FULL CHAPTER HERE —> GREG VS RAID 9-48

Greg nearly ate concrete with just one first step.

All it took was that step away from the operating table, and his left knee nearly decided to give up on him. The floor nearly swung up at him before his right hand shot out, instinct giving him the edge of the table behind him for a handhold. Metal slick with blood — his blood — made keeping himself upright so much harder, body shaking from something more than simple weakness and exhaustion. 

Jesus… Whatever he’d done to her had taken almost everything else in him with it, his tank close enough to bottom he felt like he could scrape it. One arm hanging off his shoulder and fingers still twitching at the end of it, the strap was still around his wrist— a chunk of torn metal dangling off it and clinking against the table edge every time.

And his chest was still open.

Blue eyes drifted down, the sight of the hooks forcing a flinch from him. Not all of them had come out when Greg had torn himself free, plenty of them still deep in there; right in the edges of the long cut down his front, the wires still attached to them tugging against each rise and fall of his chest. His body was trying, though, cut edges visibly drawing in toward each other and catching on the metal.

All the blood on and around him didn’t make any attempt to take a next step easier. On the table, on the floor, sheeting down his legs and soaking his underwear red, it was only fought for space by the thick tar that Bonesaw had thrown up onto him; the stuff stinking like a car battery left out in the sun.

FULL CHAPTER HERE —> GREG VS RAID 9-45