"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."

~ John Milton

Chapter X

(8 Years Ago)

Year 2046

The white walls of solitary confinement were Yoki's only companions. They loomed, silent and indifferent, as the days stretched into weeks. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly, never dimming, robbing him of the passage of time. In this stark isolation, he began to feel the edges of his sanity fray.

The silence was absolute, yet within it, a cacophony of memories and thoughts bombarded him. His mind, once a sanctuary, had become a battlefield. He relived the deaths of his parents, the massacre of the police officers, and the endless, brutal nights in his cell. Each memory was a ghost, haunting the confines of his mind, refusing to let him rest.

Yoki.

Painkiller’s voice slithered into his consciousness, a dark thread weaving through his thoughts.

“What do you want?” Yoki muttered, his voice rough from disuse.

How are you enjoying Stonegate’s hospitality?

“It’s hell,” he admitted. “But I’m not giving in to you.”

You say that now. Let’s see how long you can hold out.

Yoki tried to push the voice away, but Painkiller was relentless. Each time Yoki attempted to strengthen his mind, the voice returned, insidious and mocking.

He played more mental games, counting the seconds between his breaths, recalling the details of his parents’ faces, trying to remember the feel of sunlight on his skin. He created more stories, worlds within his mind where he was free, where he was in control. But even these escapades into imagination couldn't stave off the creeping madness.

Days bled into one another, the monotony gnawing at his sanity. His once clear thoughts grew muddled, the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurring. He began to hallucinate, seeing shadows move in the corners of his vision, hearing whispers that weren’t there.

One night, as he lay on the cold, hard floor, he heard the voice again.

Yoki.

He didn’t respond.

Yoki, you can’t ignore me forever.

“I can try,” he whispered, clutching his head.

Why resist? Embrace what you are. What we could be together.

“I’m not you. I’ll never be you.”

You already are, Yoki. Every violent act, every outburst, brings you closer to me.

“No!” Yoki’s shout echoed off the walls, a desperate plea. “I’m not like you!”

Painkiller laughed, a sound that resonated with cold, cruel amusement. You’ll see. One day, you’ll understand.

In the relentless solitude, Yoki’s thoughts turned to his father’s training. Garett had always pushed him, preparing him for something Yoki had never understood. He clung to those memories, using them as a lifeline. The grueling exercises, the discipline—it all had to mean something. Was it really all just for The Academy, or something else?

He thought of Doc, the mysterious figure Painkiller had urged him to ally with. What did Doc know? Why was he important? Yoki resolved to find out. But first, he had to survive this.

One day, he discovered a rhythm in his suffering. He began to see the patterns in the pain, using it as a focus for his mental exercises. He visualized himself as a tree, roots digging deep into the earth, unshakable. He was both grounded and reaching, striving for the light.

Nice imagery, Painkiller sneered. But a tree can still be felled.

Yoki ignored him, continuing his visualization. He imagined his roots spreading out, connecting with the earth, drawing strength from it. He pictured his branches reaching toward the sky, unyielding, resilient.

The hallucinations became more vivid. He saw his parents, their faces twisted in sorrow and accusation. He saw the police officers he had killed, their eyes blank and staring. But he also saw visions of himself, standing evily, a murderer of unparalleled strength.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

One vision, more potent than the rest, showed him standing before a vast, dark ocean. The water was turbulent, crashing against jagged rocks. On the horizon, a storm brewed, lightning flashing in the distance. He felt Painkiller’s presence beside him, a shadowy figure with eyes like embers.

This is your destiny, Painkiller said. Embrace it.

Yoki faced the storm, feeling its power. He took a deep breath, drawing the chaos into himself, and let out a primal scream that echoed through the void.

Very dramatic, Painkiller commented dryly. Theatrics won’t save you.

Yoki opened his eyes, finding himself back in the sterile cell. The vision had left him drained but also filled with a strange sense of purpose. He would harness his inner chaos, turn it into strength. He would use Painkiller’s presence, not as a crutch, but as a challenge to overcome.

As the months dragged on, Yoki’s resolve was tested again and again. The isolation was relentless, the monotony crushing. He had to find new ways to keep himself sane, new rituals to anchor himself. He counted the cracks in the ceiling, recited the multiplication tables, anything to keep his mind occupied.

He began to develop a deeper understanding of his own mind. He learned to recognize the signs of an impending breakdown, the subtle shifts in his thoughts that signaled the approach of madness. He learned to steer himself away from those dangerous waters, to find safer shores.

