Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 42: First Kill

Justin POV:

I don’t remember turning the ignition again.

Don’t remember pulling out of that lot.

Maybe I didn’t.

Maybe the car never moved and it’s me spinning—spiraling in a cage of my own making.

The voices were louder now. Not whispering anymore. They screamed like a riot in a closed room. Different ones, all overlapping, all alive.

Do you remember, Justin?

Do you remember the chair?

The needles?

The voice behind the glass?

I gasped as my mind cracked open like a fault line and the past poured in.

White lights.

Cold steel.

The smell of antiseptic and blood and burnt skin.

I was fifteen again, strapped down to a table, wrists blistering beneath the buckled leather. My mouth was gagged this time—I’d bitten through my tongue during the last session. I could still taste the copper.

One of the man in a lab coat voice echoed behind glass. Smooth. Clinical. God-like.

"Subject is resisting. Apply stimulation protocol seven."

The electrodes came alive.

My spine arched, muscles locking, the pain a wildfire tearing through me from the inside. My body convulsed, but they didn’t stop. They watched. Measured.

I didn’t scream. Not at first.

I’d learned the silence made them nervous.

But the pain had a way of digging under your ribs, peeling away your pride layer by layer. And eventually, your body betrays you. It jerks. It cries. It begs.

Mine did.

But I never gave them the words they wanted.

The man behind the glass leaned closer to the mic. His face, blurred by the reinforced glass, never looked real. Like something out of a nightmare you almost forget.

"What are the voices telling you, Number 9?"

I shook my head, biting the gag, tasting copper and shame.

He sighed, disappointed, clinical. "Increase current. He’s still hiding something."

A high-pitched whine filled the room. The burn hit my thighs first, then crawled up my spine. My toes curled against the restraints. My vision blurred at the edges.

That’s when I started to scream.

But not because of the pain.

Because I was losing them—the voices. They were receding.

And without them, I was just a scared kid in a metal coffin.

A traitor.

A failure.

They wanted the voices. Wanted to know what they said, when they came, how often. They wanted control over the chaos, but the chaos was the only thing that had ever been mine.

They didn’t understand what they were tampering with.

They called them "auditory hallucinations."

I called them guides.

Especially the soft one that sounded almost like a girl. A girl I’d once trusted.

Number Twelve.

I clung to her name like a prayer even though I didn’t know it back then. She’d whispered to me through the wall, when we were kids and caged in different rooms.

"I’ll come back for you. I swear it."

They said she died during the escape. But I knew better.

I’d helped her get out.

I got her out.

And she promised to come back.

So every time they strapped me in, I counted the seconds like footsteps coming closer.

Like rescue.

Then the scene shifted.

Back in the cell.

The real cell.

Not the lab where they tortured you with science and needles and wires.

No.

This was where the monsters came at night. When the men in lab coats went home to their wives. When the lights dimmed and the guards pretended not to see. When silence screamed louder than pain.

That’s when he came.

The one we were all afraid of.

We never knew his name. He didn’t wear a uniform. He wasn’t a doctor or a guard.

But he had keys. And a grin that bared too many teeth.

He was bigger than us. Fed like a beast. Hands like meat hooks.

The other subjects called him The Collector. Because once he chose you... he didn’t stop until he was done collecting everything from you. Dignity. Hope. Skin.

They let him in.

They always did.

Sometimes the other guides looked away. Sometimes they helped. Sometimes they took one for themselves. A sick reward for obedience.

That night... he came for me.

But this time—I was ready.

The voices had been louder than usual earlier that day. They never screamed like before. No. This time they were quiet. Sharp. Direct.

"Take the pen."

It had been left behind during my last session. Slipped off the tray. A silver thing. Not sharp. Not dangerous.

But still... better than nothing.

I did as they said.

Slid it into the waistband of my thin pants.

The plastic edge pressed against my hip like a hidden promise.

I’d been electrocuted hours earlier. Muscles still twitching. Skin still reeking of burnt nerve endings. My knees could barely hold me. My arms shook when I lifted them.

But I didn’t care.

I’d rather die tonight than let him touch me again.

I watched the door. Knew the sound of his steps. Heavy. Leisurely. The rhythm of a man who thought he owned everything he walked toward.

Click.

Creak.

He stepped in, eyes gleaming under the flickering overhead bulb.

"Miss me?" he crooned like a demon pretending to sing.

I didn’t answer.

I just sat on my cot. Breathing through my mouth. Palming the pen under the mattress. My fingers flexed, my mind screaming.

Wait. Wait. Let him come close.

He reached me.

And grabbed my pants.

I flinched hard, instinctively trying to twist away, but my limbs were too weak—rubbery from the shocks, bruised from the restraints. He yanked harder, dragging the thin fabric down to my thighs.

His breath hitched. His eyes—those sick, gleaming eyes—darkened when they landed on my bare skin.

