Punishment Halls

Seemed to be like he was a failure at dying just as much as he was at living.

‘Tis better to have tried and failed, did one so cruelly say. Well, the adage was pure shit as far as Brennan was concerned, wishing he could spare himself the agony that kept his body from performing even the simplest of movements.

Despite how gentle the orange glaze filtering through the windows was, the light still felt like stabbing edges piercing his throbbing skull.

Vardon or whoever appeared to have left him in what looked more like an abandoned garage than an actual livable space —cracked concrete walls surrounding piles of debris and bent metal carcasses amongst tools littering the floor. There air was thick with the stench of mold and rust, teasing his nose and making it difficult to drift back into slumber amidst the discomfort.

In such a decadent place, Brennan lay exposed, clad in now tattered jeans alone, his skin coated in a mixture of sweat and dried blood that crusted the denim —both his own and that of others. He rested on top of a yellowed and stained small mattress, its springs poking painfully into his back through the complete lack of any lining or padding.

A grimy glass jar sat emptied by his side, a reminder of how he had greedily gulped down the stagnant water it once contained. The liquid did little to quench his scorching thirst and even less to subdue the sour taste of misery smothering his senses —or was that acrid flavor coating the walls of his mouth coming from a much more sinister origin?

Left alone to navigate the chaos into which his life had spiraled over during the last couple of days, Brennan couldn’t help but confront the unavoidable. It was far more tempting to play dumb, to blame everything on Needle’s substances, but… Reality was hard to deny, even for someone like him.

He had actually been killing people during his frenzies, hadn’t he? And much worse than that —eating them… And enjoying the process, savoring every bite as he descended deeper into the realms of inhumanity.

Perhaps sensing how Brennan's psyche was about to become completely engulfed by regret and far more sinister thoughts, a familiar voice chimed in to interrupt his self-loath, as the outlines of Needle's chitinous exoskeleton manifested atop a battered metal drawer.

"My, my… Just look where you've stumbled into now, you silly boy." the ‘Punisher’ spoke with condescension, its mandibles clicking as it surveyed their surroundings with disdain. “A real classy accommodation indeed.”

While Brennan was no longer taken aback by Needle's otherworldly visage, he held little appreciation for the monstrous creature for reasons far weightier than that mocking, crisp tune it spoke with —something he had already come to expect from the malicious entity.

“Just… Piss off, will you?” Brennan rasped with a raw throat. “I don’t want to talk with you anymore, you twisted freak.”

“Hah. Such insolence.” Needle scoffed, its piercing bloated eyes glistening with amusement. “Are we really going to play this childish game again, Brennan?”

>> “Didn’t I make clear already that you and I were irreversibly intertwined, bound together by all of the delicious horrors we’ve wrought together?”

“You make it sound so goddamn poetic.” A hollow chuckle clawed its way from Brennan’s parched lips, although it soon dissolved into a pained groan. “But where did you scurry off to when that fucking brute showed up, huh?”

>> “Too afraid to face him?”

"You have to understand, Brennan-boy," Needle dismissively waved away his accusations with an air of casual arrogance, as if it could mend the mistrust fostered by its abandonment through silky words alone. "I'm not suited for barbaric clashes. Combat is simply… Beneath me. I'm not built for such crudities, you see?"

Brennan considered offering a rebuttal, but what was the point? The wretched cricket would never admit fault —that was just one more repugnant trait the two of them shared.

“Then… Be straight with me.” He said at last, each word feeling like a shard of glass being spat out. “When I’m under your influence… Do I harm people? Do I kill them?”

It was a question he dreaded voicing, for even if some delusional part of him still clung to the possibility that it was all merely tricks of Needle's toxins, he could no longer ignore all the truths clawing at the edges of his consciousness.

“How many?” Brennan pressed on, dread flowing inside him like a cold sludge. “And have I… Have I been eating them?”

His questions were met with a trill of laughter that made his skin crawl.

