17 Dec Borne of Bone

The night air was cold and thick with fog as Elliot Harper drove home along the winding backroads. It was close to midnight, and he was exhausted. The day had been long—ten hours of hunched shoulders, grime-streaked hands, and engine oil embedded deep into his skin. Being a mechanic wasn’t easy, but it paid the bills. At least, it used to. The thought of the mounting debt made his grip tighten on the steering wheel.

Elliot rubbed at his eyes and yawned, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. He hated nights like these, when every mile home felt like a battle to keep his eyes open. The radio was turned up, but the static only added to his irritation. He fiddled with the dial, trying to catch a clear station, when something flashed in his peripheral vision—a movement just ahead on the road.

A deer.

He barely registered its presence before his instincts kicked in. Elliot jerked the wheel hard to the right, the tires screaming in protest as the truck swerved. The headlights washed over the deer’s startled eyes for a split second, then it vanished into the darkness. But Elliot’s truck kept skidding, veering out of control as gravel sprayed and the vehicle pitched violently off the road.

“Shit!” Elliot yelled, gripping the wheel in panic as the truck crashed through a line of underbrush and smashed into a tree.

The impact was like a bomb going off. Pain exploded in his chest, driving the air from his lungs. The world spun, the sensation of being slammed forward and then back nearly tearing his body apart. Something cracked deep inside his torso. He felt the jagged shards of bone pressing inward, grinding against his organs.

Then there was nothing but silence and the faint ringing in his ears.

For a few moments, Elliot hung suspended in the seatbelt, gasping for air. His vision blurred as he blinked up at the shattered windshield, the steering wheel twisted inward from the force of the crash. The dashboard lights flickered weakly, casting eerie shadows across the crumpled interior of the truck. It took a long time for his mind to catch up with what had just happened.

Move, he thought. You have to move.

His body felt heavy and unresponsive, every nerve aflame. He tried to raise his left arm, but the movement sent a searing jolt through his chest, and he cried out. Each breath was a struggle. He couldn’t budge without agony flaring in his ribs. When he looked down, his gaze fixed on his torso, now twisted at an odd angle. Panic welled up as he saw the unnatural shape beneath his shirt—a ridge of broken bones shifting with every inhalation.

“Oh, God,” he wheezed, blood filling his mouth. He spat it out, dark red droplets spattering the dashboard.

The headlights flickered once, twice, and then faded completely, plunging him into darkness.

“Help…” he whispered, but his voice was too weak, swallowed by the stillness of the night. He was alone, pinned in place, his body a mess of severed vessels and broken bones.

It could have been minutes or hours—time seemed meaningless. His mind drifted in and out of consciousness, awareness slipping away as the pain became a dull roar in his ears. He thought of his empty house, of the bills piling up on the kitchen table, of the hopelessness that lingered daily. He didn’t want to die here, bleeding out in some ditch. He had to survive. He had to—

The distant wail of sirens pierced the night.

Relief flooded him. Elliot blinked, trying to focus. Red and blue lights danced through the cracked windshield, and the engines grew louder. Shadows moved outside the truck; he heard shouting and the sound of crunching footsteps.

“Sir, can you hear me?” a voice called out. Then, closer, “Sir, stay with me! We’re going to get you out!”

Elliot tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words. He felt hands on him, the seatbelt being cut away, his body contorting as they maneuvered him out of the wreckage. He screamed as something deep in his chest shifted—shards of bone grating against flesh.

“Ribs are shattered,” one of the paramedics muttered. “Jesus, how’s he still breathing?”

“Be careful!” another snapped. “He’s got a punctured lung.”

Elliot’s world narrowed to a pinprick of pain and darkness. The paramedics’ voices faded in and out, muffled and distant, as they lifted and carried him away. The sensation of being strapped down on a stretcher sent fresh waves of torturous pangs through his chest, and he blacked out again.

The next time he opened his eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital blinded him. Faces swam in and out of focus—doctors, nurses, all speaking in hurried tones. He tried to listen, but everything sounded underwater. He caught fragments of conversation: “Multiple fractures…risk of internal bleeding…emergency surgery…”

“Hey, hey,” a calm voice cut through the fog. “Elliot Harper, right?”

