So... remember how people say "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger"? Yeah. They clearly never met Reagan. Or Marco. Or Taz with a scalpel and a motive. This chapter is less "healing montage" and more "post-apocalyptic field hospital meets sadist startup incubator." Buckle up, bitches. Hell hath no fury like a woman who's just regained consciousness and realized her enemies are being dissected in 4K.
The sterile white walls of Marco's chamber hummed faintly with electricity. The air was thick with tension, sharp and cold, like a living beast waiting to be unleashed. Marco crouched by the wall panel, fingers threading cables through conduits with practiced precision.
"We need zones," he murmured, voice low and intense. "From sub-zero chill to blistering heat in seconds. Shock the body, confuse the nerves." Skylar sat cross-legged nearby, her tablet glowing in the dim light, eyes flickering between schematics and code. "I can program the zones to react to heart rate. When stress spikes, the chamber intensifies — no breaks, no mercy."
Marco smirked, a chilling glint in his eye. "A machine that feeds on its victim's panic. Alive and hungry." She rolled her eyes but smiled. "Just don't set it on fire. Grounding needs to be perfect. I'm not risking an electrical inferno because you want 'artistic' wiring."
He chuckled softly. "That's what makes it fun." Their hands moved in sync, wiring the labyrinth of circuits that snaked through walls and floors. The adjustable lighting grid flickered to life — precise strobe frequencies designed to make even the strongest mind falter.
"7 Hz strobing, pulsing with low subsonic vibrations," Skylar said, fingers dancing across the keyboard. "Total sensory disorientation." Marco leaned close, pointing at her screen. "And it pulses with my heartbeat. Reactive torment, deeply personal." Skylar laughed. "If we don't fry ourselves first, we'll be the most feared sadists in town."
The low hum of the chamber grew louder as more circuits clicked into place. Marco's fingers danced deftly over the wires, rerouting a cluster to avoid interference.
"See this?" he said, pointing under the panel. "If we don't isolate this segment, the whole system might cascade fail when the heaters kick in." Skylar leaned in, eyes scanning the maze of cables. "Good catch. I'll tweak the software to shut down non-essential zones first if the load spikes."
Marco smirked without looking up. "Your code is basically the safety net for my artistic chaos."
She shot him a sideways glance. "Yeah, well, somebody's gotta keep you from turning this into a fireworks show." A brief silence settled, punctuated by the crackle of static from a nearby panel. Marco reached for his toolkit. Skylar smiled, typing rapidly. "This is starting to look like a real nightmare. The biofeedback loop is almost ready." Marco glanced over, impressed. "Real-time torture adjustments. Personalized hell."
She grinned. "And if you think that's not enough, wait 'til I add a randomized panic spike function."
His eyes twinkled. "You really know how to make someone nervous."
"Just doing my job," she said with a sly smile. They exchanged a quick smirk before diving back into the maze of wires and code — their unspoken rhythm guiding them deeper into the nightmare they were building.
Hours slipped by. Marco now sat on a low stool, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grease streaked across his jaw. He was cross-referencing voltage readings when he caught Skylar watching him.
"What?" he asked, without looking up.
"You bite your lip when you're calculating," she replied. "Makes you look like you're trying to seduce the circuit board." Marco paused. "And what if I am?"
Skylar snorted. "Then I'm worried about your type." He grinned. "Cold, heartless, high-resistance materials? Sounds about right."
She tossed him a connector. "Focus, Romeo. We've got to calibrate the floor plates."
"Right." He crawled toward the center of the room, checking the embedded coils under the tiles. "Tell me when you see the surge."
"Now," she said. "Right leg spike just triggered." Marco nodded. "Perfect. That should make their nervous system scream before they even know why."
Skylar looked down at her interface, fingers idly tapping the side as she narrowed her eyes in thought. "You ever test any of this before?" she asked casually, like she was asking about a favorite sandwich topping. "Back in Ukraine? Before Taz fetched you?"
