CHAPTER 133: BETTER ME

Justin – POV

I prayed.

God, I fucking prayed.

Prayed for Rico and the team to bust in through the walls, to put bullets through every bastard in a white coat before I had to do the unthinkable. I kept counting seconds by the rhythm of June’s breathing—her shallow, broken breaths where she curled against my chest like something half-alive, half-afraid.

But the seconds stretched into minutes, minutes stretched into hours—and still, no thunder of boots on steel floors. No shouts. No gunshots. Nothing.

Just silence and that damn voice inside my head that kept whispering:

They’re not coming. Not in time. And they’ll bring someone else to her if you don’t act.

I couldn’t let that happen.

Fuck. I couldn’t even imagine it without wanting to rip the steel door from its hinges and tear every throat out. But with my bare hands cuffed and guards outside, that was just a fantasy. And fantasies don’t save her.

Then the door opened.

The same old bastard in the white lab coat walked in, clipboard in hand, his eyes shining with that vile curiosity reserved for things, not people. Two guards flanked him, rifles ready.

"Well, Number Nine," he began, calm as ever. "Have you given it some thought?"

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt. June was trembling in my lap, her head buried against me, like she knew something awful was coming.

"Yeah," I ground out. "I’ll do it."

A ghost of a smile curled on his lips—cold, triumphant. Like I’d handed him a prize.

"But," I continued before he could say anything, "I’ve got conditions. If you want this to work."

His brows arched, pen hovering over the paper. "We’re listening."

I swallowed, tasting blood from where I’d bitten the inside of my cheek.

"No fucking monitoring," I rasped. "You don’t watch. No cameras, no mics, nothing. If you want her to feel safe enough to come back, she can’t feel your fucking eyes on her. She’s not going to open up with a fucking audience."

His smile didn’t falter, but it turned condescending. "I’m afraid that’s not negotiable, Number Nine. We need to observe—clinical data, behavioral patterns, neurophysiological responses... Surely, you understand."

I wanted to fucking lunge at him, tear the clipboard out of his hand and smash it over his head. But June flinched as my breathing turned harsh, and I forced it down.

"Then at least do it somewhere that isn’t a fucking cell," I hissed. "A real room. Soft bed, warm light—somewhere that doesn’t look like a fucking torture chamber. If she’s traumatized, you’ll lose her forever. And your precious experiment goes to hell."

The bastard considered it. His gaze turned to June, still curled and small. His lips tightened.

"Your second condition," he said, "is reasonable. Accepted."

Relief flooded me for a second—until his next words sank in.

"But not the first. We must study, observe, and document everything. You’ll put on a good show, Number Nine. Because many people are watching, and we need to know precisely when Number Twelve reacts."

My blood froze.

Put on a show.

Like it was theater. Like it was nothing.

My skin crawled. Every cell in my body screamed to refuse, to rip the bastard apart. But I looked down at June—her arms bruised from cuffs, her lips dry, her hair matted—and I knew refusing wouldn’t protect her. It would only invite worse monsters.

The man gestured to the guards. "Move them. Prepare the observation suite."

The guards grabbed my arms, forcing me to stand, nearly toppling June. I kept her steady, shielding her with my body, feeling her heartbeat pounding wild and terrified against me. The bastard in the lab coat left first, boots echoing on cold cement.

June whimpered. My heart cracked like glass.

They dragged us down a corridor, steel doors on either side—each a cell like ours, a grave for someone else’s soul. The walls smelled like bleach and rot. June staggered beside me, cuffed and silent, her eyes darting around like a cornered animal.

We stopped outside a door. One of the guards opened it.

Inside: a room.

Not a cell—but not a home either. It had a bed, clean sheets, warm lamplight that felt like an insult in this place. A camera watched from the ceiling’s corner, red light blinking. The walls were a dull cream color, but it was better than peeling concrete.

They shoved us inside.

The door shut behind us. The lock clicked. The red light kept blinking. Watching.

I stood there, pulse hammering in my ears. June sank to the floor, legs folding under her like she couldn’t hold herself up. Her shoulders shook; she was crying, but no sound came out—just dry, broken sobs.

I dropped to my knees beside her. My cuffs rattled. I could barely move my hands, but I reached out anyway, fingertips brushing her bruised wrist.

"I’m sorry," I whispered. "I’m so fucking sorry."

She didn’t look up.

My thoughts raced.

Better here. Better than the cell. More space. Softer. Maybe I could find something to fight with. Maybe I could block the camera, buy time until Rico arrived. If Rico was coming.

Because every second that ticked by made that hope feel thinner.

Maybe they got ambushed. Maybe they couldn’t track me. Maybe this was it. Me, June, and a monster of a choice.

I glanced around. No loose objects. Nothing sharp. Nothing useful. The window was fake; the walls, reinforced. The camera’s blinking eye never stopped.

God, please...

I knew what they wanted. They didn’t give a damn about love, or comfort, or consent. They wanted data—wanted to see if sex could drag her back from the abyss they had shoved her into.

