Page 7 of Map of Pain
“Nicholas,”the man said, voice gentle but carrying absolute authority.“I’m Dominic Shaw.”
Nick’s gaze shifted to the second man standing behind Shaw. Gray hair. Hard eyes. Mouth twisted in disgust as he stared down at Nick like damaged goods at a discount market.
“This is my lieutenant, Zachariah Henderson,”Shaw continued, each word carefully measured, weighed for maximum impact.
Henderson’s eyes narrowed, assessing Nick’s damaged throat, his too-thin frame, the way he instinctively cowereddespite the pain medication. Broken toy. Useful weapon. Disposable asset.
Shaw’s face blurred, features melting and reforming. Dark hair lengthened. Olive skin replaced Shaw’s pallor. Perfect teeth. Gianmarco’s smile replacing Shaw’s compassion, predatory satisfaction gleaming behind false kindness.
You’re dreaming. Wake up. WAKE UP.
“We don’t have to fix him, just reprogram,”Shaw’s voice echoed, not directed at Nick but about him, discussing his reconstruction like engineers debating faulty machinery.“The monster taught him useful things—fear responses, pain tolerance, submission protocols.”
The scene shifted violently. Cold tile pressed against his knees, unforgiving and smooth. His knuckles burned, skin split and bleeding from connecting with another man’s jaw. A hunter. Society operative. Owen. The man had called him—what? The words branded in his memory like acid.
Gianmarco’s cocksleeve.
Shaw stood behind him, voice low and disappointed, the tone of a father addressing a misbehaving child.“To harm one of our own is the ultimate betrayal, Nicholas.”
Nick’s body curled inward automatically, shoulders hunching to protect vital organs. His mind retreated, awareness shrinking to a pinpoint of terrified focus. Muscles loosened, preparing to go limp. Wait for punishment. Accept it. Deserve it.
A hand settled on his shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Possessive.
The jingling grew louder. Keys? Chains? A belt? His chest compressed, ribs crushing inward with each increasingly shallow breath.
Wake up. NOW.
“You know how to be a good boy.”The voice was Shaw’s but the words were Gianmarco’s, layered together in impossibleharmony, past and present bleeding together until he couldn’t tell which nightmare was real.
Nick jerked awake with a strangled gasp. Hospital ceiling tiles swam into focus above him—water-stained, institutional white, nothing like the pristine surfaces of either Gianmarco’s penthouse or the Society’s medical wing. The jingling continued, closer now. His eyes tracked the sound to its source.
A lanyard swung from the neck of an Asian man in scrubs, keys and ID badge jingling as he checked an IV bag hanging beside Nick’s bed. The man turned, noticing Nick’s consciousness, expression shifting from clinical focus to something like relief.
Nick’s wrist burned where the IV cannula penetrated his vein. Trapped. His first instinct was to rip it out, tear free from any restraint, but something stopped him—the absence of pain. The constant throbbing in his left arm had vanished, replaced by a strange weightless numbness that felt almost like floating.
He flexed his remaining fingers experimentally, testing for restraints. Nothing. His movements were sluggish but unhindered, muscles responding with dream-like delay. Nick lifted his left arm, finding it wrapped in pristine white bandages, the stump clean and dressed. Someone treated the infection—someone who knew what they were doing.
The weakness in his muscles told him the sepsis had progressed further than he’d realized. But the clarity in his head suggested improvement. Antibiotics. Professional medical care. How long had he been unconscious?
Nick scanned the room with methodical precision, the hunter stirring automatically despite his disorientation. Abandoned hospital ward. Outdated equipment covered in plastic sheeting. Dusty ceiling tiles. A single door with a small window reinforced with wire mesh. Limited escape routes.
His gaze cataloged potential weapons—metal tray beside the bed, glass bottles containing medications, IV stand on wheels. A scalpel glinted on the tray, blade catching the fluorescent light. Hiding spots behind the privacy curtain, under the adjacent bed, inside what appeared to be a supply cabinet.
His last clear memory: the vampire in the junkyard. The crossbow. The knife. Then darkness.
Nick’s heart rate accelerated, setting off a subtle change in the monitor’s beeping pattern. This wasn’t a Society hideout—they wouldn’t waste resources treating him after his betrayal. This was something else. Imprisonment. Interrogation would follow. His training kicked in automatically: prepare for torture, plan escape, resist questioning.
But beneath the hunter’s tactical assessment, something else stirred. The familiar taste of copper flooded his mouth, he must have bitten his tongue without realizing it. His sternum felt compressed, each breath requiring conscious effort despite the oxygen flowing through nasal cannulas.
The nurse focused on adjusting his IV line, movements precise and professional. Close range. Vulnerable position. Nick tracked the metal tray beside the bed—scalpel glinting under fluorescent light, within reach if he moved fast enough.
Collaborator.The word tasted like acid in his mind.
Henderson’s voice echoed through his memory,“Monster sympathizers die with the monsters, Nicholas. No exceptions. No mercy.”
The man took three steps into striking range before Nick moved. He snatched the scalpel from the tray as he exploded from the bed. The IV tore from his wrist, sending a sharp stab of pain through his veins and warm blood running down his hand. He lunged forward, bringing the blade up in a practiced arc toward the nurse’s throat.
The nurse’s eyes widened in shock. The IV bag crashed to the floor, plastic splitting and saline solution spreading across linoleum tile. Nick adjusted his trajectory mid-strike as the man stumbled backward, the blade connecting with his forearm instead of the intended target.