Marco tilted his head, then let out a low, amused hum. "Yeah... a few times. I had this whole concept for a biomech exosuit — part machine, part spinal architecture. Tried building it out of, y'know... living tissue. Didn't get far before Taz showed up and said, 'Put the bones down, Marco.' So yeah. Some casualties. Occupational hazard."
Skylar didn't respond right away. Her lips curled into a crooked grin as she tapped a few keys, dimming the lights to an ominous low red. "That's kind of hot," she said, tone bone-dry. "Like if a soldering iron and a horror movie had a baby — and then raised it in a server room." Marco sat back, sweat slick on his neck. He leaned back a bit further, eyes locked on hers. "You haven't seen anything yet, baby."
She met his gaze across the room, and for a fleeting second — the air didn't just hum. It held its breath.
Then, as if remembering they were surrounded by deadly voltage and sadistic circuitry, Skylar blinked and looked back at her tablet. "Okay," she said, voice clearing just a touch. "Let's test the vestibular disruptors. See if we can make someone puke just by turning their head."
Marco grinned, pushing himself off the wall. "Now you're speaking my language." He moved to the control panel as Skylar triggered the calibration program. The lights shifted, cycling through sharp pulses — disorienting but controlled. Marco adjusted a dial. "We need to offset the sound loop by two milliseconds. Sync it to a natural heartbeat, then throw it off. That'll mess with their balance even worse."
Skylar nodded, biting her lip in concentration. "Already on it. If we stagger the pitch shift and add low-frequency vibrations through the floor, it should mimic early vertigo."
Marco let out a low whistle. "You're terrifyingly good at this." "Occupational hazard," she said with a smirk. "So, what happens if we push the limit?"
He raised a brow. "You mean if we blend heat shock, subsonic rumble, and vestibular disruption all at once?" Skylar gave him a crooked grin. "Exactly. Let's break the simulation — see what it takes to make a brain hit the eject button."
Marco tapped a few keys. "Let's make some nightmares real." Skylar glanced at the schematics and then back at him. "We should rig it so the floor can drop to freezing while the walls heat up — or reverse it. Keep their system in a loop of thermal shock."
Marco lit up at the idea. "Yes. Opposing gradients. That'll scramble their internal temperature regulation. The body won't know if it's dying of heatstroke or hypothermia."
"I'll split the thermal coils," Skylar said, already typing. "Independent feeds for the floor and walls. We can program randomized flips — just when they start adapting, it changes." Marco laughed under his breath. "God, I love working with you." Skylar paused her typing for a second, eyes still on the screen. "Hey," she said, voice light but laced with curiosity. "Who exactly is this room for? Like... who's unlucky enough to end up in here first?"
Marco didn't hesitate. He just shrugged, eyes never leaving the screen. "Owen. Lucky bastard gets the grand tour." Skylar smiled darkly, her tone bone-dry. "I'm gonna make him beg for death — and then schedule a delay."
Marco glanced over at her, just slightly. "You and Reagan — that's more than just close, right? You're like... sisters or something." Skylar nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on her screen. "Met her a few years back, when I first got to New York. We were both kinda... broken. She came from a father who hated her — blamed her for her mom dying during childbirth. And me? I came from the streets. No parents. No safety net. Just survival. Guess shared trauma makes fast friends. We stuck. Always have.""
Marco gave a low nod, tapping at the control panel without looking her way. "Makes sense. You've got that ride-or-die energy when it comes to her."
Skylar cracked a faint smile. "We both crawled out of hell. Figured we might as well stay in the fight together." He adjusted a few dials, testing a thermal loop. "She's lucky to have you. Most people break alone."
Skylar leaned back against the wall, watching him for a moment. "Building's what we do best. Even when it's nightmares."
The hospital room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of monitors and the faint crack of light peeking through the blinds. Rocco sat slumped beside the bed, one arm resting across the edge, the other wrapped gently around Reagan's limp hand. His head lay on her arm, eyes closed, breathing steady — he'd been there all night.
The machines beeped quietly.
