Trigger Warning: Torture, Graphic Violence, Psychological Breakdown
This chapter contains explicit depictions of torture, surgical procedures, and psychological collapse. If that's not your thing — turn back now. What you're about to see isn't justice. It's method. Calculated pain, served cold and scalpel-sharp. There's no redemption here. No safety net. Just Taz — and his version of closure.
You've been warned.
The air in The Pit was thick, not just with humidity but with the kind of silence that meant things were about to happen. Bad things. Important things. The kind of silence that pressed against your teeth.
Skylar walked beside Marco, both of them silent as they descended into The Pit. She kept pace with him, hands tucked into her hoodie pocket, gaze scanning the dim lights overhead. When they reached the bottom, she moved ahead slightly, hopping up onto the edge of a steel table, legs swinging as if to shake off the weight of the silence. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed to her elbows, her eyes following every flicker of light like she was decoding something no one else could see. She wasn't supposed to be there. But that had never stopped her before. Then came the sound of boots.
Taz emerged from the shadows like he belonged to them. Coat still buttoned. Calm as death. He studied them both in silence for a beat. "You're both here. Good," he said, voice low and surgical.
He motioned down the hallway. There were three doors. Only one was open. Inside: a white, concrete room. Bare. Soundproofed. Reinforced.
"Marco," Taz said, "This room is yours. Do whatever you want with it. Build it. Break it. I don't care." Marco blinked, slowly. "You're giving me my own space?"
"I'm giving you a weapon," Taz replied. "Whether it becomes a lab or a tomb is up to you. Skylar can help." Skylar glanced over at Marco, amused. "You better not put glitter on the walls."
Taz ignored the comment, already turning away. "I'm using all my focus on Travis. Do not waste this opportunity. You have full autonomy down here. Just don't distract me." Then he was gone.
Marco stared into the room like he was already mentally demolishing it and rebuilding it from scratch.
"I want to control temperature," he muttered. "Both extremes. Radiant heat from the floor. Sub-zero from the walls. Shock the body. Confuse the nerves." Skylar stepped beside him, already pulling up schematics on her tablet. "I can rig zonal control systems. You want isolated heat spikes or full-room blasts?"
"Both." Skylar gave a crooked grin. "I can do that."
He pointed to the ceiling. "Adjustable lighting grid. I want variable intensity and frequency. Something that makes the eyes twitch."
"I'll build the interface. Touchscreen with biometric locks. We can program it to respond to stress levels." Marco smiled faintly. "Reactive torment. I like it."
He glanced sideways at her, curious. "What are your degrees, anyway?" Skylar didn't look up from her tablet. "Dual degrees in Software Engineering and Digital Forensics. Master's in insomnia. Everything else I learned by hacking, rebuilding, and never sleeping."
Marco let out a dry, amused snort. "Explains the weirdness. And the mildly terrifying competence. Mostly the weirdness, though." They moved into the room together, steps in sync. No more words. Skylar crouched near the wall panel, sleeves pushed up again, revealing old scars and newer burns — badges of someone who never read the safety manual. She tapped at her tablet, then paused, glancing over her shoulder.
"You want the resonance frequency low enough to induce nausea, or just mess with their balance?" Marco didn't answer right away. He was kneeling at the center of the room, sketching layouts in chalk like it was sacred geometry. When he finally looked up, his eyes gleamed with something feral. "Make them question gravity."
Skylar let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "God, you're fun." Marco stood, brushing off his hands. "You haven't seen fun yet."
He walked over, leaned down slightly — too close, too casual — and pointed to a section of her blueprint.
"Run that frequency through subsonic channels embedded in the floor. If we time it with light strobing at 7 Hz, the brain thinks the body's moving even when it's still." Skylar raised a brow. "Sensory desync."
He grinned. "Disorientation's underrated." She didn't step back. Didn't flinch. Just held his gaze like a mirror.
"You're terrifying," she said, voice low. "In a very… well-engineered way."
Marco smiled. Not a smirk — something real, for once. "You'd know. Pot meet fucking kettle." For a moment, nothing moved. Even the hum of electricity seemed to wait. Then Skylar broke it, not with words, but with movement — spinning the tablet around to him. "Help me code the interface. I want it to pulse with heartbeat variability. Yours."
Marco blinked, caught off guard. "Mine?"
She smirked. "You said it yourself. I haven't seen fun yet." They sat down on the floor, Skylar cross-legged with cables, Marco flat on his back under the wall panel, installing the first of the conduits. Sparks rained intermittently. Faint, but enough.
"You're grounding that wrong," Skylar muttered, not looking up from her code.
"I'm grounding it artistically," Marco shot back. "There's a difference."
"Yeah," she said dryly. "One causes fires." Marco reached blindly out with one hand, snapping a wire into her open palm.
