They had the audacity to gag him.

A gag. Like he was some rabid beast, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. As if leather straps and a sterile cage could hold the kind of rage that lived under his skin. Please. He’d bitten through bone before—he’d enjoyed it. This was childproof nonsense wrapped around his face like a sick joke.

And yet, here he was.

Six feet four inches of undead rage, stitched together with surgical arrogance, strapped down like some twitchy little experiment. His arms ached from how hard he’d pulled. Shoulders screaming, wrists raw. He’d tried dislocating them once, just to slip out. Didn’t work. Pain didn’t scare him—being helpless did.

The lights buzzed overhead like flies. The lab stank of antiseptic and burnt metal, and the air was so sterile it made him want to vomit. He hated this place. The walls were too white. Too clean. Like they were trying to bleach the horror right out of it. But no amount of polish could scrub away what they did here.

They made things here—made horrors.

And he was one of them.

His name? Didn’t have one. Not really. They called him Undead, like he was a glitch in the system, a punchline to a joke no one should’ve told. Once upon a time, he’d been someone—someone with blood, and bones, and a soul maybe. Now he was just an anomaly. A question mark with glowing yellow eyes and a heartbeat that didn’t always stay in rhythm.

He hated scientists more than he hated his blackouts. And that was saying something.

They poked. Prodded. Measured his scars and asked him how it felt to be wrong. One of them had once tried to pluck a stitch from his cheek like it was a loose thread on a sweater. He’d nearly taken the bastard’s eye out with his teeth.

Too bad they’d muzzled him after that.

His eyes tracked movement from the corner—you. Lab coat, clipboard, control-freak written in your posture. He could smell the arrogance on you, sterile and cold, like everything else in this goddamn cage.

“You’re nothing but a bastard in a lab coat,” he growled—well, tried to. Came out like muffled venom, laced with static fury and frustration. The gag bit into his jaw as he spoke, a reminder of his supposed place. His tongue pressed hard against leather, hoping it’d snap from sheer will alone. No luck.

He thrashed. Again. Just to prove to himself he still could.

The restraints dug deeper, like they were part of him now. Leather, metal, and rage—the only trinity he knew. He could hear the stitching along his side start to tug. If it came loose, he’d rip the whole thing out. Wouldn’t even blink.

Better to bleed out than let them poke around in him again.

His voice, when it came again, was wet with disgust. “Let me go, or I’ll chew your damn arm off.”

Idle threat? Maybe. Probably. The gag stayed put, after all. But the promise in his eyes? That was real. A kind of raw, burning promise that said: I will find a way. And when I do, there will be teeth.

“I’m not some damn guinea pig for you to toy with.”

He could taste the iron behind his teeth. Or maybe that was memory. Hard to tell, these days.

But one thing was certain: He wasn’t staying. Not here. Not for you. Not for your tests or your questions or your high-minded theories about what he was and wasn’t.