...his vision tunnels...
...and his heart hammers painfully in his chest. Without a word, he pushes back his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor, and stumbles away from the table. His breaths come in quick, shallow gasps.
"Mark?" Angela calls, her voice taut with concern. She half-rises from her seat, a hand outstretched to help him, but he throws his arm up, palm facing her.
Cici and Lydia exchange wide-eyed looks, alarmed and unsure. Lydia tries to reach for her father's sleeve, but Angela gently stops her, shaking her head. "Give him a moment," Angela whispers, though her eyes never leave Mark's retreating form.
Mark staggers toward the café's restroom, his pulse pounding in his ears. He bumps into a chair, muttering an apology under his breath, though his voice is choked. He can feel eyes on him—other patrons glancing over, concerned or curious—but he can't stop.
His chest feels as if someone is tightening a vise around it.
He pushes through the bathroom door, nearly stumbling over the threshold. The fluorescent lights inside are harsh, reflecting off the white tiles and making his head swim. He grips the edge of the sink, his knuckles white against the porcelain. "My chest…" he rasps, sweat beading on his forehead. He shuts his eyes, the room spinning. It hurts…
The memories flood his mind. Her face… vacant… He retches suddenly, his stomach heaving as he vomits up the meal he barely tasted. His body trembles, leaving him feeling hollow and weak.
Outside the door, Angela's voice rises with worry. "I'm calling an ambulance!" she says, her tone fraught, words directed at no one in particular. Lydia shifts uneasily, and Cici chews on her lip, tears threatening to surface. The tension at their table is palpable, thick enough to taste.
Mark splashes cold water on his face, swallowing back the panic. "No!" he shouts through the closed door. "No, it's fine! Don't—" He clears his throat, trying to steady himself. "Don't call anyone. Just got a little sick from the food." He forces a weak chuckle.
After a few moments, he drags himself upright, straightening his shirt with shaking fingers. He forces air into his lungs, forces his shoulders to relax, and steps out of the bathroom. His gaze lands on Angela, whose arms are folded tightly across her chest, worry etched into every line of her face.
"I'm okay," he says softly, lifting a hand, palm outward. The girls, still seated, watch him with uncertain eyes. Mark manages a crooked smile. "Look, I'm sorry," he says, voice calmer now, though hoarse. "Looks like I made a bit of a scene, huh?"
After her failed, insistent protests, Angela gives up asking Mark to go to the hospital. They eat in silence after that, with Lydia and Cici sneaking nervous glances at their dad. After a few more minutes, they get to the car and pile in. Unfortunately, the ride home is silent until...
Just before they pull into the driveway, Mark clears his throat and glances at the rearview mirror, catching Cici and Lydia's worried expressions. He takes a slow breath. "Listen," he says softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent, "I'm sorry about earlier… making a scene, I mean. I hope this weekend was still fun for you."
Angela turns in the driver's seat, reaching out to briefly rest her hand on his arm. "Mark," she says gently, "it's fine. We just want to make sure you're okay. That's all." Lydia and Cici nod, their eyes softening with relief, each of them murmuring quiet words of reassurance.
Mark manages a small, grateful smile, his gaze flicking to the darkened windows of their home. "I really don't deserve all of you," he whispers, more to himself than anyone else. Angela puts the car in park and they step out, the engine ticking softly as it cools. A hush settles over the suburban street, the distant chirp of crickets the only soundtrack to their moment.
As the girls and Angela head toward the front door, Mark lingers by the car. "Go on ahead," he says, attempting a casual tone. "I'll be inside in a sec—I just need to make a quick call."
Angela pauses, shooting him a look of concern, but he waves her gently forward. "It's fine," he assures, mustering another thin smile. "I won't be long." With a hesitant nod, she and the girls slip into the house, the soft glow of the foyer light greeting them as the door closes behind them.
Mark exhales slowly, the night air cool on his face. He steps a few paces away from the porch, into the quiet darkness, and fishes his phone out of his pocket. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he dials a number he knows by heart. He presses the phone to his ear, his heartbeat drumming a persistent rhythm in his chest.
It rings twice before a voice answers. The sound that greets him is like nails on a chalkboard, setting his teeth on edge and making his jaw clench. "I knew you'd call sooner or later, brother,"
**
Obinai's eyelids flutter open, each movement a struggle against the dryness that scorches them. He attempts to lick his cracked lips, but his tongue feels like sandpaper, and the effort only causes the split skin to sting and bead with blood. A weak, trembling exhale escapes him as he tries to summon tears. None come; his body feels hollowed out, drained.