He blinked sluggishly. A man in a pristine white coat stood over him, his expression calm and professional. He wasn’t wearing a surgical mask like the others. Instead, his sharp blue eyes studied Elliot with clinical detachment.

“I’m Dr. Alan Carver,” the man introduced himself, smiling faintly. “I’m not part of the emergency team here. I’m with a separate research division. But I have a proposition for you.”

Elliot tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Dr. Carver leaned closer, his tone almost conspiratorial.

“You’ve sustained serious rib damage. Recovery will be slow and… agonizing. But I have access to an experimental drug—one that could speed up your bone regeneration exponentially.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “We’re looking for volunteers. It could get you back on your feet in a fraction of the time.”

Elliot stared up at him, barely comprehending. Dr. Carver’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Think about it, Mr. Harper. No more months of recovery. No more medical bills piling up. You could be back at work in weeks.”

Desperation clawed at Elliot’s chest, almost as hurtful as the broken bones. Weeks? Back to work in weeks? It seemed impossible. The weight of everything—the bills, the fear of losing his livelihood—crushed him. What choice did he have?

Slowly, he forced a single word past his cracked lips.

“Yes.”

Dr. Carver nodded, satisfied. He straightened, producing a clipboard filled with forms and setting it on the small table beside Elliot’s bed. As he flipped through the pages, he spoke quickly and confidently.

“You’ll need to sign some documents and agree to a few conditions. We’ll install monitoring equipment in your home for observation purposes. And I’ll want you to keep a video journal to record your recovery. We need to document every step.”

Elliot barely registered the details. His mind clung to the only thing that mattered: getting better. Getting back to normal. He fumbled for the pen Dr. Carver offered, his fingers trembling.

“Excellent,” Dr. Carver said, watching him sign each page. “You’re making the right choice.”

Elliot wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that this stranger, with his promises of healing, could fix everything. He wanted to believe he’d made the right choice.

But deep down, a tiny voice whispered in the back of his mind.

You have no idea what you’ve just agreed to.

And then the world went black again.

* * * * * *

Elliot woke to the sound of birds outside his bedroom window. He groaned, shifting slightly in bed, but the stinging in his chest made him freeze. The ribs were still broken—at least he assumed they were. A dull ache had settled over his torso, but it was manageable compared to what he’d felt after the accident.

His mind drifted back to the hospital and the experimental treatment. He had no memory of the injections themselves, just flashes of bright lights, clinical murmurs, and Dr. Carver’s calm, measured voice: “You’ll heal faster than you ever thought possible.”

The drug had to be working. He pulled himself upright with a grunt, ignoring the spikes of discomfort. His home, a modest single-story house, seemed eerily quiet after the chaos of the hospital. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, and he glanced around, noticing small, boxy devices mounted on the walls in the corners of the room. The monitoring cameras.

Dr. Carver had been meticulous in explaining their purpose. “We’ll need a clear picture of your recovery process,” he’d said. “It’s for your safety as much as ours.” Elliot hadn’t cared about the details at the time. Now, the small red lights on the cameras felt invasive, their blinking dots reminding him that someone was always watching.

Pushing the thought aside, he grabbed the handheld camera from his bedside table and powered it on. Its lens reflected his gaunt face.

By the time he shuffled to the kitchen, his ribs had started to throb again, but he ignored it. The coffee pot bubbled and hissed, filling the room with a comforting aroma. For a brief moment, things felt normal again.

Then the itching started.

It was subtle at first—a light tickle beneath his skin. He shifted in his chair, absentmindedly scratching at his side. But the sensation deepened, becoming sharper, more persistent. It spread across his ribcage like tiny needles pricking just below the surface. He stood, lifting his shirt to examine his torso in the kitchen’s dim light.

Nothing.

His skin looked bruised but otherwise intact. He pressed a hand against his side, feeling the ridges of his broken ribs. A flash of warmth shot through his palm, making him recoil.

