It was becoming far too regular an occurrence to wake up bound in chains. Malcolm knew this because he was adjusting his calculations of it being a distinct possibility every time he opened his eyes.

This time, it was the training room. Again. 

This time, it wasn't Cobra holding the remote, but some stranger who seemed to wish he was just as imposing.

This time, he didn't feel the brush of his toes against the floor.

And this time, he and his dark passenger shared space in his eyes, co-existing.

He was bound differently. A far more painful position, his forearms held together from wrist to elbow behind his back, perpendicular to the floor and parallel to his spine. It caused an entirely new torment in his shoulders. Malcolm could literally feel his humerus stretching the width of his glenohumeral joint, threatening dislocation. Additional weight from something pulled his body taunt by the grace of gravity, leaving him unable to kick or flail should he try.

He didn't have time to wonder at the new position before his predicament worsened, and he couldn't stop the fierce growl. Agonising flames exploded in every cell of his body, and he had the sickening realisation that they were starting at level ten. Which meant they would make it far, far worse by other means of torture.

It began with beating him with their fists, their blows forming bruises and sometimes…breaking bones. He noted the fascination on their faces as the colours appeared and disappeared under his skin, a scientific phenomenon of his regeneration. Sometimes they pierced a lung, and he snarled at them, blood dripping from his mouth with painful coughs. Sometimes, the bone pierced his flesh. They had sense enough to push it back into place and watch his skin knit over the puncture.

In a lull of sensation between the press of buttons and beatings, his hypothesis was proven correct. They wheeled in a cart with various blades and tools on a stainless steel tray. His tormentor was clearly frustrated. The beast snarled, twisted, and struggled, but did not scream or yelp.

Malcolm’s thoughts of torturing another formless figure kept him sane and in control. And the taste of Soraya in his memory. When had he begun to think of her as Soraya?

Every so often, he felt his glenohumeral ligaments tear, then heal a moment later. It had inspired the fantasy in his mind. Of what he would do to the man who'd hurt his woman. He had his scent. And he would hunt him down and slowly pull —

Another gut-wrenching tsunami of agony distorted the shape of his body, and this one seemed to last forever. He nearly lost consciousness, barely hanging by a thread when the sound of heels made it through the fog. Her heels—how he could possibly know they were her steps was beyond him—brought about anticipation…he was going to see her again. Heavier footfalls accompanied the tip-tapping of each step, dread tainting his excitement.

Nothing made sense.

His stomach dropped when he recognized Mr. Ruiz, remembering the torture the man had put him through just for fun. He was one who reveled in the pain of others, found delight in misfortune.

He couldn’t follow the conversation, instead fighting off the narrowing tunnel of darkness and a spiralling mind.

“After today, mi corazon, this beast won't be such a nuisance,” a male said. Mr. Ruiz? “You have been causing quite the stir with my precious cousin.”

The voice slithered like a snake through the haze, his mind taking far too long to comprehend the words. Metal on steel, the slide of a blade over the table. 

Malcolm could only breathe, trying to push through the pain. To stay conscious. His vision was blurry as he lifted his head, trying to lay eyes on Soraya. A blink, and her silhouette sharpened in the light. She was wearing a different dress, the black fabric covering the bruise that he knew was there.

In his periphery, Mr. Ruiz approached with a rather sizable knife, and some instrument he didn't care to identify. Malcolm was watching Soraya. She seemed unsure of herself for the first time in his memory. 

Mr. Ruiz's scent reached him, an all too familiar mix of something sickeningly sweet and cocoa now mixed with sex and Soraya.

A sudden, searing rage flooded him with renewed vigour.

It was him.

It was the same odour of the lesser male on Soraya.

The fractured verdant bronze among rivers of grey-blue lifted to meet the eyes of Joaquin Martinez-Ruiz’s jeer. 

A calm that only came with certainty settled over him, and he kept his gaze on his prey as it approached.

Malcolm stopped struggling entirely, his attention fixated on his new torturer.

Even though he hung helpless before Joaquin, in this moment, beaten, covered in sweat, blood…Joaquin would die slowly at his hand.

As Joaquin dragged the edge of the blade over Malcolm’s chest, slicing a red line that healed nearly as fast it appeared, Malcolm imagined what it would look like to dismember him, one limb at a time.

