FULL CHAPTER HERE —> GREG VS RAID 9-45

That… Blue eyes blinked open in the dark. That’s not my ceiling.

His ceiling had a texture to it, popcorn-patterned and a brown water stain that had long been painted over. This one had steel beams that went up and across way high, three or four of them catching light from underneath and past those it was just black.

His vision took a second to adjust, another blink pulling back the darkness and showing off the shape of the space around him an—Dining room.

Those same blue eyes widened and Greg made to sit up. Mom.

Nothing went anywhere; shoulders, elbows, legs all still and refusing to do what he’d done every morning since he could remember. Cold under his shoulderblades ran down to his spine, the back of his heels and his palms reporting back the same.

+ 1 Resistance: Tox

+ 1 Resistance: Tox

+ 1 Resistance: Tox

+ 1 Resistance: Tox

+ 1 Resistance: Tox

…fuck you.

The notifications soon faded back to nothing, the stack of five blue windows vanished while he tried to… to understand exactly what was going on. Lemon squares? No, it wasn’t the lemon squares, but someone had mentioned… Tape recorder. 

Neurotoxin; he remembered now, the neurotoxin on the tape recorder he’d touched. A single finger had met a single button worth of the stuff and it had been enough to leave him like this for who knew how long even? Long enough to get him here, wherever this was.

He tried again with his arms, a lift or a kick; anything that would get him in motion. After a few seconds of continued stillness, he was almost screaming at them to do a damn thing but his mouth was refusing to cooperate like the rest of him; jaw frozen with no sound leaving him.

Nothing. He could feel all of it, cold metal against his bare back and something strapping down both his arms. With his lower body bare apart from a pair of briefs, his legs weren’t spared either. His heart kicked hard, a constant thunder in his chest from the raw fear that was his body refusing to take his calls.

Mom. His mouth cracked open the slightest bit, something coming up out of his throat that sounded more like a rusty doorhinge than anything else. At the very least, his eyes still worked when the rest of him didn’t.

FULL CHAPTER HERE —> GREG VS RAID 9-45