“What the hell…” he muttered.

The warmth spread, pulsing from his ribs and radiating outward. He stumbled back against the counter, clutching at his chest. For several minutes, he stood there, waiting for it to pass. Eventually, it faded, leaving him shaken and sweating.

By the next morning, the itching had grown unbearable. Elliot had barely slept, tossing and turning as the sensation crawled beneath his skin. He sat on the edge of his bed, camera in hand, trying to ignore the raw, burning feeling.

“Day two,” he said into the lens, his voice strained. “There’s… something happening. It’s like my ribs are moving. Shifting under my skin.” He hesitated, unsure how to explain the bizarre sensation. “I don’t know if this is normal, but it doesn’t feel—” He stopped, gritting his teeth as a fresh wave of heat rolled over his chest.

He hit the record button again and set the camera aside, leaning forward with his head in his hands. The pressure was building, making his ribs feel like they were swelling from the inside out.

He lifted his shirt again, inspecting the area. This time, he noticed something strange. The bruises around his ribs had darkened, spreading like inkblots across his torso. When he pressed on the skin, it felt harder than it should, almost… unyielding.

Elliot grabbed his phone and dialed the number Dr. Carver had given him. It rang and rang, eventually cutting to voicemail. He left a message, his tone panicked. “Dr. Carver, it’s Elliot Harper. I need to talk to you. Something’s wrong. Call me back.”

Hours passed with no response.

* * * * * *

By the end of the day, the bulges beneath his skin were unmistakable. The ridges of his ribs were visibly pushing outward, stretching the skin taut. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The heat was constant now, radiating from his chest in rhythmic pulses.

Desperate, he grabbed a pair of pliers from the toolbox he kept under the sink. If the ribs were growing wrong, maybe he could… fix it.

The thought made him sick, but the pain was unbearable. He clenched the pliers, positioning them against one of the ridges that jutted slightly further than the others. His hands shook as he applied pressure.

The moment the bone snapped, a fresh wave of anguish tore through him. Blood seeped from the wound, staining his skin and dripping onto the tile floor. He dropped the pliers with a gasp, stumbling back against the wall.

For a brief moment, he thought he’d done it. The pressure lessened. He sighed in relief, his body trembling.

But then, something moved.

The broken rib shifted beneath the skin, sliding back into place with a sickening wet crack. Elliot watched in horror as the bone began to regrow, emerging from the skin in jagged, sharp edges. The wound sealed itself almost instantly, leaving behind a new ridge that was larger and more grotesque than before.

“No,” he whispered, clutching at his chest. “No, no, no…”

He sank to the floor, blood pooling around him. The camera on the bathroom counter blinked steadily, capturing every moment.

* * * * * *

Elliot woke to searing pain. It was sharper, more precise now, as if something inside him was slicing its way out. His ribs felt like jagged knives, shifting with every breath. The bed was damp beneath him, soaked with sweat and, to his horror, blood.

The room was dim, the early morning light barely filtering through the curtains. He sat up gingerly, gasping as the motion sent fresh torment coursing through his body. His shirt clung to him, sticky with blood. He pulled it up and froze.

His torso was a distorted landscape of sharp ridges and swollen flesh. The ridges had grown overnight, pressing so hard against his skin that it was stretched thin and translucent. Dark veins webbed across the surface, pulsing faintly.

“No,” Elliot whispered. His voice cracked as panic clawed at him. “This can’t be real. This can’t…”

The handheld camera sat on his nightstand, blinking its small red light. He grabbed it with trembling hands and hit record.

“Day three,” he said, his voice raw. “It’s… it’s getting worse. My ribs…” He couldn’t finish the thought, holding the camera out to capture his torso. The ridges were unmistakable, jagged shapes that had no place in a human body. “I tried to stop it. I tried, but they… they grow back. Faster. Stronger.”

His breath hitched as he fought back tears.

“I called Dr. Carver. I’ve called a hundred times. Nothing. No response.” He paused, then muttered bitterly, “He knew. He had to know.”

