Fake Dating The Bad Boy
Chapter 118: Back In Hell

Chapter 118: Back In Hell

June – POV

I wake with ICE in my veins.

I’m strapped to a metal chair—cold, unyielding armrests clamp around my wrists, my thighs, my ankles. My body feels heavy. My head pounds. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t—not again.

This can’t be real.

No. No. No.

I’m in that room. That clinical, sterile nightmare space. Walls painted the same dull gray they used in psychiatric wards. Harsh fluorescent lights. A single door, metal, with a sliding panel—like something from a horror film. Something they would use.

My vision swims. My heart hammers so hard I can’t hear myself think.

No. This... this can’t be right.

I try to pull at the straps.

They’re locked.

I try to breathe fast, hyperventilate. The smell of antiseptic, metal, and something acrid hits me.

Not here.

Not this place.

I can feel the cold light—tingling across my skin like a ghost touch. My limbs tremble. Tears sting my eyes.

Please. Please.

My heartbeat fills my ears. My eyelids flutter. I see—flashes.

Bright rooms.

My wrists strapped to a table.

Needles plunging into my vein—ice-cold liquid shooting through me.

A helmet. Metal prongs touching my scalp.

Something that tastes like rust in my mouth.

No... No. Not again.

Something begins in my skull—a memory uncoiling like poison. My eyes fly open. The break room, the white coats, me, screaming.

"Let it out," they said.

"We need results."

A flash of electricity. My back arching. My teeth gritted. The world a starburst of pain.

I wake, gasping. Holy God.

I’m back. I’m here. Same nightmare. Wrapped in straps, alone.

I’m pinned.

Panic drowns me.

I slam my head against the headrest—once, twice—hoping something breaks. Hoping I wake up.

It doesn’t.

My nails claw at the leather straps around my wrists. They’re locked. I can’t even feel my hands properly.

My vision blurs reddish.

I imagine my blood pooling. I claw, try to scream.

But there’s no sound. My voice is swallowed by the room. Swallowed by that place.

Why am I here?

Why?

My brain latches onto a memory—sharp and searing—my mouth dry, my body shaking as a doctor administered another injection. A line of pills. Electrodes.

My screams ricocheting off showrooms, polished floors, cavernous halls.

I close my eyes tight and try to hold that memory off—but it surges—like it never left.

Like I’m there—again.

I feel the old voices—their seductive whispers creeping up:

You’re broken.

You belong to us.

Just give in.

They were fading. Evaporating after everything changed. My monster of a father—gone. Rescued. My new life—luxury, love, sanity.

And Justin.

Jesus, I started to feel whole again—with him, with my money, with my freedom. The therapy. The support. The noise gone silent.

But it’s back. All of it.

And now... I’m back here.

I try to speak, to scream.

Nothing but a croak.

A pounding.

Someone is coming.

My whole body freezes.

Can it be him?

Justin?

Please.

Footsteps in the hallway.

Metal wheels.

A door opening.

A click as someone enters.

I press my eyes shut tight.

But they must hear my heart. Feel my pulse. See me tremble.

A quiet voice—a woman’s, calm, professional—says, "Subject 159... awaken."

It’s clinical. Nothing else.

Terror shoots through me.

How many subjects?

Fucking 12.

Miles away, but still me.

I feel bile rise. My body convulses. My chest shakes with a silent sob.

"Subject 12," the voice repeats, now closer.

They’re coming for me.

My panic cracks open and I slide into hysteria.

No. No, no. Let me go. Release me. I can’t—

The voice says, "Administering neurotransmitter inhibitor. Begin dosage."

I feel something cold press against my neck.

A needle? A cooling gas?

I convulse. My mind fractures.

This world vanishes.

I’m six again. Screaming behind bars.

I’m twelve. White cloaks chanting "Protocol 7."

I’m in my father’s house. Flames around him. My fists raised.

It hurt me, they said. It would be fine.

But it ripped me apart.

I can’t go through it again.

But it’s happening.

I scream. I pound my fists on the chair.

A tearing, raw sound escapes me—broken, raw.

SOMEONE, PLEASE—

My vision dims.

The synthetic scent grows stronger.

My head lolls back.

The voice is final: "Subject sedated. Prepare for transfer."

