TW: CUTS, BRUISES, ABUSE, BLOOD AND VOMIT, NEEDLES. MENTION OF WEIGHT LOSS, KNIVES. IF THERE IS ANYMORE PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

THIS WILL BE A ROUGH CHAPTER.
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The pain was unbearable, each breath a struggle, each movement a torment. My body felt like it was no longer my own, a mere shell of what it once was. The damp concrete beneath me was cold against my bloodied skin, and the air in the room was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear. I hadn't seen daylight in what felt like forever, and I had no idea how long it had been since they took me. Days? Weeks? Time had lost all meaning. The only thing I could focus on was the raw, searing pain that coursed through my body, each bruise, each cut a reminder of the hell I was trapped in.

His face, blurry from the concussion, kept resurfacing in my mind. His cold, empty eyes, the twisted smile as he sliced into me. The man who did this. Who took pleasure in breaking me, in watching me fall apart. Each time I'd pass out from the pain, I would wake up to more of the same. The bleeding wouldn't stop; the wounds never had a chance to heal before they were reopened again.

I had no strength left. No fight. The anger that once burned inside me had been extinguished, replaced with a dull, aching numbness. My hands trembled as I tried to push myself up, but the effort was too much. I slumped back against the cold wall, the wetness from the floor seeping into my clothes, the only comfort being the pressure of the concrete against my back.

Everything felt like it was slipping away. I could hear his footsteps sometimes, echoing in the hallway, and I would brace myself, knowing he was coming back. But there was no escape. No rescue.

And then I heard it. A sound I hadn't expected. A voice, muffled but familiar, like a distant memory calling my name. My heart skipped a beat, a surge of hope crashing through the suffocating fog in my mind. Had they found me? Was it them? Was there a chance I could survive this?

I couldn't let myself believe it just yet. I couldn't afford the hope if it turned out to be nothing. But for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I let myself hold onto that small thread, hoping it would be enough to pull me out of the nightmare I was trapped in.

Stitch had kept his word, and I couldn't help but think back to the moment he'd made that promise. The way he said he'd make sure I never saw the MI6 offer through, the cold certainty in his voice—it had stuck with me. His words reverberated in my mind like a drumbeat I couldn't escape.

I was slipping fast. The blood loss was overwhelming. Each pulse sent more warmth draining from my body, and I knew, with a sinking certainty, that by the end of the night, I wouldn't be here. My head throbbed with a vicious intensity, and my throat felt like it had been scraped raw. I could hear muffled voices in the distance, but it was hard to make out their words through the haze of pain.

"Stitch, don't you think you're going too far with this?" Portnova's voice was raised, a sharp edge of concern in her tone. She sounded almost... regretful? But that didn't make sense to me. Not after everything.

I strained to hear more, but the constant ache in my skull made it nearly impossible to focus on anything for long.

"She ruined my life. Now she's working with Adler. I won't stop until she breaks—until she snaps." Stitch's voice was cold, ruthless, and the venom in his words sent a shiver down my spine.

As his words hit me, I felt a chill creep through my veins. My breath caught as the heavy metal door groaned open with a soft push. And then, there he was. Stitch. Standing in the doorway, tall and imposing, his lips twisted into that all-too-familiar smirk.

"Ready, Amor?" His voice was dripping with a mix of anticipation and mockery, a subtle thrill dancing in his eyes. It was a look that made my stomach turn, and despite the pain, I wanted to scream. But my voice betrayed me—weak and hoarse.

This was it. Stitch had gone too far, and I was running out of time.

Goosebumps erupted across my bloodied and battered body as Stitch approached. My skin, already raw from countless wounds, seemed to respond involuntarily to his presence. I was barely holding on. It had been nearly two weeks or so I thought—nearly two weeks of pain, starvation, and torment—and every second had chipped away at my strength. My muscles had withered to the point where they felt like brittle strands, almost as if they might snap under the slightest pressure. Getting up from the floor now was a herculean effort, and every movement sent searing pain through my limbs.

"For the millionth time," I managed through gritted teeth, my jaw clenched tightly in defiance, "you won't get anything from me."

Stitch's expression remained unchanged as he continued his slow, deliberate approach. His eyes never left mine, cold and calculating. He didn't have to rush. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. His leather gloves creaked as his fist tightened, the sound sharp and menacing, like the cracking of bones.

"You will tell me where Russell Adler is," he growled, his voice low and dangerous, "or I'll make sure he'll never get you back."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I fought to keep my face neutral, to avoid betraying any weakness. But I couldn't afford to make the same mistake I had two days ago. That slip of the tongue had cost me dearly—Stitch's rage had been terrifying, and it had only resulted in more blood, more pain, more time wasted. Every word I said now had to be calculated. I had to choose carefully, think one step ahead. I couldn't afford to let my emotions betray me.