Elliot shut off the camera and dropped it onto the bed. The waves of heat and pressure intensified, rolling through his chest like a storm. He stumbled to the bathroom, leaving a faint trail of blood behind him.

The mirror confirmed his worst fears. The ridges weren’t just visible now—they were starting to break through. Tiny white slivers poked out from his skin, blood oozing around their edges. He leaned closer, his breath fogging the glass. The slivers gleamed in the dim light, sharp and glistening.

Before he could process what he was seeing, the pressure reached its peak.

The first rib tore through.

The sound was wet and visceral, a sickening crack followed by the tearing of flesh. Elliot screamed, clutching the sink as his knees buckled. Blood sprayed onto the mirror, streaking down in crimson rivulets. He looked down, horrified, as the rib jutted out from his side, jagged and sharp as a spear.

Another crack.

Then another.

One by one, the ribs burst through his skin, breaking free in agonizing succession. Blood poured down his sides, pooling at his feet. He collapsed onto the tile, writhing as the bones continued to grow.

“Stop,” he sobbed. “Please, God, make it stop…”

* * * * * *

It took him nearly an hour to stop the bleeding. By then the bathroom was a slaughterhouse, red streaks covering the walls and floor. He sat against the tub, pale and shaking. The bones protruding from his torso were monstrous—long, jagged spikes that curved outward like claws.

He had tried to cut one off again, this time with a hacksaw from the garage, but the result was the same. The bone grew back almost instantly, harder and longer than before.

The thought of calling 911 crossed his mind, but he shoved it away. How could he explain this? No one would believe him. They’d think he was insane, a danger to himself.

Instead, he grabbed his phone and tried Dr. Carver’s number again. It went straight to voicemail.

“Dr. Carver,” Elliot rasped into the phone, his voice trembling. “It’s Elliot Harper. I need help. Please. You said this would heal me, but it’s…” He glanced down at the bloody spikes jutting from his chest and shuddered. “It’s killing me.”

He hung up and stumbled back into the bedroom. The cameras mounted on the walls blinked steadily, watching his every move. For the first time, he wondered if anyone was actually monitoring them. Was Dr. Carver on the other end? Or had he abandoned the project entirely?

Elliot grabbed the handheld camera and hit record again.

“They came through,” he said, gesturing weakly to his torso. The jagged ribs gleamed in the dim light, streaked with blood. “It’s like they’re alive. They just… keep growing. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Desperation drove him to the clinic.

The drive was excruciating, every bump in the road sending fresh jolts of pain through his body. Blood seeped through his shirt, staining the driver’s seat. By the time he pulled up to the facility, he was exhausted and trembling.

The sight of the clinic stopped him cold.

The windows were boarded up, and the front door hung ajar, creaking faintly in the breeze. A faded foreclosure notice was stapled to the doorframe, fluttering in the wind. The once-pristine building was now a ghost of itself, abandoned and forgotten.

Elliot forced himself out of the car, clutching his side as he staggered toward the entrance.

Inside, the air was stale and thick with the smell of dust and mildew. Papers were strewn across the floor, some torn to shreds. Broken equipment lay scattered in the corners, their wires spilling out like guts. Bloodstains marked the walls and floors, dark and dried.

“Hello?” Elliot called out, his voice echoing through the empty halls.

Silence.

He moved deeper into the clinic, his footsteps unsteady. In one of the offices, he found a filing cabinet that had been wrenched open. Most of the files were gone, but a few remained, their edges singed as if someone had tried to burn them.

He rifled through the papers with shaking hands until he found what he was looking for: a list of participants. His name was there, along with several others.

Elliot scanned the page, his eyes locking onto an address. He clutched the paper tightly, his resolve hardening. If Dr. Carver wouldn’t help him, maybe one of the other participants could.

* * * * * *

The first address led him to a quiet suburban neighborhood. Rows of identical, cookie-cutter houses lined the street, their manicured lawns glowing under the midday sun. It felt surreal, almost cruel, to see such normalcy while his body twisted into a waking nightmare.