“Are you actually serious, Brennan-boy? Playing the fool again, are we? How charmingly decadent.” But he refused to be staved off by the creature’s flippant derision, leading Needle to heave an exaggerated sigh of resignation. “One of my gifts is to shield you from such unpleasant musings, my dear boy.”

>> “To preserve what tattered shreds remain of your fragile psyche, sparing you from the harsh light of the truth and…”

Fury detonated in Brennan's chest, lending him a sudden surge of vigor that overrode his physical limitations. He lurched upright on the filthy mattress, indignation taking over his features.

“That’s not your choice to make!” Brennan interrupted Needle from speaking any further with a shout and a finger pointed at the creature with surprising ferocity. “I can’t just keep blundering along while you keep me in the dark about everything!”

>> “I have a right to know the truth!”

Needle seemed to weigh his rare burst of defiance for a moment, an unsettling glimmer flickering in its eyes. When it finally spoke, its tone dripped with practiced nonchalance —a parent humoring the tantrum of a petulant child rather than granting his justified demands an ounce of validity.

“You’re a wreck, Brennan.” Needle clucked its tongue in a poor imitation of paternal concern. “Why not extend your arm and allow me to alleviate some of that distress?

>> “I wasn’t able to properly indulge yesterday, and you did burn through a considerable store of my juice…” Its gaze glittered with predatory hunger as it raked over the patchwork of puncture markings littering Brennan’s pale flesh. “I must admit, I’m feeling rather… Drained.”

>> “A fresh infusion would do us both good before we resume where we left off.”

“No!” Brennan recoiled, curling his arm protectively against his bare chest. “I won’t allow it to happen again!”

“And what, pray tell, do you mean by it?” Needle cocked its head in an unsettlingly human-like display of curiosity. “Please, do explain.”

“The killings!” Brennan spat the words like rotten meat caught in his throat. It was only this conviction that momentarily banished the fog of temptation clogging his mind —his last bastion of humanity left. “I refuse to enable any longer this… This nightmare!”

“Oho…” Was the verbal response born out of Needle’s undisguised smug satisfaction. “For a moment, naive me could have sworn you referred to being drugged."

Brennan's jaw clenched until he could feel his teeth grinding together. The creature had him dead to rights, and they both knew it. No matter how vehemently he might protest, Needle's dark laughter rang with complete and bitter awareness.

“Listen here, Brennan-boy.” Needle’s voice took on a sinister timbre, embodying a somber presence that fed upon his desperation. “You don’t get to make choices anymore.”

>> “From the very moment your twisted soul was linked to me, from the very instant in which you allowed the first drop of my toxin to course through your veins…”

>> “Your fate was irrevocably decided.”

As Brennan felt his legs faltering once more, Needle leaned in closer, its words now delivered in a hauntingly slow whisper.

“You are mine now, Brennan”

>> “I own every quivering fiber of your pitiful existence.”

Whether it was fear or rage, or a mixture of both, a tremor lanced through Brennan as a response to Needle’s gloating declaration of complete dominion. He shouldn’t —couldn’t simply resign himself to become this wretched thing’s puppet, its plaything to torment as he wished.

Summoning his dormant ferocity, Brennan’s hand shot out, snatching up the empty glass jar at his side. He drew his arm back, coiling every ounce of his failing strength to hurl the makeshift projectile directly at Needle’s horrid visage.

Yet the Punisher swiftly jumped away, dexterously clinging to a wall with its six spindly legs as he regarded Brennan’s outburst with an amused expression.

“Another impotent act of defiance.” It was a cruel exchange, doomed to never gain an upper hand to this cruel monster. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised.”

>> “You feeble humans are all the same, resorting to the basest instincts when dealing with powers and delights beyond your comprehension.”

>> “I thought you would be different from all the others, Brennan-boy. That you’d be smarter than this. Guess I was mistaken.”