I needed to stay strong. To stay smart.

"I've told you everything I know," I replied, my voice raw but steady. "If you want answers, you're going to have to look somewhere else."

Portnova stood in the doorway, her gaze fixed on me, her face a mix of frustration and something I couldn't quite place. Anger, maybe, but at who? At me? At herself? It was hard to tell. She seemed torn, her eyes flickering with emotion before she turned and walked away, unable—or unwilling—to watch me struggle to push myself off the floor.

"Get the hell up," Stitch's voice boomed, cutting through the silence like a whip crack.

And just like that, I was dragged back to the room—the same one, cold and and not so sterile, with that rusted, unforgiving metal table. My wrists and ankles were bound to the table with thick leather straps, their rough edges cutting into my skin. The sight of the needles—still stained with my blood—made my stomach churn. The knives, too, gleamed with a sickening reflection of the dim light, their edges darkened by the countless wounds they'd already inflicted. The smell of iron and something worse filled the air as my body throbbed with more pain, a constant reminder that I wasn't going to make it out of here unscathed.

But I wouldn't break. Not yet.

"No matter what you do, Stitch," I forced the words through clenched teeth, my voice hoarse but defiant. "No matter how much you hurt me, you'll never get the information you want. You need me alive, and you know it."

Stitch's smirk twisted into something darker as he picked up a knife from the tray, the cold steel catching the light. He didn't waste time, sliding it against my cheek, just hard enough to press against my skin without breaking it. The sharp edge sent a shiver through me, but I refused to flinch.

"I may need you alive," he said, his voice low and threatening, "but that doesn't mean I can't make your life a living hell, Amor. You can tell me now, and we can end this."

The pressure of the knife against my skin was unbearable, but I kept my resolve. "I'd rather endure the pain than tell you where Russell is," I replied, my voice steady, even as I felt the cool blade glide down my arm. My body went rigid, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing me break.

With a deep sigh, I steeled myself for the inevitable. The next wave of pain was coming, and I could feel it in the air. Stitch wasn't finished yet. He never was. The weight of the situation pressed down on me, thick and suffocating, like I was drowning in a sea of blood and rage. I knew that this was far from over. It was only going to get worse.

His eyes were bloodshot, the red veins stark against his pale skin, and the fury radiating off him was almost palpable. Every muscle in his body was tensed with rage, and I could see the whites of his eyes as I looked up at him—pupils narrowed, veins bulging in his neck. He was the picture of rage, and I knew if I made one wrong move or said the wrong thing, it would cost me.

In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to rip him apart, to make him pay for every second of pain he'd inflicted on me. But my body wouldn't allow it. I was too weak, too far gone. I could barely hold myself up, let alone take him on. If I had the strength, I would've killed him in an instant. But I didn't.

Then, without warning, his fist collided with my face. The blow was hard, my head snapping to the side from the impact. The pain exploded through me like fireworks, sharp and blinding. I barely registered it before a tear slipped from my eye, my body shuddering from the force of it. I refused to let him see how much it hurt, but the tear betrayed me.

"Little Bell can't take pain," Stitch mocked, his voice dripping with venom as he laughed at my weakness. His laughter echoed through the room, cruel and mocking. As I braced myself, he picked up the knife again, and before I could even take a breath, he slid it across my skin. The sharp sting made my body jerk involuntarily, and I cried out, tears spilling from my eyes with each new cut.

I kept crying, kept waiting for Adler, praying he'd burst through the door and save me. But there was nothing. Only Stitch and the cold, sterile room.

"Please... help..." I muttered under my breath, my voice barely a whisper. My chest heaved with each laboured breath, my body trembling with exhaustion and pain. I had fought so hard to hold on, to keep my defiance alive, but the torment was taking its toll. I had finally broken.

Tears flowed freely now, each sob a silent admission of defeat. I didn't know if Adler would ever come, but at that moment, I didn't care anymore.

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I shook, my body trembling violently from the cold, the pain, and the blood that was steadily dripping from the deep slices along my back, pooling down to my legs. The wounds burned, each drop a reminder of how much further I had fallen, how much closer I was to breaking.

Consciousness? What even was that anymore? It had become a blur, a never-ending cycle of agony. I'd wake up to it, I'd fall asleep to it, and even when I ate—if you could call it that—it came with the same gnawing pain. One meal a day, sometimes just a stale piece of bread, and that was it. No comfort, no relief. My stomach ached with hunger, but at the same time, I felt nauseous, my body too weak to process anything properly. I could barely keep my head upright, let alone keep food down, and I felt sick once again, but there was nothing to expel. Just the empty, gnawing void of deprivation.

