I’d seen it a hundred times before. The strong pressuring the weak, trying to push them into the same pit of darkness they’d already fallen into. But it never ended well. The weak either broke under the weight of the darkness, or they became just as monstrous as their tormentors. An even greater monster. And that’s what Elektra wanted, wasn’t it? To mold this boy into something as twisted and cruel as she was.

She was trying to prove something, but what? That she could break us both? That she could make him into her perfect little puppet? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. All I knew was that she was a bitch, a cold, heartless bitch, and that whatever she was planning, it would only end in more pain.

“You’re still hesitating,” Elektra said, her voice sharp as a whip.

The boy, Warren, she’d called him, stared down at the scalpel in his hand like it was some foreign object, something he didn’t understand. His fingers trembled, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, frozen, caught between fear and revulsion.

“I-I don’t know what to do,” Warren stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

The boy was so lost in this room of chaos, yet Elektra seemed unfettered by it. All it took was a greater push and more torment for Warren to be at the bitch’s mercy, reluctantly listening to her every command like a dog.

“Listen carefully,” Elektra instructed, her voice a low, dangerous purr. “You’re going to make an incision. Right here.” She moved to stand beside him, pointing to a spot just below my collarbone. “Press the blade down until you feel resistance, and then drag it slowly. Do you understand?”

I clenched my teeth, bracing myself for what was to come. But nothing could have prepared me for the pain that followed.

Warren took a deep breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he whispered a soft, “I’m sorry.” And then the scalpel bit into my flesh. I was not sure who he was apologizing to. Was it to himself or me?

It was like fire, like someone had shoved a hot poker straight into my chest. My body jerked in the chair, a scream ripping from my throat before I could stop it. The pain was overwhelming, a tidal wave that crashed over me, drowning out everything else. I wanted to black out, to escape into the darkness, but Elektra wouldn’t let me. She was there, her voice a constant presence, instructing Warren on where to cut, how deep to go, how to maximize the pain without letting me die.

And Warren- poor, wretched Warren, followed her orders, his movements jerky and hesitant, but precise enough to do actual damage. With every slice, every cut, my screams filled the room, echoing off the walls like a chorus of the damned. It was unbearable, the agony coursing through me like lava, burning away any semblance of sanity I had left.

I tried to curse, but my voice was hoarse from screaming. I wanted to hurt Elektra, to make her feel even a fraction of the pain she was inflicting on me. But she just smiled, a twisted grin that made my blood run cold.

I could see a sadistic gleam from her smile as she watched from behind as her brother continued to bring that piece of cutlery further down my body. Warren’s hand trembled as he made another cut, this one shallow, but no less painful. The boy was a mess, his face pale and slick with sweat, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He was clearly struggling, his mind fighting against what his body was doing, but Elektra’s presence was too overwhelming. She exerted a pressure of absoluteness, a whirlwind of cruelty and malice, and Warren found himself caught in the eye of the storm.

I could see it in his eyes—the way they darted between me and Elektra, the guilt and fear warring within him. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be doing this. But he had no choice. He was as much a victim as I was, caught in Elektra’s web with no hope of escape.

And then, finally, it became too much for him.

Warren dropped the scalpel, stumbled back from the chair, and twisted his face in horror as if he had been burnt. He looked at his hands, covered in my blood, and then at me—really looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time. His eyes were wide, haunted, and filled with a deep, gut-wrenching guilt.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of my ragged breathing. “I’m so sorry.”

He turned away, doubling over as he vomited onto the cold stone floor. The sound was harsh, retching, and it filled the room with the sour stench of bile. I could only watch, my body too broken to move, as he collapsed to his knees, his entire frame shaking with the force of his sobs.

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Elektra, clearly entertained enough, turned on her heel, disgust and boredom etched into every line of her face. The thrill of tormenting us had worn off, leaving only irritation behind. Without another word, she stalked toward the door, her boots clicking sharply against the stone.

“Clean this up,” she ordered, her voice cold and detached. “I don’t want to see a single drop of blood left when I return.”

And then she was gone, the heavy door slamming shut behind her, leaving me alone with Warren and the aftermath of our shared suffering.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. The sound of Warren’s ragged breathing filled the room, along with the soft drip of blood pooling on the floor. I couldn’t speak, too exhausted to do anything but breathe and stare up at the ceiling, my vision swimming in and out of focus.

But then, slowly, I turned my head, my gaze falling on Warren as he sat slumped against the wall, his face buried in his hands. He appeared as a wreck-a broken, terrified shell of a boy who had been pushed too far, too fast.

“Kid,” I rasped, my voice raw and barely above a whisper. It hurt to speak, every word scraping against my throat like sandpaper. But I pushed through it, needing to reach out to him, to connect with the only other person in this hellhole who might understand even a fraction of what I was going through.

“Kid,” my voice hoarse but steady this time, “it’s not your fault.”

Warren didn’t respond at first. He stayed curled up on the floor, his body trembling, his breathing uneven. I could see the way his shoulders shook, the silent sobs wracking his thin frame. It was like looking into a mirror from years ago, seeing my reflection in the raw vulnerability that he tried so hard to hide.

“Warren,” I said, my tone softer now, more tender. “Look at me.”