Despite the relentless duress that strained Brennan’s mental state, something about Needle’s scathing words struck a dissonant chord within him. The creature was being… Contradictory —but how exactly?

Before he could put his finger on the discrepancy, Needle’s shape rippled and distorted before vanishing before his eyes, its departure most likely prompted by the steel groan of the garage-room door creaking open.

A dim wash of grimy orange light filtered in, ushering the silhouette of yet another unknown face into Brennan’s chaotic new existence.

“You seem to be in high spirits, all things considered.” The newcomer remarked in a sarcastic manner as he stepped into the squalid space.

Brennan eyed the intruder warily, understandably cautious of this new cartoon character being added to the cast —especially considering his skirmish the night before. His gaze narrowed, scanning the stranger in an attempt to decipher if he posed yet another source of danger amidst the never-relenting turmoil.

He was lean and fit, but there was also a noticeable sense of menace radiating from his deceptively slim frame. His hair fell over his angular features, rogue strands of silverish-grey, with long black roots showing at their base, partially covering the dark circles under his sharp eyes.

“I…” Brennan rasped, unsure of what to make of this man’s presence, and his eyes drifting towards the tray he carried, covered with a fancy food dome that hardly seemed fitting considering his overall grungy looks. “I’m sorry, who…”

“Kiel. Kiel Adcar.” The man interrupted, hints of arrogance coloring his crisp diction. It wasn’t exactly a welcomed trait, as Brennan already had enough of such self-important characters with Needle alone. “Second in command to the esteemed Vardon Hogstead and his merry band of corpse-crafters.”

>> “But you can simply call me bro if you feel like it.”

There was something off-putting about Kiel, if that was even his real name. A disconnect between his apathetic demeanor and the actual words being uttered. He sounded, in all sense of the word, more than just a little bit insane, wavering between nonchalant and manic.

“What do you want?” Brennan asked, cutting to the chase. He wasn’t there to make friends, much less any sort of bros. “I already got enough of…”

“Varken told me about the number you performed at the Pixipoint.” Interrupting him from speaking any further, Kiel’s thin lips twisted in an awkward attempt at an amicable smile that failed to reach his dull brown eyes. “You’re a straight-to-business kinda guy, aren’t you? I can respect that. No need to mince words or play games.”

>> “So tell me… How familiar are you with the culinary properties that certain body parts hold when extracted from the freshly deceased? After being properly seasoned, of course.”

“Huh?” Brennan’s face contorted in an expression of sheer perplexity, left reeling from Kiel’s accelerated speech. “I’m sorry, what do you mean exact…”

“Right. Varken is the way I call Vardon. You don’t need to worry about that, the guy doesn’t even know what it means.” Kiel just kept talking, unfazed by Brennan's confusion —prattling on as if entertaining another maniac like him was the highlight of his day. “He’s easy to manipulate and convenient to have around.”

>> “But that’s not the important part here.”

In a stilted motion, he did his best attempt to look sophisticated as he removed the steel lid from the tray he had brought with him, presenting a disgusting concoction of a culinary fare, as if it were the most grandiose of displays.

A crease furrowed Brennan's brow as he struggled to process the sheer absurdity unfolding before him. Not that it seemed to matter —Kiel barreled forward with his monologue with a dramatic flourish, disinterested in allowing his audience to interject.

“Inviting to embark on a gastronomic escapade to the avant-garde, where the boundaries of artistry refuse to be defined by the mundane, behold —an extraordinary ode to the virile essence of masculinity itself, lovingly crafted by my own visionary hand.”

Served upon on a cracked porcelain plate, adorned with other tiny scatters of greenery, and nestled amidst a scattering of innocuous flower petals ensconced in a veil crisp of a nasty-looking golden batter… There laid an unmistakably engorged cock. It was placed right in the middle, presented as some sort of centerpiece to this parody of cuisine —hopefully, it was a cooked one, but Brennan refused to stare long enough to actually tell.

