NovelEnglishIn the dimly-lit basement, a hive of activity buzzed around the frail figure of a woman. A doctor hovered over her, his medical
expertise focused on the mystery of her condition, while the construction team's foreman examined the structure of the concrete
tomb that had been her prison.
Two days had passed, and the construction crew had cup empty-handed. It was the doctor who had the slightest glimmer of
progress to report.
"Mr. Sanders," the doctor said, the concern etched into his furrowed brow, "she seems to have lost the ability to communicate,
almost as if she's forgotten how to interact with people. And it's clear someone has modified her body."
Beck stiffened. His connection with Cynthia, the woman before him, was tenuous at best—shared blood, but little else. Yet the news
struck a chord within him, a pang of pain for a stranger who was family.
"Modified? What do you mean by that?" Beck's voice was tight with barely contained anger.
"It appears that several of her bones have been removed and replaced with skind of mechanical devices. They've been
integrated so long, they've practically beca part of her. The purpose isn't clear—could be for communication, maybe control.
There might be a chip involved, but this tech's beyond anything I've seen. Even with the state-of-the-art equipment, it's a
challenge."
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtThe thought of Cynthia enduring such agony during the removal of her bones made Maja feel sick to her stomach. Without
hesitation, she approached the bed and took Cynthia's hands in hers.
But Cynthia reacted violently to the contact, swatting Maja away and retreating into a corner, her body shaking uncontrollably.
The last tlan's men tried to remove her, she'd reacted just as violently. She'd been locked away for so long, should fear not
have faded? Why would she shrink from human touch?
The doctor, meticulously noting her reactions, adjusted his glasses.
The Sanders family had summoned the best in the field for this—a team of top-notch professionals, not just in medicine, but in
every aspect related to the underground chamber's secrets.
"Mr. Sanders," the doctor continued, "she most likely suffers from PTSD."
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, the doctor explained, was a condition unrelated to one's fear of death. It was a psychological
response to sustained trauma.
Maja's hand, slapped away, hovered in the air as she watched Cynthia curl up on the bed, silent and fragile, like a beautiful
butterfly with its wings clipped. The strong, indomitable Lillian she once knew seemed so distant now.
"What causes her PTSD?" Maja whispered, her heart aching at the sight.
"Suppose, at first, she didn't fear human contact. Imagine people coming into this basement daily, violating her space, maybe not
physically, but by relishing her struggle to survive. The fear of touch would grow."
Maja's fists clenched, her breath coming in shaky gasps.
The doctor gestured to the walls where over a thousand cameras were embedded, surveillance that captured every nuance of
Cynthia's expressions. The tormentors behind the screens didn't wish for her death; they simply enjoyed watching her reactions,
her punishment for every touch.
He pointed towards a spot near the door. "There's an electrical punishment device over there. Ms. Pennyfeather, are you aware of
the effects of severe electric shocks on a person?"
Maja bit her lip, her eyes brimming with tears. She knew all too well the humiliation of incontinence, a common result of intense
electric shocks. And to think, Cynthia's most private agonies were on display, critiqued by unseen eyes.
The doctor, realizing Maja had grasped the horrific truth, sighed heavily.
"After examining her, I'm surprised she's not gone mad. Her mental clarity is intact despite the trauma. Her will is extraordinary—
stronger than any soldier I've known. She must have a belief sustaining her, or perhaps her captor fed her information, bits that
tied directly to her deepest convictions."
Follow on Novᴇl-Onlinᴇ.cᴏm
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