She caught it without flinching. "Weirdly synced," she muttered.
"Definitely explains the weirdness," Marco said.
"Says the man who stole someone's spine," Skylar shot back without missing a beat. Marco smirked. "It was part of a spine and it was for medical extraction."
Skylar rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and I tinker for fun. We're both full of shit."
Still, their rhythm didn't falter.
In that dim room built for pain, they were building something else.
"Seriously though," she said, nodding at the interface. "Ground through the surge buffer and isolate with a ceramic break—unless you want the whole thing frying next time someone twitches."
Marco glanced, paused, and then rewired exactly as she said. "Fine. You're right. Happy?"
Skylar grinned, eyes on her code. "Ecstatic."
In that dim room built for pain, they were building something else. And for the first time — not even the walls were listening.
The Pit was still.
Too still. The new systems Skylar and Marco had installed gave it an edge it hadn't had before — a sentience. It hummed low, like it could hear you breathe. Like it was waiting. Taz stood in the middle of it all, coat off, sleeves rolled, gloves already stained. He wasn't here to build. He was here to finish. Travis was strapped to a surgical table. His legs trembled uncontrollably, though one was splinted and the other barely intact. His pelvis was shattered — open book, catastrophic. He'd pissed himself hours ago, the stain long dried beneath him. Blood clung to his thighs and the restraints, sticky and slow to flake off. His skin was pale, sweat-slicked, trembling with every rasped breath. The room smelled of metal and infection.
"Fucking coward," Travis spat. Voice hoarse. Eyes bloodshot. "You think this makes you strong? Fuck you." Taz turned his head, just a little. Calm. Calculating.
"You've been screaming for eight hours. And now you want to talk?"
"Come closer," Travis hissed. "I'll— I'll kill you. You hear me? I'll fucking kill you." Taz stepped forward without a word.
His boots echoed like gunshots. He didn't say anything. He just tilted his head, looked Travis up and down — clinically. One hand reached out, slow and precise, like he was examining livestock.
"I fractured your pelvis," Taz said, tone flat. "Open book. Same way Reagan's looked after what you did. She didn't get anesthesia either." He placed one hand on Travis' side. Felt the rib line. Pressed.
Travis flinched. "What the fuck are you—"
"I was going to break a rib," Taz said calmly, fingers pressing gently. "But I think I'll take it instead." Travis froze. "Wait. Wait, wait—please—don't—please."
Too late.
Taz walked over to the tray, selecting his tools with a clinical rhythm — bone chisel, rib shears, surgical hook, a scalpel so sharp it looked bored. He paused, then picked up the scalpel, letting it rest in his gloved palm like it belonged there. Not flashy. Just clean. Just ready. He didn't make a show of it. No warnings. No threats. Just precision.
The blade pierced skin with a wet sound, slicing down between the ribs. Controlled, almost elegant. Taz carved through the layers — dermis, fat, fascia. Travis screamed, high-pitched and primal, the restraints rattling with his convulsions.
"Please—no—please, I'll talk—just don't—fuck—"
Taz didn't react. He peeled back the flesh like unzipping a jacket, methodical and deliberate. His gloved fingers slid in, slick and practiced, separating muscle from bone with the patience of a surgeon and the apathy of a coroner. He worked fast, but never rushed — incising deeper, flaring the edges with retractors, exposing the rib like a trophy waiting to be claimed. Travis shook violently. His chest heaved. His body convulsed once, hard enough to slam the restraints against the table. Sweat poured from him now — cold and sour. His lips trembled. His pupils were blown wide with panic.
"Oh God—oh fuck—stop—I'll tell you anything—just stop it—"
Taz didn't speak. He monitored Travis' pulse with a clipped glance toward the vitals screen. If it spiked too high, he paused. If it dropped, he adjusted. There was no room for death yet — not until the damage was exact. Not until it mirrored hers. He was the painkeeper now. The body would not escape. Not until it had felt every fracture Reagan couldn't scream through.
The rib came into view — stark white against red. Taz traced it with one finger, then reached for the rib shears.
"You beat her until her pelvis shattered," he said softly, not even looking at Travis. "She's in a coma because of you. And you think you deserve mercy?" Travis began to sob. Not weep — sob. Guttural, choking, full-body spasms that shook the table. "Please—I'm sorry—I'm fucking sorry—"
He clamped the shears around the rib's end and cut. It cracked at the cartilage. Popped free with a wet snap. Taz wrenched it out slowly, savoring the sound — the groan of sinew, the tear of connective tissue. Travis screamed until his voice gave out. Then it was just the noise of breathless agony — a rasp, a gag, a tremor that wouldn't stop. He bucked once, then went limp. Taz caught the drop in vitals instantly. Injected a stabilizer. Kept him right there — on the line. The man didn't faint. Not fully. He blinked, dazed, lips twitching, drool sliding down his chin. Pupils wide. Heart racing. He was conscious, barely — and completely broken.