“Tender meat, selected with utmost discernment, accompanied by wild orchid blossoms offering a delicate floral whisper.” Kiel carried on, not deterred by Brennan’s slack-jawed revulsion. “Spiced with a hint of saffron-infused sea salt and drizzled with a sauce reminiscent of sun-kissed amber.”

He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the make-believe aromas he tried and failed to evoke in him. Was he actually proud of this… Atrocity?

“The first bite, a revelation. The last, a lingering reverie. My creation beckons the indulgent soul to savor the forbidden, to dive into the sublime.”

>> “I call this dish… The Freudian Slip.”

Overtaken by both disgust and a complete and utter lack of words, all Brennan could manage was a strangled sound somewhere between a gag and a disbelieving laugh. Did this depraved lunatic even comprehend the meaning behind the ostentatious words he was using?

Perhaps he would have been horrified, but this situation was so outlandish, so ridiculous, that it was almost impossible for him to remain tense.

“I apologize, there must have been some sort of mistake.” He finally managed to speak, seizing his opportunity as Kiel's expression soured as an immediate response. “I’m not really into this kind of… Cuisine.”

There was a weighted pause as disappointment gradually replaced the misguided pride that had previously brightened the face of the deranged chef —a title Brennan granted him on very loose terms.

“Pff… No need to say anymore, I get it.” Kiel muttered, a ray of hope filling Brennan as the man seemed more dispirited than angered by the rejection. Perhaps he could still level with this guy after all. “You’re just like Varken —a gluttonous pig.”

His words carried a strong lace of disdain as he lowered his cursed tray onto the nearby red metal drawer with a clatter.

“Where is the joy in eating like a savage in frenzy, when life can offer so much more?” A heavy sigh escaped him, paired with a dramatic shake of his head. “It’s sad, I expected to change your ways… But I guess I was stupid. The bite marks you left behind were those of an animal.”

>> “I had to clean after your mess, you know? Least you could do is show some gratitude.”

Brennan felt his throat constrict his breathing as the implications of him eating raw human flesh were so casually delivered by Kiel, piercing through the denial he still desperately clung to. His mind immediately tried to retreat, forever perpetuating his attempts to bury the visceral truth.

"Alright, stop!" Brennan’s voice cracked for mercy, raising a trembling hand. "Just... Tell me what the hell is any of this!?"

Kiel regarded him with an expression of thinly veiled contempt, as if addressing someone particularly slow-witted.

"Oh... Yeah, Varken did mention that you probably were a complete rookie. You’re not just knee-deep in it, you’re practically swimming in shit, isn’t that right?”

>> “I guess it can be daunting to figure out where to begin. Let’s break it down so a retard like you can follow along.”

As the gray-haired man took a step back, he snapped his fingers in an indolent gesture, the space behind him beginning to distort and ripple like a heat mirage. A ghostly, amorphous figure slowly coalesced —a swirling vortex of muted dark hues resembling a localized void, devouring any light it touched. Any distinct features within its shape remained obscured and ever-shifting.

“You see it, don’t you?” Kiel said with a severe look as he nodded at the corrupted space. “This, my ill-informed friend, is a Punisher.”

>> “Where do they come from, and what do they want? Your guess is as good as mine.” He admitted, all of his previous flourishes replaced by a complete lack of regard, as if these otherworldly beings were but a mundanity for him. “They’re all unique, so there’s no point in trying to draw equivalencies between yours and mine. And you can damn well be sure that I won’t be telling you what Silent Room here does.”

>> “Not before I know if you’re trustworthy enough.

>> “In this world you stumbled upon, letting the wrong people know your weaknesses might very well be a fucking death sentence.”

Brennan’s already unstable mind refused to process everything fully —it was all just far too bizarre. He could only gape mutely at the amorphous anomaly Kiel had summoned, his understanding not wrapping completely at the way it undulated along the edges of his perception.