Then, slowly... Reagan's fingers twitched. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking against the sterile blur of the ceiling. She turned her head slightly and found him there — asleep, jaw tense even in rest, like he was still fighting something in his dreams.
She whispered, voice dry and soft, "Roc..."
He stirred, blinking rapidly before sitting up straight. His hand tightened around hers as he stared at her like she wasn't real.
"Rae?"
"Hey Roc..." Her voice was raspy. "Where's Taz and Skye?"
"I'll call them." he said, stunned. Then added, "We got help. From Ukraine. A guy named Marco. Skylar and Taz brought him in. You'll love him — he's basically if a war crime got a PhD."
Before he say more, the door opened quietly. Angelo stepped inside, dressed sharp as always, but there was something uncharacteristically soft in his eyes.
"You've survived quite a bit young lady," he said calmly, eyeing her with something between admiration and calculation.
Reagan managed a weak smile. "Thanks to Taz." Angelo nodded, then glanced at his son, still holding her hand like a lifeline. "You two can't seem to stay away from each other, can you?"
Reagan looked at Rocco, a small, knowing smirk tugging at her lips. "Guess not." Angelo stepped closer, voice even. "If you want... I can offer you safety. Protection. The best care you'll find anywhere. No strings. You don't have to marry my son — though, clearly, that wouldn't be the worst fate."
Reagan raised an eyebrow. He smiled. "Just think about it. You care about him. He cares about you. Stay with Rocco. Heal. That's all I'm asking."
Reagan looked over at Rocco again. He hadn't stopped watching her — eyes wide, glassy, overwhelmed but silent.
She gave his hand a small squeeze. "Okay."
Rocco exhaled, still holding her hand. "So... yeah. Marco. He's kind of like Taz — just more eccentric and curious. Taz found him in Ukraine and brought him in. Said he'd be useful."
Reagan blinked slowly. "Jesus."
"Yeah," Rocco said. "He's Skylar's new favorite psychopath."
Rocco stepped out into the hallway, still clutching his phone like it might vanish if he let go. He scrolled to Skylar's name and hit call, the line buzzing against his ear.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Shit, if this is about rewiring the—"
"She's awake," Rocco said, voice low but urgent. "Reagan just woke up." There was a pause on the other end, then a sharp inhale.
"Wait—what? For real?"
"Yeah. Just opened her eyes. First thing she asked was where you and Taz were." Skylar's voice dropped. "Is she talking okay?"
"Little bit. Her jaw's still messed up, but yeah. She knew me right away. Looked straight at me."
Another beat of silence. Then, softer, "Fuck. That's good. That's really good."
"She also said she wants to meet Marco." Skylar let out a short laugh. "Oh god. You sure she's ready for that?" Rocco gave a tired smile. "She seems curious. Not scared. Said your names before anything else."
"Alright. I'll grab Taz and Ukraine. We'll be there soon."
"Thanks," he said quietly. "She's gonna want you close."
"I'm not leaving her again," Skylar said. "Not for anything." The call ended, and Rocco just stood there for a moment, phone still in his hand, a rare kind of peace settling in his chest.
Marco stood in the doorway, staring. Not rudely — more like a mechanic eyeing a car that should've been totaled but was somehow still running.
"Jesus..." he muttered. "You're like a V8 engine running on shredded pistons and half a tank of blood."
Reagan raised an eyebrow slightly. Her mouth barely moved — the jaw still wired — but there was a glint in her eye. Skylar, sitting beside her, snorted. Marco stepped in a few paces, hands still buried in his pockets. "I mean that as a compliment. Most people would've seized up. You? You somehow stayed in gear."
Reagan made a sound — somewhere between a snort and a rasped chuckle. He nodded like that confirmed it. "Structural integrity's a miracle. I read your chart. The fact that you're awake and not a puddle is... medically rude." Skylar grinned. "He means you're a badass."
Taz's voice cut through the quiet like gravel on concrete.*
"He means well," he said, stepping into the room. "Social settings aren't exactly his thing." Marco glanced sideways but didn't argue.