Elliot’s hands trembled on the steering wheel. His ribs jutted against the seatbelt, their jagged edges visible beneath his tattered shirt. Blood smeared across the fabric, dried in patches, though fresh red stains continued to spread. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror and winced. He looked haggard, his eyes ringed with dark circles.

“You’ve got this,” he muttered, though his voice cracked with doubt. He shoved the driver’s side door open and climbed out, wincing with every movement.

The house was pristine, its white siding glinting in the sunlight. A mailbox at the curb bore the name Diane Reed. Her name had been on the list, along with a note about a fractured arm. A minor injury compared to Elliot’s broken ribs, but if she had suffered anything like he had…

He forced himself up the driveway, each step threatening to fell him. The bone spikes protruding from his torso made it harder to breathe, and scraped against his shirt as he lumbered up the front steps.

Elliot knocked on the door, the sound hollow and sharp in the quiet neighborhood. “Diane?” he called out, his voice hoarse. “It’s Elliot Harper. We were part of the same clinical trial. I just need to talk to you.”

No answer.

He knocked again, harder this time. The door creaked open under the force, swinging inward to reveal a darkened foyer.

“Diane?”

An unidentifiable odor filled the air. Elliot stepped cautiously over the threshold, his sneakers crunching on something brittle. When he looked down, he realized it was broken glass.

The living room was in disarray. The coffee table had been overturned, its contents scattered across the floor. A lamp lay shattered near the couch, its bulb crushed.

Then he saw the blood.

It was smeared across the carpet in wide arcs, leading toward the hallway. Elliot’s stomach churned, and for a moment, he considered turning back. But he forced himself to move forward, following the streaks.

The hallway led to a small bedroom, the door slightly ajar. He pushed it open and immediately recoiled, gagging at the sight inside.

Diane was pinned to the ceiling.

Her body was twisted, suspended by jagged bones that jutted hideously from what used to be her left arm. The bones had grown outward, spiraling like branches, embedding themselves in the drywall. Her face was frozen in a grimace of terror, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Elliot staggered back, his head spinning. The room seemed to tilt, the blood-smeared walls closing in. He clutched at the doorway to steady himself, bile rising in his throat.

On the desk near the bed, a small laptop screen glowed faintly. The image froze him in place—a paused video, Diane staring into the camera, her face ashen and desperate. He stumbled toward it, his shaking fingers hovering over the keyboard before he pressed play.

“…I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Diane’s voice trembled through the speakers. She held up her arm, showing the jagged bones pushing against her skin. “It’s getting worse. Every time I try to stop it, they grow back stronger.”

The video skipped, her voice rising in pitch.

“Dr. Carver won’t answer my calls. He said this was supposed to help, but it’s killing me. Please, if anyone finds this…” Her voice broke into a sob.

The screen cut to static, and Elliot turned away, unable to watch anymore. He closed the laptop and stumbled out of the house, gasping for air.

* * * * * *

The second address was in worse shape.

Elliot parked in front of a decrepit apartment building, the brick facade crumbling in patches. The windows were dark, and the front door hung ajar, swaying slightly in the breeze.

The name on the list was Jason Mills, a young man who had fractured his leg in a skiing accident. Elliot climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor, each step agony as his ribs scraped against each other. The apartment door was unlocked, and he pushed it open cautiously.

The smell hit him first. A mix of decay and something acrid, sharp enough to sting his nose. The apartment was eerily quiet, the only sound coming from a faint buzzing deeper inside.

“Jason?” Elliot called, though he already knew what he would find.

The living room was empty, but the kitchen wasn’t.

Jason’s body was sprawled across the floor, his legs twisted and pinned to the ceiling by massive, antler-like bones. The growths had splintered through his flesh, curving upward and embedding themselves in the beams above. Blood dripped steadily from the wounds, pooling on the tiles below.

Elliot’s knees buckled, and he leaned against the counter for support. The buzzing grew louder, and he turned to see a camera mounted on the wall, its red light blinking.

A recording device lay on the counter beside it, its screen cracked but functional. He pressed play.