Luckily for him, the gray-haired thug didn’t seem inclined to allow him the space to formulate any question. He simply resumed his diatribe, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice.

“Don’t get me wrong. These things are a bitch to control.” Sentence by sentence, Kiel’s flimsy facade of sophistication gave way to crude vulgarity. Another display of an erratic duality from the man before him. “But they can also give you an immense amount of power to wield as you see fit.”

>> “You’re part of the gang now, which means you better start shaping up. That pissy fit you were throwing at your Punisher when I came in? That shit won’t fly here.”

As Silent Room disappeared into the same void from where it once erupted, Kiel leaned forward, his voice taking on a sinister timbre as a threat slithered through his words.

“Make that fucking thing submit to your will. Keep it in check by any means necessary. Am I making myself clear?”

Brennan’s shoulder slumped as all of the overwhelming proclamations began sinking his stomach… Yet, there was a fundamental flaw in all of the assumptions being thrown his way.

“I… I do appreciate the information, but…” He began his retort, not even aware of the way his lower lip trembled subconsciously. “I don’t remember ever agreeing to take part in whatever the hell you guys are involved with.”

Kiel’s reaction was an immediate roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh.

“You have a really thick skull, don’t you?” The rhetorical question was paired with a shake of his head. “Do you think you actually have a choice here? Oh, wait…” He paused as a cruel smile took shape on his lips. “I suppose you do have one to make.”

>> “You can either light yourself on fire whenever we tell you to, or we can hand you over to the police and let them stick whatever they want up that conceited ass of yours.”

Moving back, as if there were no more exchanges to be made between them, Kiel’s pale eyes glittered with a mixture of sadism poorly concealed behind the apathy.

“These monsters I was telling you about? They don’t just randomly appear for any self-pitying sad sack. You did something, Palisade. Something horrible enough to warrant a Punisher, even before you went feral on our turf.”

>> “So whatever pathetic boy-scout facade you’re trying to pull off here won’t be fooling anybody. Least of all me.”

A chill took over Brennan’s core as Kiel’s scathing derision washed over him. Sure, they might not know the full extent of his sins —not yet at least; but if they already had his last name, it was only a matter of time. He had left Beverly’s corpse to fester in the abandoned apartment he now could never return to.

Whether he liked it or not, he had to accept his new reality as a degenerate member of this wretched underbelly of society.

As the grim realization settled like a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, Brennan’s face sank into the palms of his hands. The heavy groan of the iron door pierced the stifling silence, but Kiel paused on the threshold, seeming to consider his next words carefully.

When he finally spoke, there was a tentative undercurrent lacing his previously somber timbre.

“Things might look dire now, but it ain’t all over. Be thankful that you fell into our hands and not the dogs from la Medula. With Mr. Ashford around you never quite know for sure, and trust me, those guys are fucking brutal. I know that first hand.”

>> “So don’t make things harder than they need to be.” Was that a hint of empathy bleeding through his usually despondent voice? Was he that pitiable, to make Kiel’s tone soften like that? “Varken might be a swine, but he can handle the cops fine. All you gotta do is get your shit together, y’hear?”

>> “And eat something while at it, you look like utter shit.”

>> “That Freudian Slip I made you? I read online that it tastes like Chorizo.”

Maybe it was his already tenuous grip on reality finally slipping completely, but that parting quip managed to dissipate some his despair —although mostly to ignite another wave of indignant confusion.

“Wait a minute…” Brennan stopped him, jabbing an accusing finger at the proud disembodied erection haunting his periphery. “You mean you haven’t actually eaten this nasty shit before?!”

Kiel's eyes narrowed in annoyance, as if Brennan had just asked something tremendously idiotic.

“Of course not, you dense fuck.” He clapped back with undisguised disdain. “What? Do you think I’m some kinda cannibal psycho like you or Varken?”

