Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 127: Back As Number Nine

Justin’s POV:

The air smelled of mold, piss, and chemical tang.

A single bulb burned overhead, swinging on a frayed wire. Shadows sprawled across oil-stained concrete.

They were waiting.

Three men in pale coats — not scientists, not quite soldiers. Somewhere between. Their eyes flat, dead. And behind them, half-lost in shadow: another figure. Taller. Older. The one holding the phone.

The one who spoke.

"You came," he rasped, voice dry as paper.

I kept my expression blank. "You have her?"

He smiled, thin and reptilian. "We do."

"Proof."

He raised a device — a tablet. Tapped the screen.

For a heartbeat, she was there.

June.

Bruised. Gagged. Eyes wild, but alive. Hands bound behind her back.

The clip ended as fast as it started.

Alive. For now.

I exhaled, the monster inside howling with relief and rage tangled so tightly it cut my ribs.

"What do you want?" My voice was low, even.

"You," he said simply. "Your research, your blood, your mind. And your body — alive. Broken, if necessary. But alive."

I didn’t flinch. "And her?"

"If you come quietly, she lives. If not... she dies screaming."

For a second — the strategist in me calculated.

Could I take them? Three men here. More outside, certainly. June unknown, location unknown.

If I moved — even blinked wrong — she’d die before I reached the door.

The monster in me wanted the fight.

The man who loved her couldn’t risk it.

I slowly raised my hands.

Empty.

"I’m here," I rasped. "Alone."

The leader’s eyes glinted. "Smart man."

Two of the men stepped forward. One held cuffs. The other had a small scanner.

I didn’t resist. The cuffs bit cold into my wrists. They patted me down, found two of my knives. Missed the one under my sleeve. Didn’t check the boot heel.

Good.

Tiny victories.

They dragged me forward, deeper into shadow.

And for the first time, my heart stumbled.

Because surrender felt worse than death.

I whispered, under my breath — too quiet for them to hear:

"Hold on, baby. Just a little longer."

I didn’t know if she could hear me.

But the monster inside me promised:

"If they touch her again — I will paint these walls with their screams."

They blinded my eyes with a black cloth. One of them punched me in the gut, catching me off guard — I doubled over, breath knocked out of me.

"You ruined very important projects, Number Nine," the same voice I’d heard over the phone sneered.

"You’ve got me now," I spat out, straightening as best I could despite the throbbing pain. "Let June go."

Only laughter answered me. Cold, mocking, echoing in the dark.

They moved me, roughly. I felt the familiar metallic tang of blood in my mouth. My wrists strained against the zip ties binding them. My pulse was a wild drumbeat under my skin. Fuck. June wasn’t there. But thank God I still had my tracker — Rico would see. Rico would know. He’d follow the trail.

They shoved me into a van. It smelled of oil, sweat, and rust. The drive took over an hour, maybe more. Close enough they hadn’t bothered to knock me out completely, far enough to hide whatever horror they had planned. I counted turns, bumps, the rhythm of the road. Anything to stay sharp. Anything to keep the panic at bay.

Finally, we stopped. Rough hands yanked me out. The blindfold was ripped away — light stabbing my eyes, momentary blindness turning to blurred outlines.

Another punch to the ribs. Another, harder, splitting my breath into ragged shards. Yeah, they were pissed. Couldn’t blame them, really — I’d raided their fucking facilities, burned them to the ground, ruined years of their work, cost them their precious lab rats. Their precious monsters.

They dragged me through a hallway lined with steel and fluorescent lights that flickered and buzzed like dying insects. Then they shoved me forward, hard. I stumbled.

A steel door slammed shut behind me.

The lock clicked.

And then it was silent.

I was in. Alone.

And I knew — deep in my bones, in that part of me that had survived cages and blood and darkness — they were never going to let either of us walk back out.

*******

The steel door slammed shut behind me, echoing like a death sentence.

For a moment, the only sound in the cell was my ragged breathing, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue. My ribs throbbed where they’d landed the last punches, but it wasn’t pain that bent me double — it was fury so hot it made my vision blur.

You’ve got me now, let June go.

Their laughter still rang in my skull, oily and smug. They wouldn’t let her go. Of course they wouldn’t. They never meant to.

And June wasn’t there. I’d known it the second the van started moving. Her scent wasn’t there. Her heartbeat wasn’t there. Just the sour stink of cheap leather seats, sweat, and chemicals.