First his arms, dislocating the joints at the shoulder. Ligaments rent away from the bone strand by strand until the synovial membrane tore under the strain. Increasing the force Newton by Newton until the muscles shredded underneath his olive skin. Then his flesh would stretch out like chewing gum, until the cells ruptured and the epidermal layer ripped apart with a satisfying spurt of blood. It was this fantasy that burned with the fire of hatred in his eyes as he watched him. Malcolm barely made a grunt as he felt his rib crack from his first blow, followed by a press of a button.

The pain of the collar was insignificant relative to that which he'd endured every month for decades. Especially when paired with the delicious imagining of pulling out the other man's leg from his pelvis. The glee that came from the vision mitigated the clear and present reality of blood pouring over his abdomen as Joaquin set to work removing his skin. The air cooled the burning of his exposed muscles before it healed over in an odd mix of relief.

No, not his limbs. He would start with his fingers, one knuckle at a time. From the intimate knowledge Malcolm had about human anatomy, he was well aware of how the skin would peel further back than the digit, exposing cartilage and bone.

Joaquin crouched, and Malcolm felt a sharp pain at each of his ankles. Whatever held him taunt dropped with a loud clunk, accompanied by the gunshot POP of muscle snapping up the entire length of his leg.

The severing of his Achilles tendon caused a grimace, but nothing more. Malcolm didn’t make a sound above a low, barely audible growl. His glare remained transfixed on the other man, that wraith of a smile haunting the corner of his lips. His shoulders dislocated again when he slumped, and this time it took a little bit longer for the joint to heal. Within, his beast sat just as calm as the man, bristling with the influx of pain that they both wore so well. He knew, just as Malcolm did, this was all temporary, and victory would be oh so sweet.

Only his eyes moved, the ice cold blue living alongside the metallic heat of green, holding a promise of what he was going to do when he was free. Survival wasn't a question, as Malcolm always survived. He was stronger, faster, and smarter than Joaquin Ruiz.

At the edge of his vision, Soraya moved closer, until she was standing next to him.

“Q that’s enough. I love watching you work, baby, but now I want you to touch me,” she said. A falsehood he could read even in his current state.

That slight curve of a smile disappeared when Soraya dared to kiss the inferior male in front of him. A thin line set his mouth, jaw flexing, perplexed. Then she dropped to her knees and started undoing his pants.

The frown became a scowl, and the choking sound from his throat signalled the beginning of a rage-fueled snarl. The jealousy that was so novel to him blinded Malcolm to anything else that existed, logic, rationale, or laws of physics and reality.

For the first time, he began to struggle in earnest. Muscles flexed uselessly along his legs, his abdomen tensing to a hardened washboard. He jerked his head back and forth, and yanked and pulled at his restraints with everything he had left, regardless of the lack of support from his shoulder joints. The scent of her need teased at him, and his vision blurred red. He didn't care that he was doing the very thing to himself that he'd been fantasising about doing to Joaquin, the ligaments and muscle tearing under his weight and strength. He began to rip his limb off, just like a wild beast stuck in a trap.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he registered that she wasn't actually aroused until she saw him struggle, but that was an observation for a rational mind. A mind that could reason, and see past the crimson rage of the green monster. That cool, calculating mind did not exist. He didn’t see Joaquin flip the switch on the remote. The all-consuming need to destroy the man overwhelmed everything, even the pain from the collar. He hardly noticed when the torturous sensation dissipated, he only knew he hadn't escaped yet.

His beast rose up like an unstoppable tide when he saw Joaquin grab Soraya roughly by her hair, a true grimace of pain on her face.

Her outcry overwhelmed the sound of his bonds breaking, his shoulders making a sickening pop as they repositioned properly. He landed on the ground in a heap, barely taking a moment to let his other leg heal. The low rumble in his chest was felt, but not heard as he pushed himself up, reaching out to grab Joaquin by the hair and tossing him back into the wall like a rag doll. The man had been too focused on Soraya to be aware of his imminent death. His body made a satisfying crunch on impact.

Streaked in sweat and blood, Malcolm prowled after his prey, intent on living out his fantasy using his bare hands.