After dinner, they make their way to a nearby park and just… have fun. Familial bonds at their finest—laughs that wane into the night. This moment should be theirs. Let them have it.
The cool night air carries the sound of laughter, a lingering echo of their lighthearted soccer game. Car doors shut with soft, muffled thuds, marking the end of their outing. Cici's laughter bubbles up again as she stumbles out of the car, still giggling as she recounts her exaggerated tumbles on the field.
"And then I went whoosh!" she exclaims, spinning her arms dramatically.
Angela chuckles, shaking her head while she unlocks the door. "You're going to be sore tomorrow, kiddo. Next time, maybe try staying on your feet."
"Where's the fun in that?" Cici shoots back with a grin as the front door creaks open.
The girls file inside, their voices fading as they disappear into the warm glow of the house. Mark lingers at the threshold, his hand braced on the doorframe. He doesn't step in. Instead, he blocks Carlos's way with a subtle but firm motion of his arm.
Angela, standing at the base of the stairs, pauses and glances back at him. Their eyes meet, her brow furrowing slightly.
"I'll be in soon," Mark says, his tone calm but edged with something heavier. Angela hesitates for a moment before nodding, her gaze softening as she turns and follows the girls.
Mark lets the door swing shut, the soft click sounding louder in the still night. He turns to Carlos, the easy warmth in his face from earlier replaced with a hardened glare.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Mark demands, his jaw tight, fists curling at his sides.
Carlos smirks, his hands spreading in mock innocence. "What? Can't I drop by to see my favorite sister?"
"Don't play dumb," Mark snaps, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You know why." His voice lowers, each word cutting deeper. "Do you have any idea what you did to me? To us? To Cici when she was still learning to walk? To Lydia when she was her age?" His voice falters slightly but pushes on. "Do you even remember how Angela used to look at me? Like I was…"
Carlos groans, his smirk fading as he waves a dismissive hand. "That was years ago, man. You've bounced back. Hell, look at you now—great job, great family. You're the poster boy for second chances."
Mark's nostrils flare as he steps closer, his voice trembling. "You don't get it, do you? You made me into a monster in their eyes. You didn't just leave me to drown—you watched me go under and ran."
Carlos shifts his weight uncomfortably, his nonchalance cracking just slightly. "Not my fault you were an addict," he mutters.
Mark surges forward, grabbing Carlos by the collar and yanking him close. Their faces are inches apart, and Mark's voice comes out as a low, dangerous growl. "We both were, damn it. Don't you dare act like you weren't just as deep in the mess as I was."
Carlos raises his arms, palms out in surrender, though his smirk creeps back. "Alright, alright. Chill, man. You're still pissed—I get it."
Mark shoves him back, hard enough that Carlos stumbles down the porch steps. "Damn right I'm pissed," Mark spits. "While I was drowning, you bailed. You left me with all the fallout. And now you think you can just show up, like nothing happened?"
Carlos straightens his jacket, brushing off invisible dirt with exaggerated nonchalance. "Look, I've changed, alright? I'm clean. Got a couple of legit jobs—working at some shops around the old neighborhood. I'm not that guy anymore."
Mark's glare doesn't waver, his fists trembling at his sides. "You don't get to waltz in here and act like everything's fine. Stay away from my family."
Carlos raises his hands again, his smirk now more sardonic than sincere. "Fine, fine. Whatever you say, Mark."
He turns and walks to his car, a small, battered and black. The engine stutters for a moment before humming to life. As the car rolls backward down the driveway, Carlos lowers the window.
"Hey, Mark," he calls, his tone almost too casual. "I know things. About you. About your job. And I know why you're here."
Mark stiffens, his blood running cold. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Carlos doesn't answer right away, letting the silence stretch. Then, leaning out of the window slightly, he says, "If you want to save them, call me. You've got my number. I can get them to the sanctuary."
Mark's eyes widen, his heart pounding. He steps off the porch, his voice tight. "Carlos! What the hell does that mean?"
Carlos flashes a sad, almost pitying smile as he shakes his head. "Just think about it, brother."
The car backs out onto the street, its taillights glowing faintly as it hums into the darkness.