But thank God — I still had my tracker. Rico would know. Rico would trace me. He’d figure out where the fuck they were taking me.

Just stay alive long enough, I told myself. Long enough for the cavalry.

They’d blindfolded me for the drive, but I’d kept count of every turn, every stop. About an hour. Couldn’t be more than sixty miles. And the air had changed — the sweet rot of pine forest replaced by the damp reek of poured concrete and mildew.

A facility. Underground, maybe. Or at least isolated enough no screams would carry.

June is here. The voices in me hissed. They want you both. Alive.

Alive, yes. For their goddamn research. To peel us open, neuron by neuron, until they understood how to build another Number Nine. Another Number Twelve.

Over my fucking corpse.

My wrists ached, skin raw where the cuffs had scraped. But they’d been sloppy. Too sure of themselves. Didn’t find the blade taped under my forearm. Didn’t check my boot heel, where the tracker still pulsed a silent SOS to Rico.

Tiny victories. Enough to keep breathing.

Stay alive. Find her. Burn it all down.

I pushed up from the floor, breath rattling in my chest, and took in the cell.

Concrete walls, cracked and weeping damp. A steel door, single slot at eye level. No windows. One flickering bulb overhead.

The air felt heavy — smelled faintly of bleach and old blood.

A drain in the center of the floor.

They didn’t build drains in cells unless they expected to hose down blood.

I leaned my forehead against the cool concrete, forcing myself to breathe.

Images of June flooded my mind — her voice laughing, scolding me, the way she’d melt when I kissed the spot just below her jaw.

And other images, darker ones, I couldn’t stop: June strapped to a table, pale and still; her eyes wide with terror as they jabbed needles into her skin; her mouth open in a scream I couldn’t hear but could feel in my bones.

My nails bit into my palms, drawing blood.

No. She’s alive.

She has to be alive.

The lock clanked on the door.

I turned, adrenaline punching through my veins, hands already flexing for the hidden blade.

A man stepped in. White coat, clipboard, thin wire glasses. Face pale and pinched, eyes flat as a corpse’s.

Behind him, two guards in black fatigues, rifles slung casually but ready.

"Number Nine," the doctor drawled, voice bored. "We finally meet in person."

"Fuck you," I spat, voice gravel.

He smirked faintly. "Charming. But predictable."

He flipped through the clipboard, ignoring me.

"You’ve cost us quite a lot of trouble. The facilities you destroyed. The subjects you liberated." His gaze flicked up. "But in the end, you came to us willingly. For her."

"Where is she?" My voice cracked like a whip.

That fucking smirk again. "Safe. For now. She’s proving... interesting."

My pulse spiked. The monster in me howled to tear out his throat.

Patience. The strategist whispered. Alive. They need her alive. Don’t waste it.

"Why?" I ground out. "Why her?"

The doctor clicked his pen, making a neat note. "Number Twelve always was special. You know that better than anyone, don’t you?"

I lunged. The guards surged forward, slamming me back into the wall, rifles jabbing into my ribs.

The doctor didn’t even flinch.

"Careful, Number Nine. You’re worth more alive, but not much more."

They backed off, leaving me panting, vision tunneling red.

"You won’t get what you want," I snarled. "She’ll fight you. And so will I."

"Oh, we know," he murmured. "We’re counting on it. Resistance produces the most... illuminating data."

His eyes flicked down the clipboard, as if reading a grocery list. "Your aggression. Her dissociation. The voices. Fascinating. Unique."

He knows too much.

"Where is she?" I asked again, softer now, forcing steel into my voice. "Let me see her."

Another flick of that cold, polite smile. "In time. But first — you’ll tell us everything you remember about your personalities. About hers. About the voices."

I let out a broken laugh. "You think I’d help you?"

"Oh, you will," he said, turning to leave. "One way or another."

They dragged me back from the door, slammed me against the wall so hard my teeth clicked together.

Pain burst white-hot through my ribs.

I tasted copper, spat blood on the floor.

The doctor paused in the doorway. "Try to rest, Number Nine. You’ll need your strength."

The door clanged shut. The lock slid home.

I sank to my knees, chest heaving.

Alone again.

The monster in me raged, slamming against the cage of my ribs.

The strategist whispered plans — measure the door, time the guards, find the cameras.

And under it all, one thought, steady and sharp as a blade:

Hold on, June. I’m coming. I swear to God, I’m coming.