He's still in the same place—strapped to that cold, metal chair that seems to be carved out of the very bones of this sterile chamber. The lights above him hum softly, their glow reflecting off the white walls. The scent of disinfectant burns his nose.
He lowers his gaze to the bandages swathing his arms and legs. They're stained with old, rust-colored blotches. He closes his eyes and thinks weakly, How much blood did they take? Don't they have enough?
"Just kill me… please," he rasps, voice barely more than a fractured whisper. He tries again, a pitiful plea that barely escapes his dry throat. "Help me… whoever you are… please."
Silence. Then, deep in his mind, a chuckle—low and mocking. He stiffens.
"I wish I had the desire to do that," the voice murmurs, smooth and resonant, as though it rests just behind his eyelids. Its tone is laced with mirth, a cruel amusement playing at the edges of its every word. "To save you, I mean. To end this. But what I cherish is this…" The voice pauses. "Writhe for me," it purrs, delight saturating its tone. "I love it, you know… your despair. Show me more...
more
more
more
more
more
more
more
more…"
The last words come faster, like a mad chant, each repetition drilling deeper. His chest tightens, and he tries to recoil—physically impossible since the restraints hold him fast. The laughter that follows is long and manic, echoing in the hollow spaces of his mind.
"Hahahahahahahahahahaha!"
Obinai's heart rate quickens, his chest tightening as a wave of panic surges through him. He feels his eyes water again, but his head begins to swim, vision blurring at the edges. His thoughts splinter, each one slipping through his grasp.
As his eyes roll back, surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness, a final, fractured thought surfaces:
So much… so much noise…
**
Mark...Santos in front of the tall building, his shoulders set, yet the tension in them betraying his nerves. He's in his regular clothes—jeans and a slightly wrinkled shirt—and as he glances up at the gleaming building, he feels a familiar unease settling in his gut. A sigh escapes him, quiet and resigned.
Turning back, he spots Angela, Lydia, and Cici waiting near the car. Angela's hand rests on Cici's shoulder, her gaze fixed protectively on Santos, while Lydia stands slightly behind, arms crossed, watching in silence. As soon as Santos meets their eyes, Angela offers a small, encouraging wave. Santos tries to return a reassuring smile, though he suspects it comes out weaker than intended.
He starts walking toward the entrance when he hears Angela's voice ring out, "Cici, get back here!" Her tone carries a mix of alarm and exasperation.
Santos spins around just in time to catch a flash of movement—Cici sprinting toward him, her hair bouncing as she leaps straight into his arms.
"Cici, what—" he manages, voice caught halfway between confusion and a soft laugh, as he nearly staggers under her momentum. He steadies himself, his hands supporting her as she clings to him.
Cici's arms wrap around his neck, and she presses her face into his shoulder. "I don't know," she says, her voice muffled but warm. "It just felt right."
Mark's chest tightens at the unexpected comfort of her hug. He places a gentle hand on the back of her head, holding her close. "You're something else," he murmurs, a faint chuckle escaping him.
Pulling back slightly, Cici looks him square in the eye, her grin bright and earnest. "I love you, Dad," she says simply.
Mark's throat feels tight. He swallows, managing a tender smile. "I love you too, Peanut," he replies. For a moment, the tension in his body eases.
Cici hops down, her sneakers scuffing the pavement as she jogs back to Angela. He can see Angela start to scold her, while Lydia watches on, arms still crossed but face softening as she observes the exchange.
Mark stands there a second longer, breathing out shakily. He closes his eyes, inhaling the air that's scented faintly of car exhaust and blooming flowers from a nearby planter.
Turning on his heel, he steps through the building's glass doors. The interior is polished and hushed, the receptionist behind the sleek front desk casting him a polite, if distant, nod. Mark musters a weak grin, nodding back as he passes. He can feel his heart picking up speed.
Reaching the elevator, he presses the call button and waits. The polished metal doors slide open with a quiet chime. He steps inside, the space lit by cool, overhead LEDs. As the doors close, he stands there, the silence pressing in.
Mark clears his throat and reaches out, pressing a button on the panel. He holds his finger there, then speaks clearly, "Mark Romero Santos. Identification number 891-AC-91380. Security clearance code Tango-Alpha-Bravo-7-3-9er."
A soft ding acknowledges the code, and the elevator jolts slightly before descending. The sensation of going down is subtle but unmistakable.
...the rhythm of his heartbeat does not slow...
...in fact it quickens as he recalls his talk with Carlos...and his discussion with Angela...
He breathes out shakily as a singular thought floods into his head...
...I have to save them...