Chapter 19: Marked by Failure

The door opened.

Elliott knew who it was before he even looked up.

The air in the room shifted, turning heavier, suffocating. The slow, deliberate footsteps were too familiar, the sound of polished shoes against the cold floor sending a sickening chill down his spine.

His father had arrived. Sooner than expected.

Two guards entered first, their expressions unreadable, their grips firm as they flanked him, ensuring there was no room for escape.

Then, Samuel Delacroix stepped inside.

He was calm. Always so damn calm.

His movements were precise, elegant, every step calculated. A surgeon in complete control.

His sharp blue eyes—so much like Elliott’s, yet devoid of anything human—swept over the room, over Elliott’s bruised, battered form.

And then, slowly, Samuel’s lips curled into something that almost resembled a smile.

"You’ve disobeyed me, son."

Elliott didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even react.

Because that’s what his father wanted.

A reaction. A sign of fear.

And Elliott wouldn’t give it to him.

Samuel sighed, shaking his head as if disappointed. “After all this time, after all my patience, you still refuse to learn.”

He stepped closer. The guards shifted slightly—preparing.

Elliott tensed, his muscles coiling, his instincts screaming at him to fight, to run, to do anything but sit still like a trapped animal.

But he knew it wouldn’t matter.

Not this time.

Samuel reached into his coat and pulled out a scalpel.

Elliott’s stomach twisted.

Samuel tilted his head, his eyes studying Elliott the same way he studied his patients on the table.

“You’ve been such a disappointment,” he murmured, his voice carrying no emotion.

Then—he moved.

Before Elliott could react, the guards grabbed him, yanking his arms behind his back and forcing him down onto the cot.

He struggled, but their grips were ironclad, their strength overwhelming. His body was still too weak from the fight, his exhaustion slowing him down just enough to make escape impossible.

Samuel crouched beside him, the scalpel gleaming in the dim light.

"Every failure," his father murmured, "leads to pain."

Elliott gritted his teeth as Samuel pressed the blade against his left cheek.

Then, in one slow, agonizing motion—

He cut.

The scalpel sliced deep, the cold steel carving a long, deliberate line from just below Elliott’s eye to the corner of his jaw.

He didn’t make a sound.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t give his father the satisfaction.

Blood spilled down his skin, warm and thick, soaking into the collar of his thin shirt.

Samuel’s expression remained perfectly composed as he set the scalpel aside and reached for something else—a needle and thread.

Elliott’s chest heaved, his breathing sharp, uneven. His vision blurred slightly from the pain, his heart hammering against his ribs.

But he still didn’t react.

Even as his father began to sew the wound shut.

The needle pierced through his torn flesh, slow and meticulous. Precise. Perfect.

Just like his father always was.

“You’ve always been so stubborn,” Samuel murmured, threading the needle through again. “So… defiant.”

Elliott clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into tight, shaking fists behind his back.

"But defiance has no place in my world," his father continued. "And you are in my world now, Elliott."

He finished the last stitch, tying it off neatly, as if Elliott were just another experiment on his table.

Then, he finally let go.

Elliott’s head swayed slightly, his body heavy, his skin burning with pain. Blood still trickled from the fresh sutures, staining the side of his neck.

Samuel leaned in closer, his breath cold against Elliott’s ear.

"You still think you can escape me?"

Elliott didn’t respond.

Because he still believed it.

No matter how much pain his father inflicted, no matter how many scars he carved into his flesh—

Elliott would never stop fighting.

Never stop waiting for his moment.

Never stop planning.

Samuel chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You always were your mother’s son.”

Something inside Elliott snapped.

His fingers twitched, his entire body coiling with a fury so raw, so violent, it nearly blinded him.

Samuel must have seen it.

Because his expression shifted.

The amusement in his eyes flickered—just barely—before he let out a small sigh.

“Your mother was weak,” he said simply. “And weakness gets you killed.”

Elliott’s blood boiled.

His breathing became shallow, ragged, every muscle in his body screaming to move—to fight, to do something—

But the guards held him firm.

Samuel straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his coat, completely unaffected by the blood on his hands.

"My experiments all come from this place," he said, his voice smooth, emotionless. "And no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you will always have eyes on you."

He turned, slowly making his way toward the door.

"Every escape attempt," he continued, "will lead to another scar. Another lesson."

His eyes flickered back to Elliott one last time.

"Until you become obedient."

The door opened.

The guards let go.

And Elliott collapsed onto the cot, his body shaking as fresh pain surged through him.

But Samuel wasn’t done yet.

Not yet.

He paused in the doorway, his voice quiet.

"You won’t be my son anymore, Elliott. You will be my pet."

His words slithered through the room, wrapping around Elliott’s throat like a noose.

"You will live forever by my side," Samuel murmured, his tone almost gentle now. "Not as the son of your mother, but as my personal experiment. You will live only to endure pain."

Elliott’s breath hitched.

Samuel smiled.

"One day, you will beg for me to take the pain away."

And with that, he left.

The door locked behind him, sealing Elliott in the darkness once again.

---

Elliott lay on the cot, his breath uneven, his hands trembling against the cold sheets.

His cheek throbbed, the fresh stitches pulling with every movement.

His father had won again.

For now.

But the pain didn’t break him.

It only fueled him.