Page 8 of Map of Pain
The scalpel sliced deeper than expected, surgical steel parting fabric and flesh with sickening ease. Blood welled up, too rich, too dark for human circulation. His eyes flashed black momentarily, confirming what Nick’s hunter instincts already screamed.
A sharp cry escaped the vampire’s lips as he stumbled backward, fingers clutching his wounded forearm. Blood seeped between his knuckles, staining the blue fabric of his scrubs a deep purple. Despite the injury, his expression held more annoyance than pain, as if the attack was a mild inconvenience.
“What the hell?”The vampire backed toward the door, palms raised defensively, making no move to retaliate despite the wound.“We’re trying to help you!”
Nick advanced, adjusting his grip on the bloodied scalpel. The creature was retreating, vulnerable, confused by the sudden aggression. Perfect. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, focusing entirely on his target. The room around them ceased to exist—only the vampire, the blade, and the distance between them mattered.
He slashed again, a precise strike aimed at the vampire’s exposed neck. The scalpel caught only air as Nick’s momentum carried him forward, shoulder connecting with an IV stand. Metal crashed against tile, wheels spinning, more fluid bags rupturing and adding to the chaos.
Nick pivoted, readjusting his grip on the scalpel. The edges bit into his palm, drawing blood, but the pain registered as tactical information.
A blur of movement appeared between Nick and his target. A second vampire—taller, stronger—appeared from outside the room, moving faster than Nick could track. The one from the junkyard. Cold fingers wrapped around his wrist, stopping the scalpel mid-strike with terrifying ease.
Nick strained against the grip, muscles trembling with effort, but the vampire’s grip was iron around his wrist. His arm remained locked in place, the bloodied weapon hovering uselessly in the air between them. No matter how hard he pushed, the vampire’s grip didn’t tighten or loosen—just held him immobile with minimal effort. .
The injured vampire pressed gauze against his laceration, blood already seeping through the white material.“He’s obviously not ready for visitors,”he said, voice remarkably steady despite the wound. He backed toward the door, scooping up what medical supplies he could reach without taking his eyes off Nick.
The taller vampire made a series of quick one-handed gestures—silent communication that Nick couldn’t interpret. The injured one nodded and slipped out the door, leaving them alone in the antiseptic-scented aftermath.
Nick lunged again, twisting his body to break free, aiming a knee toward the vampire’s ribs. The creature simply shifted his weight, maintaining control without increasing pressure. Nick’s frustration mounted with each failed attempt. Why wasn’t the vampire retaliating? Where was the violence? The punishment?
The scalpel slipped from his fingers as the vampire applied precise pressure to his wrist, sending the weapon clattering to the floor among puddles of saline and blood. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and final.
Reality crashed back as adrenaline ebbed with crushing force—weakness flooding his limbs, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air, vision blurring. His knees trembled beneathhim, threatening to buckle. The vampire’s grip on his wrist was now the only thing keeping him upright.
Nick’s gaze darted around the room, cataloging his situation with brutal clarity. Door blocked. Weapon lost. No backup. No escape routes. Completely trapped.
His heart raced, each beat echoing in his ears like thunder. The infection’s fever made everything shimmer at the edges, but his mind still functioned with the cold precision The Daylight Society had drilled into him.
Until it didn’t.
Something shifted in his mind, a terrible, familiar click as one mental state disengaged and another engaged. The sound wasn’t real, but he felt it nonetheless, like tumblers falling into place in a lock he’d tried so hard to break. The hunter was being shunted to the back of his mind.
No,no,not this.Fight it.You’re stronger than this.But that voice grew fainter, drowning beneath the weight of knowing how to survive being trapped. His nervous system had learned this dance too well—the inevitable surrender when all other options vanished.
Nick’s muscles relaxed all at once, tension bleeding from his shoulders like water. The change must have been visible because he felt the vampire’s surprise in the loosened grip. He stepped backward, the movements careful and precise. Each step measured, controlled. The way he was taught when he’d been particularly displeasing.
Nick could sense the confusion radiating from the creature—this wasn’t what vampires expected from hunters, was it?
Fucking pathetic,the hunter’s voice was somewhere in his head, disgusted.
A small, desperate voice whispered to it,I don’t want to die.
Nick’s knees bent, lowering his body toward the floor with practiced grace. The movement was fluid despite his weakness,muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fled. His remaining hand moved to position itself beneath one knee, fingers splayed flat against the cold tile. The chill bit through his palm, grounding him in the physical sensation even as his mind retreated.
His weight settled onto his knuckles, compressing them with audible pops as the bones strained under the pressure. The discomfort was welcome—Gianmarco always appreciated when he made the position uncomfortable for himself. It showed proper understanding.
His eyes closed, shutting out the room, the vampire, everything external.
“Good kitten. You remember how this works.“The voice wasn’t real—Gianmarco wasn’t here, he was dead—but the words felt as clear as if they’d been whispered directly into his ear. His body shuddered involuntarily at the phantom praise.
Tears leaked from beneath his eyelids, tracking silently down his cheeks. They tasted of salt and fever, leaving cool trails on his overheated skin. His breathing grew shallow and controlled, barely audible in the quiet room. Each exhale measured, regulated. The way he’d learned to breathe when Gianmarco grew tired of hearing him.
Every muscle went limp except those needed to maintain the position, his body a perfect study in submission. His consciousness pulled back, retreating to a place where nothing could touch him, leaving only the shell behind to absorb whatever came next. The familiar numbness crept through his limbs, protective and welcome.
This is how you survive. You know this. You’ve done this before.
“I’ll be good,”he whispered, the words barely audible, broken and desperate. His voice cracked on the promise, throat still raw from old damage.“I’ll be good for you.”