And with that, Kiel turned to slam the door behind him, the resounding clang of the iron reverberating through the decadent resting space. He was now left alone to his own devices, lacking any means to dispose of that nightmarish meal taunting his vicinity.

Brennan ended up pondering on Kiel’s words until the sun completely disappeared from the distant skies —both the condemning bad, and not-quite-reassuring good. He had nowhere to go, he had no money, he was surrounded by strange and clearly dangerous individuals, and he lacked even a phone or any other means to pass his lengthy hours of confinement.

And yet, he found himself clinging to the possibility that not everything was as hopeless as it once seemed. He was alive, wasn’t he? And from what little Kiel had told him, there were others who had learned to thrive despite being haunted by entities similar to Needle.

Therein lay the crux —setting aside the thug’s ostentatious insanity, a couple of his remarks were left simmering in Brennan’s head, just like that disgusting plate he left behind. He needed to find a way to somehow bend Needle to his will, a task far more easy to propose than to achieve.

An anxious itch he couldn’t quite place thrummed beneath his skin as his thirst continued to intensify with every passing minute, aggravating his anxiousness. He felt reluctant to venture from the cold confines of the garage-room, fearful of what fresh horrors might be waiting on its exteriors after finally achieving a frail sense of safety and peace inside the soulless concrete walls.

At least this place afforded him a small, questionably sanitary bathroom to slake his dehydration and finally scrub away some of the grime adhered to his skin.

Yet he remained oblivious to the way his fingers twitched with unconscious restlessness —a subtle harbinger of the sinister undercurrents at play beneath his flesh, hungrily seeking for more bliss to be scraped off his veins.

Right on cue, as Brennan emerged from the decayed bathroom in the same tattered jeans and a small dirty towel slung haphazardly over his damp curls, Needle had already materialized again. The cricket Punisher was idly prodding the vulgar display of Kiel’s avant-garde culinary eccentricity, seemingly entertained by its absurdity.

“That Kiel fellow is a curious one, don’t you think?” Needle began, its unsettling presence being one that Brennan still felt reluctant to accept as a constant in his life. “I trust you’re aware his overtures are little more than thinly veiled attempts to deceive and exploit you.”

>> “You’d do well by discarding his poor excuses for advice as the meaningless rubbish they are.” It spoke as if imparting a great wisdom that would be foolish of Brennan to disregard, at least until its eyes swiveled back towards the food. “By the way, are you planning on partaking in this concoction he so lovingly crafted for your sake?”

There was an undercurrent of smug condescension laced through Needle's words, a sense that it believed itself to be operating on a higher intellectual plane. Still, the Punisher wasn't wrong, he was unsure of how much of Kiel’s words to actually take seriously —but not like Brennan wasn’t acutely aware of the cricket’s own agenda and its penchant for manipulation.

“If you’re so certain of his bad intentions, then why didn’t you bother showing yourself to contradict him?” Brennan countered him bitterly, although he also didn’t even want to start considering eating Kiel’s parody of cooking. “I have some dignity left, thanks. Knock yourself out.”

“We’ve been over this before. I don’t like repeating myself unnecessarily.” Needle bluntly cut him off, clasping his mandibles in anticipation. “And don’t mind if I do.”

In sharp motions, the spectral creature pierced the disembodied member with one of its barbed appendages and hurled over its fanged maw, catching and devouring it with a series of wet, guttural sounds that filled Brennan’s with disgust —gorging upon the flesh in a gluttonous manner.

“Hm… He made it sound as if this Freudian Slip held some semblance of notable qualities.” A scoff issued from the back of Needle’s throat as it casually flicked the flower petals and golden batter aside with a disdainful swipe. “Alas, reality is that gastronomy is yet another area in which our tragically deluded friend falls irredeemably short.”

>> “The exterior was hopelessly over-salted and the core shamefully overcooked. A culinary disgrace, really.”