"I'll see you when I see you," Carlos calls, his voice fading with the distance.
Mark stands there, rooted to the spot, the night air suddenly feeling much colder.
Mark steps back inside, quietly shutting the door behind him. The cold night air lingers on his skin. He locks the door. Leaning against the doorframe, he runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing.
How does he know? he wonders. Who does he work for? Should I follow him?
His jaw tightens as he peers through the curtains. Carlos's car is gone. The street is silent again, but the tension in Mark's chest refuses to ease.
He glances up the stairs, noting the absence of light in the bedrooms. Letting out a slow breath, he begins his ascent, the creak of each step grounding him.
The hallway upstairs is dimly lit by the faint glow of a nightlight plugged into the wall, casting long shadows that dance across the floor. Mark stops outside Cici's room first. The door is slightly ajar, revealing her sprawled across her bed, her cheek pressed into her pillow, a faint smile still lingering.
Mark steps inside quietly, his footfalls muffled by the rug. He leans down and brushes a gentle kiss on her forehead, his fingers briefly smoothing her tangled hair. "Goodnight, peanut," he whispers, his voice barely audible.
He pulls the door shut behind him and moves to the next room. Lydia's door is closed, but he eases it open with practiced care. Her room is tidy, save for the pile of books stacked precariously on her nightstand. Lydia is curled up beneath her quilt, her face serene. Mark crouches by her bed, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. He presses a kiss to her cheek.
"You're gonna be something amazing, kid," he murmurs before slipping out.
Mark pauses in the hallway, his hand lingering on the doorknob of his own bedroom. For a moment, he rests his forehead against the cool wood, steadying his breath.
When he finally opens the door, the warm light from the bedside lamp washes over him. Angela is propped up against the headboard, glasses perched on her nose, her book resting on her lap. She looks up as he enters, a soft smile spreading across her face.
"Hey," she greets, her voice tender. But her smile falters slightly when she sees his expression. "What's wrong?"
Mark groans, rubbing the back of his neck as he crosses the room. "Nothing, babe," he mutters. He starts to strip off his clothes, tossing his shirt onto a nearby chair before climbing into bed in his undershirt and boxers.
Angela watches him closely, setting her book aside. "Mark," she presses gently, her tone coaxing.
He sighs, sinking into the mattress beside her. "It's just… I don't deserve you all," he confesses, his voice low, almost ashamed.
Angela chuckles softly, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "I know," she teases, her eyes sparkling. "It's a miracle in itself, actually."
Mark smirks despite himself. "You're not wrong."
Angela leans back, her expression turning pensive. "You remember when I had that big fight with my mom? She told me to divorce you after…" She pauses, her voice tightening. "After she caught you with the needle in the bathroom."
Mark flinches at the memory, his jaw tightening as he averts his gaze. "Yeah," he murmurs.
"She was right, you know," Angela says softly. "I kicked you out that night, and I meant it. But then…" She trails off, watching his face.
Mark sighs. "But then I met him," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "An older man, kind of sad-looking."
Angela grunts, crossing her arms. *"Crowe,"* she says, her tone clipped.
Mark chuckles dryly. "Yeah. I know you don't like him."
"I don't," Angela admits firmly. "There's something about him that feels... off."
Mark nods, lying back and staring at the ceiling. "I get it. But he saved me, Angie. Remember what I told you?"
Angela's gaze softens, and she reaches out to run her fingers through his hair. "Yeah. I remember."
"He let me take that test," Mark continues, his voice steadying. "That weird monitor thing where I had to speak and answer all those questions."
Angela hums, her fingers still threading gently through his hair. "And you passed."
Mark smiles faintly. "Yeah. Crowe told me almost no one does, but I did. And then he recruited me."
Angela rubs his back, her touch soothing. Mark shifts, resting his head on her chest.
"If it wasn't for him—"
Angela interrupts, her voice firm but gentle. "I never want to think about 'if.'"
Mark closes his eyes, letting her warmth anchor him. "Me neither," he murmurs. He seems to melt under her touch, the tension draining from his body as sleep begins to claim him.