He thought often of Doc, the mysterious figure Painkiller had urged him to ally with. He wondered what Doc knew, why he was important. Yoki resolved to find out, if he ever got out of this place. But first, he had to survive.

Yoki.

The voice was a constant presence, always there, always waiting. But Yoki had learned to live with it, to use it as a reminder of what he was fighting against. He was not Painkiller. He would never be Painkiller.

One day, he discovered a new crack in the wall, a tiny imperfection that he hadn’t noticed before. It became his new focus, a symbol of the outside world, a reminder that there was something beyond these four walls. He spent hours staring at it, tracing its shape with his fingers, using it to ground himself when the hallucinations became too much.

Yoki’s body felt like it was deteriorating, both physically and mentally. It lacked of sunlight, leaving his his skin pale and sallow. He tried to exercise as best he could in the confined space, doing push-ups and sit-ups, but it was never enough. The constant buzz of the fluorescent lights gave him headaches, and the never-ending silence was a torture in itself. He began to lose track of the days, each one blending into the next in an unending cycle of monotony, of despair. He had no way of knowing how long he had been in there, and the uncertainty gnawed at him, adding to his growing sense of disorientation.

Yoki found himself talking to the walls, holding one-sided conversations with imaginary friends. He spoke to his parents, asking for their forgiveness, seeking their guidance. He talked to the police officers he had killed, trying to explain his actions, seeking some form of redemption. He even spoke to Painkiller, challenging him, refusing to give in to the darkness.

One day, he noticed a spider weaving a web in the corner of his cell. It was a tiny thing, fragile and delicate, but it became his new focus. He watched it for hours, fascinated by its persistence, its ability to create something beautiful in such a bleak environment. The spider became a symbol of hope to Yoki, a reminder that even in the darkest places, life could still find a way. He began to see patterns in the way the light reflected off the walls, creating intricate designs that seemed to shift and change with his mood. He imagined these patterns as messages, signs from a higher power, guiding him, giving him strength. He knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but it gave him something to hold onto, a reason to keep going.

Yoki started to sing, his voice cracking from disuse, but it was a way to break the silence, to remind himself that he was still alive. He sang songs from his childhood, lullabies his mother used to sing, songs his father used to play on the piano. The music brought back memories, both good and bad, but it helped to anchor him, to keep him connected to his humanity. He created elaborate fantasies, detailed stories where he was the hero, where he overcame impossible odds, where he found peace. These stories became his escape, a way to step outside the confines of his cell, to experience freedom, if only in his mind.

The hallucinations grew more intense. Yoki tried learning how to navigate them, to try and distinguish reality from illusion. He began to understand that the shadows and whispers were manifestations of his own fears, guilt; that they had no power over him unless he allowed them to.

Yoki.

The voice was always there, a constant reminder. But he had learned to use it, to turn Painkiller’s taunts into fuel for his determination. He was not alone in this fight; he had his memories, his rituals, his stories. He had himself.

One day, as he sat on the cold, hard floor, he had a moment of clarity. He realized that his time in solitary had changed him, had made him stronger, more resilient. He had faced his darkest fears, had confronted his inner demons, and had come out the other side. He was not the same person who had entered this cell; he was someone new, someone who had found strength in his suffering.

He thought about the future, about what he would do when he finally got out. He thought about Doc, about the mysterious figure who held so many answers. He thought about his parents, about honoring their memory, about finding a way to make amends for his past actions.

But most of all, he thought about himself, about the journey he had been on, about the person he had become. He knew that the fight was far from over, that he still had a long way to go, but he was ready. He was ready to face whatever came next, to take on the challenges that awaited him.

He stood up, his body aching, his muscles feeling weak, but his spirit unbroken. He walked to a small window built by his imagination, trying to build a connection to the outside world, and looked out. He couldn’t see anything in reality, picturing just a sliver of sky. He did it to remind himself that there was a world out there, away from Stonegate.

Yoki.

The voice was a distant echo now, a reminder of the battles he had fought, of the strength he had found. He was not alone. He had himself, and that was enough. He turned away from the illusioned window, feeling a sense of peace, a sense of purpose. He was ready to face whatever came next, to take on the challenges that awaited him. He was ready to live. The white walls of solitary confinement had been his only companions for so long, but now, as he looked out at the sliver of imaginative sky, he knew that there was a world beyond them. A world that he would one day rejoin. And when that day came, he would be ready.