Hector continued to stare at the masked figure in front of him for a long, heavy moment.
As he watched the youth standing in the dim shadows of the stone corridor, he couldn't help but think what a waste it all was.
So much potential, so much raw martial talent, completely crippled by a soft, bleeding heart that had no place in a meat grinder like this.
He opened his mouth, intending to drop a rare piece of advice to the young operative, when he suddenly froze.
A sharp, prickling sensation washed over the back of his neck—the distinct, unpleasant feeling of being watched from a great distance.
No, it wasn't him they were watching; the unseen, predatory gaze was directed right past his shoulders, piercing through the reinforced doors toward Gil's medical bay.
Hector was simply standing in the line of sight.
He scowled fiercely, his dark blue aura flaring for a fraction of a second in open warning.
Almost instantly, as if spooked by the sudden threat of violence, the unseen sensation vanished into thin air.
"Damned snake," Hector muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching as his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "I'll deal with your case later."
Turning his attention back to the hooded figure, he let out a harsh, gravelly sigh that echoed off the damp walls.
"Hey, kid. It's time you woke up. You know as well as I do that the world we're in doesn't tolerate weakness, no matter what form it takes. You've managed to navigate things well enough so far, but the worst is yet to come. If you can't change your mindset soon..."
Leaving the sentence hanging ominously in the cold air, Hector turned on his heel and walked away, his heavy boots heavy against the stone.
The masked youth remained alone in the corridor, brooding over the man's words. Moments later, his shoulders slumped, revealing a profound sense of confusion, weariness, and great exhaustion.
He leaned his head back against the cold wall, staring up at the flickering light fixtures.
It's not like I don't already know that...
he thought bitterly, his gloved fingers clenching into tight fists.
I know better than anyone.
Back inside the room, the more Gil reflected on his situation, the more he found himself trapped in a suffocating mental dead end.
On one side was his absolute, stomach-churning disgust at the thought of playing the game of the very monsters who had ruined his life; on the other was the burning, agonizing temptation to regain his lost left arm.
It hadn't even been a full day, yet he had already come to hate every second of living without it.
How do others deal with this ?
But as the silent minutes ticked by, the initial wave of blind panic began to recede, leaving behind a cold, crystalline anger. He found himself becoming increasingly resistant to Hector's psychological traps.
By what right ?
he asked himself, staring up at the cracked plaster on the ceiling.
By what right does he think he owns my future?
Sure, the phantom throbbing and the excruciating, burning pain of his missing arm were still very real, radiating from his shoulder down to where his fingers used to be.
Sure, he couldn't bear the thought of living the rest of his life as a broken remnant.
But that didn't mean he had to crawl on his knees and beg the bastards who put him in this state to fix it.
If they possessed the unnatural power to regenerate limbs, then he would just have to figure out how to do it himself.
If healing came from these strange, violent energies they all seemed to harbor, he would master his own path—no matter how painful, no matter how long it took.
The mere thought of depending on Hector made his stomach turn—it tasted worse than swallowing rotten bile.
Once he settled on that fierce, unyielding resolve, the suffocating tension in his chest eased slightly.
The wild, dark storm inside his mindscape quieted down, leaving a solid bedrock of spite.
It was only then, as his heightened senses began to settle, that he realized he was no longer the only conscious person in the room.
At some point during his intense internal crisis, his two companions had awoken.
Through the strange, invisible tethered chain connecting their very essences, Gil could feel Greg's emotional state stirring—a turbulent mix of anxiety, confusion, and fear.
As for the tomboy lying a few feet away, her breathing had subtly shifted from the deep, heavy rhythm of unconscious sleep to the quiet, controlled pattern of someone lying awake, listening intently to their surroundings.
It wasn't surprising, really. Between Gil's earlier feral screams, the heavy dialogue, and the brutal collision of raw power Hector had unleashed that shattered the medical bed, staying asleep through that level of physical devastation would have required a deep coma.
Breathing out a long, heavy sigh—and swallowing a hidden lump of sheer anxiety—Gil called out into the quiet room, his voice carrying more sharp animosity than he originally intended:
"Stop pretending. I know you're both awake."
One second passed in complete silence.
Then two. Then three.
Realizing the ruse was entirely up, the two captives finally began to sit up in their metal cots.
The tomboy sat up first, her movements stiff and guarded.