Jason’s face filled the screen, pale and drenched in sweat. “They said this would fix me,” he whispered, his voice raw. “They said…” He trailed off, staring blankly at the camera.

The recording ended abruptly, cutting to static.

Elliot turned away, his mind reeling. The deformed bones in his chest throbbed, as if responding to the horror around him. He staggered out of the apartment, choking back a sob.

* * * * * *

The third participant’s address was an isolated farmhouse on the edge of town. By the time Elliot arrived, the sun was beginning to set, its dying light stretched across the fields.

The house was eerily quiet, the windows dark. Elliot approached the front door, his ribs aching with every step.

Inside, the farmhouse was clean but cold, the air heavy with a metallic tang. He moved cautiously as he made his way to the dining room.

The man—Walter Graves, according to the list—was slumped in a chair at the table, his body contorted in a revolting spiral. His spine had erupted through his back, curling outward like a corkscrew and pinning him in place.

A small recorder sat on the table in front of him. Elliot pressed play.

Walter’s voice was faint, trembling. “I thought… I thought it would stop. But it doesn’t. It just keeps growing. My back… it feels like it’s on fire.”

Elliot shut the recorder off and stumbled back, his vision blurring.

Back in his car, Elliot clutched the steering wheel, his body trembling. The bones in his chest seemed to shift and grow, pressing harder against his skin. The other participants were dead, their bodies twisted into sickening monuments to the horrors of the trial.

The truth was clear now. There would be no cure. No help.

But there was one name left.

Dr. Carver.

* * * * * *

The drive to Dr. Carver’s house was a blur of misery. Elliot gritted his teeth and gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles whitening. The jagged ribs that had erupted from his chest were now longer and sharper, curling outward like gnarled branches. They pierced through his shirt, staining the fabric with blood that hadn’t stopped flowing.

Each mile felt like a punishment, the vibrations of the road sending fresh waves of pain through his battered body. But Elliot didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

By the time he reached Carver’s address, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in deep purples and blues. The house loomed at the end of a long driveway, its silhouette stark against the evening light. It was larger than Elliot expected—a modern, sprawling estate with glass-paneled walls and sharp, angular lines.

He stumbled out of the car, clutching his side as he made his way to the front door. His vision swam, his body trembling with anguish and exhaustion. Blood dripped steadily from his wounds, leaving a trail behind him.

Elliot pounded on the door, each strike weaker than the last. “Carver!” he shouted, his voice raw. “I know you’re in there! Open the goddamn door!”

The house remained silent.

Elliot pounded again, harder this time—with all the strength he could muster—and finally, with a crack, the door gave way under the force of the impact.

He stepped inside and marveled at the interior. It was pristine, almost sterile, with sleek furniture and polished floors. The air was cool and smelled faintly of chemicals, sharp and metallic.

“Carver!” Elliot called out, his voice echoing through the empty halls.

Footsteps approached from deeper inside the house. Elliot’s heart thudded as Dr. Alan Carver appeared at the top of a glass staircase, his expression calm and unreadable. He descended slowly, his footsteps deliberate, as if savoring the moment.

“Mr. Harper,” Carver said, his tone cool and clinical. “You’re still alive. Impressive.”

Elliot’s vision blurred with rage. “What did you do to me?” he growled, his voice trembling. “What the hell is this?” He gestured to the jagged bones protruding from his chest, the indisputable proof of Carver’s lies.

Carver tilted his head, studying Elliot like a specimen under a microscope. “You’re seeing the results of Ossifyne-X,” he said matter-of-factly. “The drug is performing… exceptionally.”

“Performing?” Elliot barked, his voice cracking. “It’s killing me! It killed all of them! Diane, Jason, Walter—they’re all dead!”

Carver raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Yes, I expected as much. The early iterations were never designed for sustainability. But the data we’ve collected…” He smiled faintly. “It’s invaluable.”

Elliot staggered forward, radiating pain and fury. “You knew this would happen. You knew!”

