Test

"I'm sorry..." His uncle's voice jolted him back to the present.

"Don't talk to me, asshole," he spat out. "This is all your fault." 

His uncle, John, started sobbing, but Zayn felt no pity.

The hell he experienced in this place had already broken him beyond repair. It was a miracle he hadn't completely lost it yet.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this, ... Your aunt—she... she—" John's words trailed off. 

"What about her? Why did you put us in this situation?"

He needed answers—he needed the truth. 

John took a deep breath, struggling to keep his voice steady while fighting to hold back the tears.

"She... she wasn't what I thought she was. The woman I believed cared about me... She's just a—" He swallowed hard, his words barely a whisper now.

"She's just a gold digger. I married her for love, but she married me for my money." 

Zayn almost burst into laughter, wasn't that obvious to begin with? 

She was a 25-year-old, beautiful blonde with the proportions of a superstar model. 

Her face could have gotten her to Hollywood, no doubt.

Of course, she was in it for the money. It was the only thing that made sense.

"I thought I could fix things. But they made me addicted to alcohol and drugs. It was all part of their plan—keep me weak, keep me dependent. And I... I let it happen." He paused, his voice breaking.

"And now it's too late. They're going to kill us." 

Zayn clenched his fists. The truth was a bitter pill to swallow.

"It doesn't change the fact that you let them do it," he groaned through gritted teeth. 

"I'll never forgive you for ruining my life, But…" He paused, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. "If a miracle happens and I escape… I'll make sure to make that woman pay for her crimes too." 

John flinched. He could tell his nephew was serious. 

Just as he was about to respond, the screech of metal against cement echoed through the room. 

The heavy door swung open with a loud bang, and a group of men stormed in. They were armed—guns slung across their shoulders. 

Without any warning, one of them moved forward with syringe in hand. 

Zayn instinctively tried to lean back. 

But the chains, coupled with his already battered and weak body, made it impossible for him to resist.

The needle of the syringe pierced his skin.

"NO!!! DONT HURT HIM! KILL ME INSTEAD!" John cried out, a muffled, pathetic sound that barely registered.

Zayn's thoughts were all over the place, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

His body wasn't listening anymore. The drug had taken over, and everything around him was getting spinning, the edges of his vision fading away.

Soon, the darkness swallowed him whole, putting him into sleep. 

The armed men lifted his body and placed him in a wheelchair.

"Where are you taking my nephew?"

Before he could get an answer, a heavy fist collided with his jaw, sending him stumbling to the ground. 

"Just shut up. After your nephew, you're next on the list."

— 

— 

— 

When his senses returned, it felt like waking from a nightmare—except the nightmare wasn't over.

His eyelids slowly open, but the light was too bright. He blinked against the glare, groaning softly as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. 

The first thing he noticed was the smell—sharp, sterile, and chemical. 

As his vision adjusted, he discovered he was lying on a metal table, straps biting into his wrists, ankles, and chest. 

"Where the hell am I?" He strained against the restraints, but they didn't budge.

He looked around, but all he could see was white—white walls, white ceilings, and the blinding glare of fluorescent lights overhead.

The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and multiple people entered. 

Men and women in lab coats surrounded him, their faces obscured by surgical masks. 

One of them, a tall man with black eyes behind his glasses, leaned over, his gloved hands inspecting a syringe filled with an ominous, green liquid. 

"What are you trying to do?" Zayn's voice was hoarse.

The tall man didn't answer. None of them did. Instead, he exchanged a few words with one of his colleagues and gestured toward a nearby cart. 

It was loaded with instruments—needles, vials, clamps, and tools ordinary people couldn't even begin to name. 

"Answer me!" Zayn screamed, his voice cracking with anger.

He thrashed against the restraints with all his remaining strength, his movements wild and frantic. 

The tall doctor finally acknowledged him and leaned forward. 

"You should save your energy. Your final tests will begin shortly." 

"What test?" Zayn asked. He had a bad feeling about this.