A few more words and laughs are exchanged in the bedroom, easing the tension between them. Then, other things happen as well—a bit of release, you might call it. But that's where it ends for them that night.
However...
....the night itself hasn't ended for someone else...
Obinai lies strapped to a cold metal table, the chill seeping into his bones. The clinical room around him seems to stretch, its white walls clean except for small panels displaying data. The harsh glare turns the sterile room into a world of blinding white. Shadows of the scientists move against the walls like specters, their murmured conversations blending into the rhythmic hum of machinery and the sharp beeps of monitors.
He flinches at the sound of latex gloves snapping into place. His chest rises and falls in uneven gasps, his breathing frantic as he struggles to pull air into his lungs. The restraints pinning him down are tight, biting into his wrists, leaving angry red marks on his discolored brown, sweat-slicked skin. His tear-filled eyes dart around, trembling as he lifts his head just enough to glimpse the raw edges where flesh and bone ended. A low, guttural sob escapes his lips.
"Why…" he croaks, his voice cracking with desperation. "Why are you doing this? Please… stop…"
The scientists remain impassive, their faces obscured by masks and goggles. One of them, adjusts a dial on a monitor. Another leans over him, peering closely at the jagged flesh of his left arm stump.
"The regrowth is still occurring at an accelerated rate," one murmurs. "We need to document the thresholds for pain response during regeneration."
Obinai's head falls back against the cold table, his body trembling as another sob wracks him. "Pain response?!" he shouts, his voice hoarse. "You're monsters! All of you!"
The sharp whir of a saw suddenly fills the room, the sound cutting through the air. Obinai's eyes widen in panic, his breathing hitching as adrenaline surges through his veins. He pulls against the restraints with everything he has, the metal digging further into his skin as he thrashes.
"No! No, please!" Obinai screams, his voice splintering as his body convulses on the table. "Don't do this! I'm begging you, just stop!"
The figures in white lab coats pause for a moment. One of them, a woman, leans closer, inspecting the surgical site. Her gloved hand lifts a penlight, shining it on the fresh stump of his arm.
"The vascular structure is regenerating as expected," she mutters, almost bored. Another scientist, a man, stands nearby, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with an unhurried rhythm.
"Subject's heart rate has stabilized after the previous amputation," he remarks without looking up.
Obinai's struggles grow weaker. His head lolls to the side, chest heaving as ragged sobs tear from his throat. "You don't have to do this," he pleads, his voice cracking. "Please, I'll do anything. Just stop…"
The response is the sharp whir of the saw. His eyes widen in sheer panic. He jerks violently again.
"Hold him steady," the male scientist commands, gesturing to an assistant who presses down on Obinai's remaining leg.
"No!" Obinai wails, his voice rising to a fever pitch. His pleas echo off the stark, sterile walls, but they're swallowed by the saw's mechanical drone as it descends.
The blade bites into his flesh, a searing, electric jolt of pain exploding through his body. A scream rips from his throat. Blood spurts in rhythmic pulses, pooling beneath the table in dark crimson puddles. His entire body convulses, his muscles locking.
The saw crunches through bone, a sickening sound that lingers in the air. Obinai's screams weaken, his voice hoarse and shredded. Tears streak his face...
"Regrowth initiation is accelerating," one of the scientists remarks, peering at the bloody stump where new tissue begins to bubble and twist. "Cellular replication is exceeding projections."
Obinai feels the excruciating fire of regeneration as his body begins its grotesque work. The flesh writhes, knitting itself together in a process both miraculous and monstrous. He gasps, his throat too dry for another scream. His sobs fade into broken whispers.
"Let me die," he rasps, his voice barely audible above the whirring machines and murmured notes. His trembling lips form the words again, more a breath than a sound. "Please… just let me die…"
One of the scientists spares him a glance before jotting down some more.
Obinai's head slumps to the side, his vision blurring. The lights above warp into halos, their brightness fading as unconsciousness begins to claim him. He watches the masked figures shift around him, their silhouettes flickering like shadows.
"Just… kill me…" he whispers, his words slurred. His body shudders, and then he goes still. His eyes flutter shut, and his breathing slows to shallow, uneven gasps.
The room falls quiet.
"Prepare for the next cycle..."