“Of course I did,” Carver replied smoothly. “That’s the point of a trial, Mr. Harper. To test limits. To push boundaries.”

Elliot’s hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms. “You’re a monster!”

Carver’s smile widened, but his eyes remained cold. “I’m a scientist. And you, Mr. Harper, are a remarkable subject. Your endurance is far beyond what I anticipated. You’ve given us more than I could have hoped for.”

Elliot lunged at him, his movements slow and clumsy. Carver stepped aside easily, watching with clinical detachment as Elliot collapsed to the floor.

“You’re fighting a losing battle,” Carver said, crouching beside him. “Your body is already beyond repair. The bones will continue to grow, consuming you from the inside out. But your suffering won’t be in vain. Your recordings—your transformation—they’ll pave the way for future advancements.”

Elliot’s head swam as Carver’s words sank in. “Future… advancements?” he rasped.

Carver rose to his feet, gesturing toward a nearby door. “I’d like to show you something. Follow me.”

Carver led him into a basement filled with rows of shelves. The space was cold and sterile, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. Elliot took in the sight before him: shelves lined with neatly labeled videotapes and hard drives.

Each device bore a name and a date. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands.

Elliot staggered forward, his eyes scanning the labels. Some were decades old, the names faded with time. Each represented another victim, someone who had trusted Carver’s promises.

“What is this?” Elliot whispered, his voice trembling.

Carver crossed his arms, his expression impassive. “This is the culmination of my work. Every participant, every trial, is meticulously documented. Their suffering, their deaths—it’s all here. And now, you’ll join them.”

Elliot’s gaze dropped to a table in the center of the room, where a fresh tape sat, labeled with his name.

“Patient 6: Complete,” Carver murmured, as if reading his thoughts.

Elliot’s rage boiled over. With a guttural scream, he lunged at Carver again, ignoring the pain that tore through his chest. But his own body betrayed him.

The jagged bones twisted and shifted, wrapping around his arms and legs and pinning him in place. He collapsed to the floor, writhing as the bones constricted like living chains.

Carver knelt beside him, his expression almost pitying. “You’ve given enough, Mr. Harper. Rest now.”

Elliot’s vision swam as his body continued to twist against him. The jagged ribs, once bound by his chest, now arched upward in grotesque defiance, curling closer to his face with a relentless, deliberate force. He gasped for air, each breath labored and wet, as if his own lungs were being squeezed in a vice. Blood pooled in the corners of his mouth, and his head throbbed with a pulsing, unbearable ache.

The first rib pressed against his left eye socket, the sharp edge grazing the delicate tissue. Elliot whimpered, his body jerking involuntarily, but there was no room left to move. The rib surged forward, and with a sickening pop, his vision went black on one side. Pain erupted in his skull, white-hot and blinding, forcing a strangled scream from his throat. He blinked rapidly with his remaining eye, tears streaming as he watched the bone shift again, angling toward his other socket.

“No…” he whispered hoarsely, though he didn’t know if it was a plea to stop or a futile rejection of what he knew was coming.

The second rib punctured his right eye, slower this time, as if savoring the destruction. Elliot’s scream tore through the air, raw and primal, until his voice cracked and dissolved into choking gasps. The world was gone now, replaced by total darkness, though vivid, incomprehensible shapes continued to form in his mind.

The ribs were not finished. They curled inward with cruel precision, their jagged tips grazing the sides of his temples. The pressure built, mounting in a crescendo of suffering that seemed to stretch time itself. He felt the dull scrape of bone against bone as the sharp points pressed into his skull. Then, with one final push, they pierced through.

The effect was instant, shattering, as if his entire mind had been split open. Elliot convulsed, his body jerking violently once, then going limp. His final coherent thought rippled through him, not one of despair, but of bitter, consuming anger:

He knew this would happen. He knew.

The ribs drove deeper, puncturing through his brain, silencing the last flicker of his consciousness. His body stilled, slumped into the twisted monument of bone it had become. Blood pooled beneath him, the steady drip of it echoing faintly in the empty, sterile room.

The cameras blinked steadily, recording it all.