Wonderful Insane World-Chapter 185: Deep Resentment

The man stared at the wrapped tool, then at Dylan, with hatred now tainted by a new kind of wariness. The stigma still throbbed faintly, a whitish glow beneath the bloodied skin, like a blind eye opening in the dark.

"You talk too much," he repeated, but the words rang hollow—an overused phrase. The twisted fascination had given way to cold frustration. "We’ll see if your tongue’s still that clever when the fever starts gnawing your bones."

He turned on his heels without another word. The metal door creaked, then slammed shut. The heavy bolt slid into place with the sound of a tomb sealing.

A thick silence settled—sticky, saturated with the scent of blood, sour sweat, and repressed fear. Dylan remained suspended, the weight of his body pulling on his dislocated shoulders, the chains creaking ever so slightly. The pain, briefly masked by adrenaline and confrontation, came roaring back in burning waves. But something else was happening—something as disturbing as the blade or the obsidian tool: a deep, insidious itching, crawling through his wounds.

He looked down. Along his thigh, where the blade had sliced clean through flesh, a faint glow—like the one on his arm—pulsed. He could feel the muscle fibers twitching, not from pain anymore, but as if tugged by some force within. The torn edges of the wound were... moving. Drawing closer together. Like magnets pulling at the skin beneath.

A strange warmth, damp and alive, replaced the burn of the cut. It was healing, yes, but not the slow, gentle healing of nature. It was a violent mending—brutal and raw, like being stitched with live wire.

Each pulse of white light came with a painful tug, an electric sting that made his teeth clench. The wound was closing, not into a scar, but a tight line—too neat, too fast—leaving skin that felt both new and painfully raw, etched with the memory of what had happened.

Alone at last... with the buzz of his own agony and the murmur of the stigma at work. The absence of the torturer brought a perverse kind of respite. The tension that had kept him upright, defiant, collapsed all at once. His head dropped to his chest, heavy. A hoarse groan escaped—long suppressed. Burning tears, made of pure pain, exhaustion, and impotent rage, slipped silently down his cheeks, carving clean tracks through the grime and dried blood.

"Breathe. Just... breathe."

He closed his eyes, trying to calm the tremors that racked his body. The physical pain was a roaring fire—but it was familiar. He could, in a way, contain it. Challenge it. It was the other pain—the one that dug a black hole into his chest when the obsidian touched his sternum—that still scared him. That sensation of being scraped inside, beyond flesh... and the toxic, instinctive answer his stigma gave in return.

But in the forced silence, in that crucible of suffering where even healing was a form of torture, another image surfaced. Not a thought. A presence. A feeling.

The smell of cut grass and hot metal, laced with a discreet, floral scent—sharp and soft all at once. The tall silhouette in the doorway, just before the fists struck, before the bag went over his head. Not moving. Not attacking. Just... there. Watching.

A voice. Calm. Too calm. Just a few words, spoken like a cold statement, a flat command:

"It’s him. Take him."

"...Alka."

The name slipped between clenched teeth, a whisper made of ashes and bitterness. A grim recognition that echoed through the void of the cell, sharper than any blade.

It wasn’t that he had ruled it out. Dylan had lived long enough in a world where betrayal was currency, a wheel that always turned. He’d seen it coming in others. He’d even done it himself, once or twice. But with her... with Alka... he’d made the effort. The stupid, naïve effort to let his guard down. Just a little. Just enough to believe in an unspoken loyalty—something forged in shared goals, in understood silences. And honestly, she hadn’t even had a reason. No debt to these people. No ideology opposed to his. No visible grudge.

"Or maybe you just missed it, idiot," he spat internally, the thought bitter and self-punishing. "You wanted to believe. Because it was easier. Because her eyes didn’t lie... or seemed not to."

Another wave of pain shot through him—from his chest, where the skin was sealing itself too fast, pulled tight by the glowing threads of the stigma. He clenched his fists, chains groaning in protest.

Maybe she did have a reason after all. A good one. One he couldn’t even imagine. Something that made sense to her. Or maybe it was simpler. Uglier. Money. A threat. Or she was just keeping her own cover intact and his number was up.

Doubt was as lethal as torture. And it was coursing through him now—cold, quiet, insidious—mingling with the searing heat of his unnatural healing. Alka had handed him over. Full stop. The "why" was a different battle. One he’d have to fight if he survived this one.

He raised his head, eyes blinking open. The darkness seemed less absolute. His body—stitched back together by the strange power that gnawed at him—was still a wreck of pain, but it held. His mind, despite the storm of agony and betrayal, began to push back against the chaos. He had a name. A starting point.

Time had warped inside that clockless room. There were no minutes, no hours—just irregular heartbeats, spasms in his dangling arms, and the sour drip of sweat from his chin.

But Dylan kept his eyes open. The dark didn’t protect him. It didn’t speak to him either. It was just there—thick and damp, like a nameless thing breathing in the walls.

He could’ve let go. Let himself slip. Do what broken bodies do: give in. But no. Something in him held on. Pain? He knew it. Blood? He’d learned to breathe in it. Doubt? Even that wasn’t enough to dissolve him now. So he watched. He listened. He thought.

And somewhere, in the farthest corner of his consciousness, he repeated her name.

Alka.