They wanted to see if I

could do it.

And if I refused—they’d find someone else. And that thought alone made bile rise in my throat.

"June..." I murmured, my voice cracking. "Baby, look at me. Please."

No response.

My chest hurt. Like knives twisting.

I sat beside her on the cold floor. The bed loomed behind us, and the camera watched. June rocked slightly, eyes distant, lips moving silently—probably whispering to voices I couldn’t hear.

What the fuck do I do?

My mind raced. My own voices, darker than ever, whispered:

Do it. It’ll bring her back. Don’t let them send someone else.

Another part of me screamed:

Don’t. You’ll break her more. You’ll lose her forever.

The worst part? I didn’t know which voice was right.

I swallowed hard, forcing down the panic. I pressed my forehead to hers, so close I could feel her ragged breath.

"I love you," I whispered. "I’ll get you out of here. I swear."

The red light kept blinking.

And I prayed—harder than I ever had—that somewhere, somehow, Rico was coming. That maybe, before they forced my hand, rescue would come crashing through that door.

Because if not...

Then it would be me.

Better me than a stranger.

But God, it killed me inside to even think it.

I took the keys lying on the cold floor, my hands trembling so badly they almost slipped through my fingers. The cuffs were heavy, biting into my skin, but I forced them open with clumsy desperation. The relief was brief—a flare of burning freedom—before reality crashed back down.

Then I turned to June.

She was sitting there, knees hugged to her chest, eyes wide and glassy. The cuffs around her wrists looked so much worse on her delicate skin—red welts, angry bruises that made something inside me crack open and bleed.

"Baby," I whispered, voice hoarse, "I’m gonna get these off, okay?"

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me. Just kept rocking gently, hair falling around her face like a curtain. My heart felt too big, too loud, like it was bruising my ribs from the inside.

With a shaking hand, I reached for her wrists. The metal was cold, slick with sweat and blood. The key slipped once, twice, before it finally clicked, and the cuff opened.

Her wrists fell limp onto her lap.

She didn’t pull away. She didn’t flinch. Just sat there, empty.

God, I thought, how the fuck am I supposed to do this?

I couldn’t force her. Couldn’t bring myself to even think about it. And yet, the sick fucks watching from behind their cameras wanted that. They wanted to see if it would wake her up, if it would pull her back to them—back to me.

My chest burned. I swallowed bile.

"Let’s get you cleaned up first," I murmured. "Yeah? Just... let me help you."

She didn’t protest when I lifted her. Didn’t help either. She was so light in my arms it made me want to scream. June had always been small, but never like this—never so weightless, so breakable.

I carried her across the room toward what passed for a bathroom—a sterile tiled alcove with a sink and a small shower. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, and my stomach twisted when I saw the black glass orb in the corner—another camera. Watching. Recording.

Fuck them.

I pushed the thought away, trying to focus on June.

I set her down gently on the cold tile, crouching beside her.

"Shhh," I whispered, brushing her matted hair back from her face. "Let me clean you up, okay?"

She didn’t move. Her head lolled slightly, eyes unfocused, lips parted just enough to breathe. It broke me in ways I didn’t know I could break.

I turned on the water. Lukewarm, barely better than cold. It misted around us, and I pulled off the filthy remains of my shirt, then reached for hers.

"Sorry, baby," I murmured as I peeled the thin, stained fabric away from her shoulders. The bruises on her arms ran deeper than I thought, fading purple and angry red. Needles had kissed her skin so many times it was a map of violence.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t even shiver.

Fuck, June. Where are you?

I wet a towel under the spray, wrung it out, and gently dabbed the grime from her face. Her eyelids fluttered, but there was no recognition. Just that dead, distant stare.

"You’re safe now," I lied, because maybe the sound of my voice would reach her where she was hiding. "I’ve got you. I’ve always got you."

My throat burned as I cleaned her neck, her shoulders, her chest. Every bruise felt like a confession I’d failed to save her. Every small, shuddering breath she took felt like a gift I didn’t deserve.

"Remember when you used to tease me about shower sex?" I whispered, voice breaking into a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. "You’d say I liked it because you got to watch me all wet. You weren’t wrong, you know."

Nothing. Not even the hint of a smile.

I kept going anyway, pretending it mattered. Pretending that, behind those empty eyes, June was still there, listening, fighting to come back.

God, come back to me, angel. Please.

When I finished, I wrapped her in a thin towel, hugging her close. Her head fell against my shoulder, limp, heavy in that terrifying way.

I carried her back to the bed.

The red light on the camera blinked steadily. Watching. Always watching.

My blood boiled at the thought of them sitting behind glass, notebooks in hand, dissecting every breath, every movement. I wanted to rip that camera from the wall, to crush it under my boot until the only thing it saw was black.

But I couldn’t. Not yet. If I did, they’d punish June. Or bring someone else.

Better me, the voice whispered in my skull. Always better me.