Taz crossed his arms, gaze flicking between them. "We met in college, when we were both studying anatomy. I went the surgical route, he decided biomechanics was for him. I got him a few days ago in Ukraine. He was halfway through building a biomechanical exosuit out of stolen prosthetics, live skeletons and a stolen ambulance engine. I told him to put the bones down."
Marco gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Still miss that engine."
Taz smirked faintly. "Point is — when Marco doesn't know what to say, he talks in engines. Torque, pistons, pressure systems. That's just his language." Reagan looked at Marco again, more curious now.
He offered a lopsided smile. "Sorry."
Reagan shifted slightly in the hospital bed, wires tugging against her skin. Her mouth was wired shut, her body bruised and beaten, but her eyes were still sharp — still searching. Her voice came out dry and hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "Travis and Owen?"
Taz stood near the window, his presence quiet but absolute. He didn't glance away from his phone. "In the pit," he said, like he was reading off a weather report. "I'm replicating your injuries and applying them to Travis. One by one." He held up the phone briefly. "Live feed. I like to monitor his... progress."
Marco leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, an almost bored look on his face. "Owen's in the corner. Sedated. Fentanyl drip. For now." Reagan's gaze shifted, landing on him. Her good eye narrowed just slightly.
Skylar, seated at her bedside, reached over and gently adjusted Reagan's IV line. "We're building him something special," she said, voice light, almost chipper in its sarcasm. "A room that messes with your senses. Temperature shifts, flashing lights, audio distortion, even some subsonics. The whole experience." Marco smirked, pushing off from the wall. "No up, no down. Just pure confusion."
Skylar shrugged. "Tailor-made sensory hell. All for Owen." Marco chuckled. "He's gonna love it." Skylar tilted her head. "Or he'll beg for death. Either way, works for me."
Reagan couldn't move. Not really.
The bed felt like it was swallowing her — not soft, not comforting, just... heavy. Every inch of her body screamed beneath the weight of gravity. Her face pulsed with a constant, dull heat. Her ribs protested each breath like they were being pried apart with a crowbar. And her pelvis — her pelvis was agony incarnate. A single, radiating core of pressure and white-hot pain that made even the idea of shifting unbearable. She stared at the ceiling. Blank. Bright. Silent. It mocked her.
Voices came and went like wind through cracked glass. Distant. Distorted. Taz. Marco. Skylar.
Words like "replicating injuries" and "fentanyl" floated around her. Travis. Owen. Torture. Live feeds. Custom hell. Her good eye flickered sideways. She caught Marco's grin, Skylar's glint. Taz's calm, surgical tone.
And for a second — just a second — something warm stirred in her chest. Not justice. Not revenge. Not yet.
Just... relief. She wasn't alone.
A tear rolled down into her ear. Not from pain. That was old news. This was something else. Something worse. She couldn't speak — the wires in her jaw held her silence hostage — but Skylar's hand found hers. Reagan squeezed once. Weak. But real.
Reagans throat burned just from that small movement. She managed to murmur, barely audible: "Tired." Rocco smiled gently, bringing her hand to his lips. "You've been out for twelve days. Rest all you want."
Taz, standing silently near the foot of the bed, finally spoke. "She's experiencing acute fatigue due to trauma-induced systemic inflammation, prolonged immobilization, disrupted REM cycling, and residual metabolic suppression from sedation protocols."
Marco, who had been leaning against the wall like he'd rather be anywhere else, blinked. "She's tired, bro. Just say she's tired."
Skylar snorted from where she was perched on the windowsill, arms crossed. "Taz doesn't do 'simple."
Reagan gave the faintest twitch of her lips. Her hand still rested in Rocco's. Her body hurt, her mind was foggy, and everything felt like it took triple the effort — but she was safe. And that mattered. She looked at Taz, then Skylar, and finally Marco, who offered her a crooked smile.
With effort, she whispered: "Thank you." Taz nodded once, precise.
Marco gave a mock salute. Skylar smiled and said, "Told you she was badass."
.