After Forcing Me to Speak, They Regretted Everything Chapter 03

After Forcing Me to Speak, They Regretted Everything Chapter 03

BOOM!

The door was violently kicked open.

Freddie strode in, military boots pounding the floor, his face cold as ice, two armed guards at his back.

“Lydia. I’m extremely disappointed.”

He looked down at me from above, his voice devoid of any warmth. “The base didn’t pour strategic resources into you so you could throw your weight around at a time like this. If you’re unwilling to contribute to the base, then you’ll move out of the special care unit.”

He waved his hand.

The two guards lunged at me like ravenous wolves, yanking me from my chair and hurling me to the ground.

I opened my mouth and pointed frantically at the rune on my neck, hoping he would see the blue glow of accumulated power radiating from it.

Freddie turned his head away in disgust.

“Throw her in the basement. Cut off all special supply cores. She stays there until she agrees to open her mouth and help.”

They dragged me down the stairs and into the dark, damp basement.

No sooner had I been thrown into the stinging stench of mold than several tall, brawny figures surged through the doorway.

The one in the lead was Paul, Emma’s second-in-command.

He cracked his knuckles, the bones popping with loud clicks.

“So you’re the worthless waste who refused to save Emma.”

Paul wasted no words. He strode forward and slammed his foot into my chest with brutal force.

CRACK!

The crisp sound of breaking ribs echoed through the basement. Agonizing pain pierced through my brain.

Two of my ribs were broken.

I curled up like a wounded animal, my mouth opening instinctively—but the rune’s absolute restriction wouldn’t let even a whimper escape.

“What’s the matter? Lost your voice? You were pretty good at putting on airs up there!”

Paul’s crew swarmed me all at once. Fists and boots rained down on my head, my back, my stomach.

Through the haze of pain, I groped for the pen and paper that had fallen beside me. I wanted to write and tell them the truth—just wait a few more days, and this apocalypse would all be over.

A military boot stomped down hard on my hand, grinding viciously.

“Still writing? Write your damn nonsense!”

Paul snatched up my paper and pen, tore them to shreds, and ground the pieces into the muddy water along with the scattered scraps.

“A mute waste who does nothing but eat for free, and you actually think you’re some kind of savior?”

Blood filled my mouth. Choking and coughing, I lifted my bruised and swollen face and looked toward the half-open iron door of the basement.

Archie stood right there.

He watched coldly as I was beaten and rolled across the ground. Those eyes that had once told me “I love you” countless times now held nothing but suffocating contempt.

He didn’t even want to spare a second glance. He turned and vanished at the end of the corridor.

From that day on, the basement became my living hell.

Paul and his crew showed up on time every single day, finding new ways to torture me.

All ten of my fingers were broken one by one, swollen and purple, twisted into grotesque angles.

I was given only one meal a day—rotten scraps mixed with sand and swill, dumped onto the filthy, mud-caked floor. With broken fingers, I couldn’t pick anything up. I could only lie on the ground and stretch out my tongue to lick it up like a feral dog.

Through the small, high window of the basement, I could see the people moving outside.

Those survivors I’d pulled back from the tide of corpses while coughing up blood—every time they passed that window, they would deliberately quicken their pace and turn their faces away.

Occasionally, someone would glance in, only to spit viciously at me.

They were playing deaf and dumb, watching me be trampled into the mud with a clear conscience.

Day after day passed. My broken bones refused to heal. My wounds began to fester and reek.

Until the seventh night.

The basement’s iron door was blasted open once again. Paul rushed in, covered in blood, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. He grabbed me by the collar like a chick and hoisted me halfway up.

“Move! Emma’s dying! Today, even if it kills you, you’re going to spit out that damn prophecy!”