Her sharp, black eyes scanned the dimly lit room, taking in the splintered remains of the bed on the floor before coming to a dead stop on Gil's left side—or rather, the empty, heavily bandaged space where his left arm used to be.
Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her face, but she quickly forced her features back into a blank, unreadable mask.
Saying nothing, she simply gave him a short, grim nod of respect—an acknowledgment between two survivors who had walked through a common ordeal—before turning over and lying back down.
She closed her eyes, clearly trying to conserve every single ounce of energy her battered body possessed.
Even with her wounds treated, deep physical fatigue still clung heavily to her bones.
Greg, on the other hand, stared at Gil's state in utter, horrified shock.
He sat frozen on the edge of his cot, completely speechless, his face a storm of confusion, agonizing concern, and raw, unfiltered pity.
The moment Gil felt those emotions bleeding directly through their spiritual link and saw the overwhelming pity reflected in Greg's wide eyes, he snapped.
"Don't look at me with those eyes!" Gil barked, his voice raw and trembling with sudden, explosive indignation. "I'm not dead yet!"
Surprised by his sudden outburst, Greg stammered, raising his hands defensively as he tried to explain himself:
"Uh—yeah, yeah, I know! I didn't mean to—I mean, your arm... it's just..."
"My arm, yeah, I know exactly what state it's in. I have eyes, thanks a lot," Gil snapped, his voice tight, sharp, and intensely defensive.
Greg looked at him with pained, empathetic eyes, but understanding the raw, bleeding nerve he had just accidentally stomped on, he wisely chose to shut his mouth and not push any further.
As the sharp, bitter edge of his own outburst began to fade, a heavy wave of guilt washed over Gil.
He realized he was lashing out at the wrong person.
Greg had nothing to do with his missing limb.
Greg hadn't brought him to this nightmare facility. In fact, Greg had done everything he possibly could to help during that cursed arena test; for a makeshift alliance born of sheer desperation, the boy had more than pulled his weight, nearly dying in the process.
It was deeply unfair to vent his hatred and rage on him.
So, in a manner entirely unlike his usual prickly, guarded self, Gil lowered his head, hiding his face behind his messy bang.
"I'm sorry, Greg," he said softly, the genuine sincerity in his voice cutting through the tense, heavy air. "I'm... I'm really not in a good state right now. Physically and mentally."
His voice cracked slightly at the end, dropping lower, becoming far more vulnerable than he had ever allowed anyone in his life to see.
"Just... please don't look at me like that. It hurts way more than you think."
Greg blinked, completely taken off guard by the shift. Though he hadn't known Gil for very long, he had already picked up on the young man's prideful, stubborn, and unyielding nature.
For someone like Gil to lower his head and offer a genuine, humble apology meant it came from the absolute bottom of his heart.
Not wanting to make the fragile moment any more awkward or painful than it already was, Greg quickly nodded his head, forcing a reassuring smile onto his tired face.
"No, no—it's okay. Don't worry about it. I get it, man," Greg said gently. Then, picking up on Gil's desire to move past the topic, he asked, "It's just... what do we do now?"
Relieved by the swift change of subject, Gil straightened his posture, wiping a streak of sweat from his forehead with his remaining right hand.
"What do we do?" Gil echoed, his jaw setting into a hard, rigid line. "Well... first, we survive this place. Second, we get stronger—stronger than any of them expected us to get. And..."
He trailed off, pausing for a long, heavy beat that made the ambient air in the room feel charged with static electricity.
Greg leaned in slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. "And...?"
Even the tomboy, still lying on her cot with her back turned to them, visibly perked her ears, listening intently for his answer.
Gil fixed his eyes on Greg with every single ounce of raw seriousness and unshakeable determination he could muster, his physical exhaustion completely masked by a dark, burning intent that flared deep within his pupils.
Greg flinched upon facing that gaze, feeling a sudden chill run down his spine despite the look not being truly targeted at him.
"...and we make sure the bastards who are playing with our lives regret it for the rest of their days."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Neither Greg nor the tomboy offered a single word of contradiction.
Outside the heavy metal door, footsteps echoed down the hallway once more.
The masked operative Hector had spoken to was approaching , his heavy boots thudding against the stone.
The quiet grace period was coming to an end, but as Gil stared at his own shadow stretching across the floor, the despair that had threatened to break him only moments ago was gone.
In its place stood a dark, relentless resolve.
He was mutilated, and trapped in the depths of a nightmare—but he was still breathing.
And as long as he had breath in his lungs, the game was far from over.