I have a heart? ー BEN Drowned x Reader

Ch. 22 - Wrong hands [edited]

The cold darkness consumed you, and your eyes were heavier than all the sins of the people inhabiting hell.
A cold hand rushed through your arms and torso, your pockets and your shoes, seemingly looking for something. The disinterested grunt that followed meant that they hadn't found it.
"What are we going to do with her?" A muffled voice asked. Male, not really the vocal type by the cracks in his voice.
"I don't know, we could ask him." Another male voice, slightly less rough and a little bit higher in pitch.
They shuffled around your unconscious body, staring you down, wondering when the hell you were going to wake up.
After some time, you didn't know –it could've been half an hour or two minutes– they left.
The heavy footsteps leading away from you made you regain consciousness, the echo of their voices still imprinted in your head. You heard everything, you felt everything, but you were trapped inside your own head, as your body didn't respond. Paralyzed, or just extremely tired?
The heavy clack of a door made you shiver, as it made freezing wind fly in and cover every inch of you.
Your eyes were the only part of your body you could control for now, and so, you looked around. There was not much to look at except a darkened and leaking ceiling and two single beds at the corner of your eyes.
To regain mobility, you wiggled your toes. It was stupid and small, but it worked. It worked and you were able to move your leg next, and your fingers and your arms, and your head.
After regaining full feeling, you noticed your wrists and your ankles were strapped down to the metallic table by worn-down, bloody leather.
Another loud clack at the door stratles you, and heavy footsteps clouded your ears as the boys entered the damp, cold, blackened room.
"Has she woken up?" A boy with chestnut-colored hair sticking out of a white mask asked.
"Yeah," The other boy responded as both of them towered above you, staring at you.
"Should we do with her what we do with everybody else, or should we give her special treatment?" The black-masked boy asked, pulling his yellow hoodie over his head.
"Now, now, Hoodie, she's our guest! She deserves the best..." Their voices sounded sarcastic and indifferent, like all of this was a stage performance forced upon them.. "Besides, he said he didn't give a shit."
A metallic cart was pulled out of the shadows, metallic and rusted, carrying needles and surgical knives, along with blood-dripping scissors and some other rusty appliances you didn't really want to know about.
You were trapped, caged. You had fallen into the wrong hands, and there seemed to be no way out.