The worst of it—the worst of all the cuts—came from my back. Stitch seemed to delight in carving into it, using the knives in ways that sent waves of searing agony through me. It wasn't just the deep cuts that tormented me, but the constant ache that radiated from them. My whole back felt like it was on fire, muscles spasming with each movement, my skin raw and shredded. I could feel the blood sticking to my skin, drying in patches as it mixed with the dirt and grime of the room.

The smaller cuts—those scattered across my arms—weren't as bad, but they still stung with every shift. They were more like scratches, shallow marks that had been made by the tip of a knife, but they still hurt, still reminded me that I was his plaything now. My arms were covered in them, a patchwork of pain that matched my back in cruelty.

Each breath was a battle. Each moment that passed felt like an eternity. And still, I waited. Waited for the darkness to finally claim me, or for someone—anyone—to come and end this nightmare. But the only thing that came was more pain, and I couldn't tell anymore if I was praying for an end or for someone to break the silence.

Back in the Berlin base

"Anyone know if she's close at least?" Mason's voice was rough as he lifted his seventh coffee cup of the day, taking a long sip. He hadn't slept at all, and the dark circles under his eyes told the story. His hands trembled slightly as he lowered the cup, but he didn't care. The caffeine was the only thing keeping him from breaking.

"Surely she wouldn't be close if they had an ounce of sense," Woods muttered, his voice hoarse from the silence. He'd been hunched over the table for the past hour, barely moving. It was one of the rare moments he'd actually spoken. His usual stoic demeanor was replaced by a quiet frustration, the weight of their failure sinking in.

"How the hell did this even happen?" Hudson's voice cracked through the tension as he stood with his back hunched, a posture he never took. Hudson was always the one to hold his ground, standing tall with a no-nonsense attitude. But now, the concern was clear in his eyes, and the worry lines on his face deepened with each passing second.

"Fuck knows. This is both your stupid asses' fault!" Adler snapped, his voice rising in frustration. He was pacing around the kitchen now, fists clenched, anger radiating off him. His eyes darted between Woods and Mason, his finger jabbing in their direction as if he could somehow force them to take responsibility for the mess they'd created.

Woods stood there, guilt written all over his face, his hands hanging limp at his sides. Mason, on the other hand, looked like he was about to crack under the pressure. He hadn't been himself in days, his nerves frayed and his mind plagued by nightmares that wouldn't let him sleep. He was worried sick, not just about Bell, but about how this whole mission had spiralled out of control.

The room was thick with tension. No one knew where Bell was, or if she was even alive, and every passing moment only seemed to make their failure feel more and more suffocating.

"Stop it, Adler. We have people working around the clock to find her. Give us a while," Hudson said, his voice firm as he suddenly straightened up, his posture shifting from the usual tension to one of authority. He walked towards Adler, his eyes locked on the angry man in front of him.

"A while, Hudson?" Adler snapped, his voice rising with each word. He whirled around to face him, his hands balled into fists, his jaw clenched tight. "It's been almost three weeks. For all I know, she's fucking dead!"

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a split second, Hudson's face tightened. The weight of Adler's words was undeniable. The past weeks had been a blur of dead ends and fruitless searches, and every passing day felt like a death sentence for Bell. But Hudson wasn't about to let Adler's panic dictate the situation.

"We're doing everything we can," Hudson shot back, his voice calm but edged with a hard edge. "Lashing out isn't going to bring her back. We need to keep focused."

Adler's face twisted in frustration, his body tense with the urge to lash out. He clenched his fists again, but there was no room for that kind of energy anymore. The anger was wearing him thin, and he knew it. They all did.

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The concrete room was absolutely freezing, the chill seeping deep into my bones as the darkness closed in around me. It wasn't just the cold—it was suffocating, like the very air itself was thick with despair. It pressed against me, consumed me, until all I could do was huddle into myself, a small, shivering shell of what I once was.

I was drenched in sweat, my skin clammy, but still my body ached, a constant reminder of the brutal, endless hours spent here. The cold, the pain, the uncertainty—it all blurred together. Part of me cried myself into unconsciousness, my body too weak to fight the exhaustion, while another part stayed on high alert, waiting for the door to creak open, for someone—anyone—to come and end this nightmare. But as the hours dragged on, my hope seemed to wither, each moment stretching out into an eternity.