He finally lifted his head, his tear-streaked face a picture of despair. His eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks flushed with shame. Despite his tall stature, he looked like a child caught in the middle of a nightmare, unsure of how to wake up.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” he whispered again, his voice cracking. “I didn’t want to hurt you, I swear.”

“I know,” I replied, forcing a small, painful smile. “I know you didn’t.”

He shook his head, his expression twisted with self-loathing. “But I did. I hurt you. I followed her orders, and I—” His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands again. “I’m a monster.”

“No,” I said firmly, summoning whatever strength I had left to keep my voice steady. “You’re not a monster, Warren. You’re just a guy who got caught up in someone else’s sick game”

He looked at me through his fingers, doubt and guilt etched into every line of his face. His hands trembled as he spoke. “But I- I did what she said. I hurt you. How can you say I’m not a monster after that?”

I took a deep breath, fighting through the pain that flared with every inhalation. “Because I’ve seen real monsters. I’ve been on the receiving end of their cruelty more times than I can count. And trust me, you’re not one of them. You’re scared and you’re trying to survive. That doesn’t make you a monster. It just makes you human.”

Warren blinked at me, his expression wavering between disbelief and hope. I could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he wanted to believe me, but couldn’t quite let go of the guilt that was eating him alive.

Finally, he admitted, “I don’t know what to do,” his voice so small that it almost lost itself the room’s oppressive silence. “I’m not like her. I’m not like any of my family.”

“You don’t have to be,” I said, wincing as another wave of pain washed over me. “You have a choice, Warren. We all do. You don’t have to let her turn you into something you’re not.”

“But what if I’m too weak to fight her?” His voice trembled with fear, the same fear that had been gripping him since he entered the room. “What if I can’t stand up to her?”

I wanted to reach out, to offer some kind of physical comfort, but I was too weak, the iron chairs restraints too strong. “It’s not about strength,” I told him. “You have to fight back, you might get hurt, you might die. But you’ll at least be able to say you tried”

Warren stared at me, his eyes wide and filled with a desperate kind of hope. For a moment, I thought he might break down again, that the weight of everything was too much for him. But then, slowly, he nodded, a small, shaky movement that spoke of a decision made, a line drawn in the sand.

“I’ll try,” he whispered, his voice still trembling but with a hint of resolve. “I’ll try not to be like her.”

“That’s all you can do,” I said, offering him what little encouragement I could. “Just try.”

For a long moment, the room was silent. The only sound was the soft dripping of blood and the ragged breaths we both took. Warren stayed where he was, slumped against the wall, his eyes locked on the floor. But I could see the wheels turning in his head, the thoughts and emotions warring within him as he processed everything that had happened.

Finally, he seemed to have come to some kind of decision. He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as he stood. He looked at me, his face pale and drawn, but there was a new determination in his eyes, a steely resolve that hadn’t been there before.

He looked back at me, his eyes lit with a dim fire. “Your name was Sabir, right?”

“Sabir Quinn.” I replied softly.

Warren’s eyes widened upon hearing my full name, as if he had unraveled a mystery long buried in darkness. His expression shifted from fear to something deeper- an unsettling blend of recognition and disbelief. It was as though the pieces of a puzzle had suddenly clicked into place, revealing a picture he hadn’t expected to see. He stared at me with an intensity that made the air between us feel thick, charged with unspoken questions and the weight of new realizations. I could see the gears turning in his mind, the slow but inevitable understanding of who I was and, perhaps, why his family was so obsessed with Mia.

His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, and then, as if coming to a decision, he offered a small, tentative smile, the first I’d seen from him without a trace of fear. “My name is Warren Voltaire,” he said, the name carrying a weight that tied him to the very bloodline that had caused me so much suffering.

The brief connection between us broke as quickly as it had formed. Warren’s smile faded, replaced by a look of resigned determination. “I need to clean this up,” he continued, his voice steady but tinged with a hollow emptiness, as though he was trying to detach himself from the horror of what had just happened. “Elektra…she’ll be back soon, and I can’t give her another reason to punish me.”

I nodded, understanding the unspoken fear in his words. Elektra wasn’t someone you crossed lightly. She was the kind of person who took pleasure in reminding others of their place, in breaking them down until there was nothing left. Warren had already been through enough for one night, and I didn’t want to see him suffer any more than he already had.

“Do what you need to do,” I said, my voice rough and barely audible.

He didn’t respond, just gave me a quick, almost imperceptible nod before he turned away, moving toward the blood-stained floor. I watched as he began to scrub, his movements mechanical, detached, as if he was trying to scrub away not just the blood, but the memories of what he’d just done.

I wanted to say more, to offer some kind of comfort, but I was too exhausted. The pain, the numbness, the sheer weight of everything that had happened, it was all too much. My vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges, and I knew I was close to passing out.

As I lay there, slipping in and out of consciousness, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to Warren. Would he survive this? Would he be able to hold on to that flicker of humanity, that small spark of hope I’d seen in his eyes? Or would Elektra crush him, molding him into her puppet?

I didn’t know. But I hoped and prayed that he would find a way to rise above the darkness, to break free from the chains she’d wrapped around his soul. Because if he could, then maybe-just maybe, there was hope for the rest of us.

But as I finally succumbed to the darkness, one thought lingered in my mind, a final, desperate wish for the boy who had been thrust into a nightmare not of his making to survive. And with that, I slipped into unconsciousness, the pain and the fear finally giving way to the merciful oblivion of sleep.