Everything cuts to a blur...

I come to.

The door is left slightly ajar now.

The lights are dim.

I’m still strapped in.

Different room. This one smaller, metal grated floor. The air tastes thicker, warmer.

I’m alone again.

I try to breathe. My lungs burn.

My mind is patchy flames and ashes.

The old voices—urgency now:

We own you.

Give in.

Stop fighting.

My chest feels raw.

Each breath—even though shallow—hurts.

I start hyperventilating again. Screaming silently. Trying to wrench myself free.

But they took my strength.

Everything is trebling outside—pounding doors, distant shouts, footsteps. I feel something shift in the air.

Someone is near.

It’s not just them.

It’s... someone familiar.

I think: He’ll come.

Justin. Please come.

A calm voice again—but deeper, warmer.

He’s talking to someone else:

"...Subject woke early. Standard protocol. We need to move soon."

It isn’t them. It’s Justin.

My chest seizes.

"Justin?"

There’s no response.

I try again: "Justin, don’t—"

My throat fails.

I start weeping.

Silent tears.

I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on him. His face. His voice. The promise in his eyes.

He’ll come.

But everything in me screams it’s a trick. A lie.

You’re alone.

You belong to them again.

I pound the armrest until my knuckles bleed.

My vision swims.

My mind fractures again.

Please don’t leave me here. Please.

Then darkness with one thought lingering its just a nightmare.

*********

I wake up choking on panic.

It’s cold. Too cold.

My skin sticks to plastic. My limbs are heavy. I try to move, but something pulls me back, holds me down. I jerk, and something clinks. A restraint.

My arms.

Strapped.

My legs.

Strapped.

My chest rises and falls too fast—my heart slamming against my ribcage like it wants out.

"No... no, no, no, no..." I whisper. It wasn’t a nightmare it was real. I was really back.

The room is white. No, not white—sterile. The lighting buzzes overhead, fluorescent and harsh, humming like insects in my ears. The walls are padded with dirty gray foam. The bed beneath me is bolted to the floor. No windows. Just one steel door with a slit of a window.

It’s a mental ward.

Or a replica of one.

But it’s not just that. I know this setup.

It’s them.

The bastards who ran experiments on me. Who fried my brain. Who tried to carve out my soul and leave something hollow behind.

"No, please..." My voice cracks. I start to thrash, to pull against the cuffs—velcro and metal digging into my wrists. My breath comes in gasps.

The room smells like antiseptic.

Like blood and bleach.

Like fear.

I scream.

But there’s no one to hear me.

My mind flashes.

Electricity.

Screams.

Metal tables.

I sob, curling into myself as much as the restraints will allow. My knees are trembling. My chest burns with the effort to breathe.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening again.

I was free.

I had escaped.

I was a goddamn heiress now, spoiled and safe, wrapped in luxury and fake designer scarves. I was healing. Living. Laughing again.

And I had Justin.

Justin.

Just thinking his name makes something collapse inside me. My lungs cave. My soul clenches.

He’ll come for me.

He has to.

But I know what this is. This is what happened before. It always starts this way—the disorientation. The restraints. The drugs. The whispers. The needles.

My body starts to tremble violently. Cold sweat slicks my neck, soaks my back. I scream again, louder this time.

The door doesn’t open.

The silence mocks me.

And then I hear it.

The voices.

Like static in the corners of my brain. Whispers rising, slithering through my ears and coiling into my spine.

"You never really left," one hisses.

"They’re always watching," another croons.

"You’re back where you belong, pretty toy."

No.

No, no, they were gone. They’d started to fade when I found Justin. When he pulled me back into the light. When he looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I was something to protect. Something to love.

I scream again. A high, shattering sound that claws at my throat.

My memories surge up like bile.

I see myself strapped to a cold table, wires attached to my scalp. I remember the sharp sting of needles in my veins, of fluid being pumped into me until my limbs went numb.

I remember screaming until my voice vanished. The burn of a collar around my neck. The way they called me a subject, not a person.

And worst of all?

The silence afterward.

When I couldn’t even scream anymore.

I sob, jerking against the cuffs again. "Let me out—LET ME OUT!"

The walls don’t answer.

The door stays shut.

The voices in my head giggle.