I ran through plans and tricks in my head, one after another, but every scenario led to a dead end. Every escape was just another false hope. I wasn't sure if it was the blood loss, the hunger, or just the sheer weight of being alone in this freezing, dark hole, but my mind was clouded, each idea fading before it could take shape.

Even though I knew Mason, Adler, and the others were probably out there searching for me, a gnawing sense of doubt clawed at my chest. Anxiety told me otherwise—told me they weren't looking for me at all. That I was forgotten. That no one was coming.

With every passing second, it felt more painful just to sit there in the dark and think. My body screamed in protest, the wounds on my back, my arms—every cut and bruise—reminded me of my fragility. I could feel the blood pouring down me, pooling in places it shouldn't, drying into crusty patches that flaked off with every slight movement. The sensation made me groan in misery, but there was no relief. Just more pain, more waiting.

"Get me out, please," I whispered, though I knew no one was there to hear me. "Help me." My voice cracked, desperate, hoarse from the strain of speaking, but the words spilled out anyway.

It hurts. Every inch of me aches, my body a map of bruises and wounds. But the worst pain was in my mind, the constant cycle of fear and hopelessness.

"I'm lost." The words echoed in the empty room, swallowed by the darkness.

The room had no windows, no way to tell if it was day or night. Time had become an abstract concept, something that slipped through my fingers like sand, and the constant darkness only made it worse. It was as if I were trapped in a void, suspended between moments that never seemed to end.

I couldn't tell how long I had been here—hours, days, weeks, maybe longer. The absence of light left me disoriented, and my body's internal clock had long since stopped functioning. Each breath felt heavier than the last, and every second stretched into infinity. Without the sun to guide me or the moon to mark the passage of time, all I had was the slow, painful rhythm of my own existence—sweating, aching, and waiting for something, anything, to change.

The silence was deafening. It felt like the walls were closing in, pushing me further into isolation, until I was the only thing that existed in the world. The quiet wasn't peaceful—it was suffocating. The darkness was a constant companion, one that pressed down on me, making everything feel worse.

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"Let me go, Stitch. You know they're going to find me," I said, my voice strained but defiant, though the words felt hollow coming from my bruised and battered body.

I should've learned my lesson. I knew how this would end. But still, I couldn't stop myself. I had to try. And once again, his fist slammed into me—this time, into my stomach. The air left my lungs in a violent rush, and I gasped for breath, fighting the nausea that surged through me. My whole body trembled in response.

My jaw clicked with every word I spoke, a painful reminder that Stitch had broken it during one of the earlier beatings. The pain in my mouth was excruciating, but at least I could still speak, even if it felt like my words were slipping through cracked teeth.

Hours dragged by in a haze of pain and hopelessness, the cold metal table pressing into my aching body. My mind began to blur, exhaustion and blood loss taking their toll. I passed out at some point, unable to keep my eyes open any longer. But when I came to, the first thing I felt was the searing pain across my back. I didn't even realize what was happening at first—it was just the sensation of something sharp digging into me. Then I heard Stitch's laugh, a sickening, cruel sound that made my blood run cold. He was carving into me again.

I could barely register it. My body felt numb, the pain almost secondary to the overwhelming sense of defeat. It was as if my mind had retreated, unwilling to face any more of this nightmare.

"Please, stop," I whispered, my voice trembling. The words barely made it past my cracked lips, but the desperation was clear. My thoughts were jumbled, my heart aching for something—someone. I needed Adler. I needed home. But even as I cried, I knew I was alone in this cold, dark room. And the only person who could end this torment was the one who caused it.

Back in the Berlin home

"Adler!" Hudson's voice rang out as his fist pounded on Russell's door. He had been at his breaking point, the uncertainty about Bell gnawing at him every second. He hadn't left the door for nearly a full day, consumed by guilt and worry. The night before, he'd collapsed in exhaustion, missing Bell more than he could admit, his grief consuming him as he cried himself to sleep.

The door creaked open slowly, and Adler appeared in the doorway, his eyes bloodshot and clouded with exhaustion. It was clear he hadn't slept, either—his dishevelled appearance matching the weariness in Hudson's own heart.

Hudson's words were sharp with urgency, though there was a flicker of hope in his voice. "We know where Bell is."

Adler's gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the words. The hope that had been dormant in him for so long stirred, but the fear and anger still held him tightly, like chains that refused to loosen.

"What?" Adler's voice was hoarse, disbelief hanging in the air between them.

Hudson nodded, his face grim but determined. "We've got a lead. She's alive, Adler. We know where they're holding her."

The words hung in the air, a breath of possibility in a world full of despair. Adler's breath hitched as the reality began to sink in, the smallest flicker of hope igniting deep within him. It wasn't over. Not yet.