Shock was setting in. His body shivered violently, core temperature dipping, heart fluttering in irregular staccato beats. His mouth opened, but no words came. Taz slapped his cheek lightly — not cruel, just enough to keep him tethered.
"Stay with me," he muttered. Travis moaned weakly. Taz held the rib up to the light. Examined it like an artifact. Then dropped it into a steel tray with a sharp clang.
No ceremony. Just consequence.
"One down," Taz muttered, turning back to the tray. "Five to go."
Travis blinked slowly, his breath hitching in shallow bursts. He was shaking now — not from pain alone, but the kind of primal fear that gnawed at the spine. His voice, when it came, was hoarse and fractured.
"You can't… you can't do this. I'm— I'm important," he gasped. "People know me." Taz didn't turn around. He just selected the next tool.
Travis sobbed harder, panic and ego clawing at each other inside his mind.
"I'll pay you—fuck—please, Taz—I didn't mean to—she came onto us—" His words fell apart, hysteria overtaking bravado. The narcissist was crumbling. Not in a blaze — but in a pathetic, wet collapse. Taz slid the next scalpel onto the tray.
He finally turned, voice low. "Didn't you also rape her once or twice?" he asked.
Travis' eyes widened—first in shock, then something far more fragile. His breath caught, a shallow hiccup of panic that betrayed the truth. He hadn't known Reagan remembered. He hadn't known she told anyone. The words hit like a scalpel to the gut. His jaw trembled, and for the first time, he didn't speak. He just shook his head weakly, eyes glassy, heart rate spiking on the monitor. The sweat on his skin turned ice cold. He wasn't afraid of pain—he was afraid of exposure.
"I think she told me you drugged her many times," Taz continued, eyes steady. "You and Owen had your 'way with her,' didn't you?" Travis stuttered, shock rolling over his features like a slow wave. "I married her… when I knew her, her name was Hally Sinclair," Travis blurted out. "A little name change won't change a bitch like her." Taz continued his method — no reaction to the words, no hesitation. He reached down, fingers steady, and began freeing the next rib. Slow. Excruciating. Deliberate. He twisted slightly as he loosened it, maximizing the pressure, ensuring every nerve ending screamed. Travis howled again, but it broke into gasps. This one did something to him. He slumped in the restraints, body slick with sweat, face gone almost grey. His head rolled sideways. Taz glanced at the vitals, then grabbed a cloth and wiped some of the blood from the open cavity. He was calm, almost bored. Travis trembled. Barely able to speak. "Please… I'm done… I'm done…" Taz didn't stop.
"Keep it going with your threats, Travis," he said, cold and level. "You were such a talker before." Travis didn't respond. His chest barely rose. The restraints held him up more than his own spine did now. Then it came — the full collapse.
"I loved her," Travis rasped, desperate. "I married her, didn't I? Ask anyone—she was unstable. I tried to help her."
His voice cracked, teetering on the edge between self-delusion and performance.
"She was beautiful, smart—too smart. Always… always running her mouth, thinking she was better." He started crying. Not sobbing like before. Quieter. Almost reverent. "Reagan was special. She was just broken. I only wanted to fix her." Taz said nothing.
"I'll do anything," Travis pleaded, voice raw. "Let me live. Please. I'll disappear. I'll confess. I'll tell you everything I did to her. I'll put it in writing—fuck, I'll tattoo it on my chest if you want. Just let me go. Please. Please."
In the corner, Owen stirred, his voice a slurry mumble soaked in fentanyl.
"Tra…Travis… He won't stop… He won't…"
Taz didn't even glance at him. His voice cut through the air like a scalpel:
"You're getting Marco, Owen. Look forward to that." The silence that followed was worse than the pain.
"Who… who is he?" he slurred, voice thick with fentanyl and fear. Taz didn't turn. His tone was calm. Clinical. Almost bored. *
"A biomechanic psychopath with a sick obsession with seeing how far he can push the human body before it snaps. Combine that with a God complex, sarkasm, erratic behavour and a genuis level IQand you get Marco." He set down the bloodied cloth, eyes locked on the tray of tools.
"And right now? He's building you a custom torture chamber." Owen whimpered
"Please… no," he cried, voice cracking with a child's desperation. "Please—don't let him—don't let him do this."
He giggled once, then went still again. "Think of Marco as the more chaotic and eccentric version of me," Taz added quietly, almost like a warning wrapped in curiosity. Taz wiped his hands on a towel and leaned over Travis.
"We're almost done," he said, voice like ice. "You broke six. I've only taken two."
Then he reached for rib number three.