A grin curved his cracked lips. "Fuck... I missed this," he muttered.

I gagged.

It wasn’t the words.

It was the way he meant them.

I turned, crawling desperately toward the edge of the bed, to the spot where I’d hidden the pen. Each movement was agony. My skin screamed. My back felt flayed. My stomach twisted.

"Where you going, little rabbit?" he growled, catching my ankle.

I screamed—not out of fear, but rage—as he slammed me back to the ground, dragging me across the cold floor. My shoulder cracked against the bedpost. Blood rushed in my ears.

"You know what, boy?" he rasped, crouching beside me. "I always liked it when you struggled. Makes it fun."

He didn’t know.

Didn’t know I had something now.

Didn’t know I wasn’t his anymore.

My fingers scraped under the mattress edge. Found it. Cold. Slim. Not sharp—but sharp enough.

"Almost forgot how pretty you scream," he whispered.

"Stab him in the eye," the voice hissed.

"Now." The voices shouted in my head.

His hand reached for me.

That’s when I moved.

I twisted, my arm shooting up like a spring uncoiled, and drove the pen straight into his eye.

He shrieked. A sound like a dying animal. High. Wild. Piercing. He reeled back, clutching his face—but I wasn’t done.

I shoved forward and plunged the pen into the soft meat of his throat.

Hot blood gushed, spraying across my chest and face. The copper sting hit my nose. He choked—gurgled—stumbled backward into the cot, knocking it over with a crash.

He didn’t fall.

Not yet.

He stood there, swaying.

Hands soaked red.

Mouth open.

One eye leaking fluid and blood like a ruptured fruit.

I stared.

Breathing hard.

Pen still clenched in my shaking fist.

Heart pounding.

Bent over. To punch me.

His hand came down—

That’s when I moved again.

I jammed the pen up—straight into the soft of his neck.

The scream that tore from him wasn’t human. It echoed off the concrete walls like a banshee. Blood sprayed in an arc across the gray floor, warm and red and so fucking real.

He grabbed his throat. Stumbled back.

Didn’t fall.

Not yet.

I backed into the wall, still holding the bloody pen like it was Excalibur.

He lunged.

I stabbed again. And again.

I didn’t stop.

I couldn’t stop.

Even when he stopped moving.

Even when the door opened and the light changed and the guards stepped in and tore me off him like animals dragging a broken dog.

Even when they kicked me. Beat me. Injected me with something cold that burned like ice fire through my veins.

I didn’t care.

Because for once...

He didn’t get to take anything from me.

Absolutely, here’s a raw, emotionally charged continuation from Justin’s POV—anchoring the aftermath of his first kill in the lab and the twisted reaction of the scientists. The mood here stays heavy, fractured, and unfiltered:

I had killed him.

I had killed a man.

And the worst part?

It didn’t feel wrong.

It felt quiet.

Like silence after a storm.

His blood was still under my nails when they came for me the next morning. I hadn’t moved from the corner of the room. I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t let me. Muscles locked in place like rigor mortis. Eyes wide. Mind echoing with the scream—the one I caused.

But I didn’t regret it.

Not even a little.

He would never touch another kid again. Not with his filthy hands. Not with that sick grin.

He was gone.

And I did that.

They found his body slumped by the cot. Still twitching when they dragged me out. I didn’t fight. Didn’t run. I was too numb. Too broken.

Too alive.

They strapped me down again. New room. New table. This one colder. Brighter.

A figure stepped into the observation booth behind the glass. One of the lead researchers. I couldn’t remember his name. I never bothered. They all blurred together—white coats, clipboard smiles, monsters with pens instead of knives.

He stared at me like I was a specimen pinned under a microscope.

"Subject Nine," he said into the intercom. His voice smooth. Eager. "Remarkable."

Another man nodded beside him. "That’s the first time he’s shown post-trauma initiative."

They weren’t mad.

They were excited.

Like I’d just drawn a perfect line on their graph.

"Fifteen years," one said. "And he finally reacts. We found it. His tipping point."

I didn’t speak. My throat was raw from screaming. My hands were still trembling, though I tried to hide it.

They circled me like scavengers.

"Tell me, Number Nine," the first man asked. "Did the voices tell you to do it?"

I didn’t answer.

He leaned closer, his mouth curling into a smile.

"That’s okay. You don’t need to talk. You already told us everything when you stabbed him."

I looked at the ceiling.

Counted the stains.

Listened to the hum of the lights.

Tried to disappear inside myself.

But they were happy. So happy.

Because they had found it—

My breaking point.

My reaction.

Proof that their little experiment was working.

They talked over me like I wasn’t there. Tossed words like "aggression thresholds," "psychotic impulse triggers," and "data anomalies."

Not once did they mention his name.

Not once did they say what he did to me. To us.

He was just "the incident."

I was just "the reaction."

And the voices?

They were louder than ever.