While Brennan had limited himself only to stare, caught momentarily in sickened disbelief; Needle’s sardonic critique did give him the fuel to press the Punisher further.

“Yeah? You’re a coward, I already figured as much. You fill your disgusting mouth with insults now.” He crossed his arms with disapproval, realizing just now how hard it was for him to prevent his nails from sinking in his skin with no conscious provocation. “But you couldn’t be bothered to show your grotesque face until Kiel was gone. Were you that afraid?”

>> “The truth is that I can’t trust a single word you say, isn’t that right?”

“Don’t be so overly dramatic.” Needle laughed at him, grooming the legs recently employed to handle the… fine cuisine. “Are you that threatened by the prospect of me hurting your new boyfriend’s feelings?”

“Are you serious right now?” Brennan couldn’t mask an exasperated scoff to burst forth. “Making childish comments like that? I expect immaturity from those deranged freaks… But you as well?”

“Oh, you might try to deceive yourself, Brennan-boy.” The Punisher smoothly interjected, like if the entirety of its speech were nothing but baits to lure him with. “But that desperate ploy doesn’t work on me.”

>> “The reason you're defensive about your dear Kiel is that you’ve found in him yet another poor soul to pathetically cower behind.” It fixed his gaze on him with its piercing bloated stare, drinking in the discomfort that left Brennan shivering. “One more feeble attempt to avoid confronting all of your glaring shortcomings, all off your failures as a human being."

He opened his mouth, but it was pointless. He didn’t know how to answer, and Needle knew it —pressing on with his casually cruel cadence.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To have someone else call all the shots while you simply play along. Comfortably hidden from judgment, from accountability. From all the consequences and suffering your selfish actions bring forth.”

The words hung heavy in the stagnated air, they were all accusations he couldn’t deny, worming their way beneath Brennan’s skin which continued to itch uncomfortably. Yet he clenched his jaw, determined to not be swept under Needle’s sinister logic —he had to be strong, at least this once.

“Then what’s the alternative?” He bit out at last, hating how strained his voice sounded under all his quivering. “Relying on you instead? When you’re just as full of lies and manipulation as all of them?”

“Lies?” Needle’s infuriating chuckle reverberated across the closed space. “I’ve never lied to you, my dear boy.”

>> “Did I not say as much in the past? You and I, we share the same tainted essence. There is no other entity that cares about you more than I do.”

And there it was again, staring him right in the face. That same ugly contradiction Brennan faintly grasped at earlier, before Kiel’s interruption whisked it away from his mind. It now blazed before him, one decisive bullet to fire against the Punisher.

“You… You said something before…” Brennan tried to recall the exact words Needle used, but his brain was acting alarmingly shaky. A cold sweat was beginning to run down his back, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to fright or not. “Something along the lines that… I was like all the others.”

>> “If you and I are the same… Then what does that mean?”

Needle's mandibles clacked in a display of barely-contained annoyance. It was the first time that it sounded entirely genuine, as he finally escaped the confines of its carefully woven narrative.

“Hah… You’re not nearly as bright as you give yourself credit for.” It chided with unfiltered resentment, carrying within its voice the promise of a yet unspoken threat —something he didn’t doubt the insect-like Punisher would soon rectify. “Yes, you are correct. You’re not my first host, Brennan.”

>> “And with the way you insist in carrying on, I very much doubt you’ll be the last.” It was a tense standoff, one that he was certain was a pivotal point in their dynamics moving forward. “Is that what you want then? You want me to discard you too?”

>> “Leave you to wallow in the squalid depths of your rudderless existence?”

The thought left Brennan both frozen in spot and unsteady on his feet at the same time. To have Needle simply vanish from his life… To never again be subjected to its torment and venomous words… It should have been a hopeful prospect —a tentative first step back towards the normalcy he believed irrevocably lost.

But as he tried to voice this desire, his tongue felt like dead weight under the gravity of what it meant to part ways with Needle's toxin. It was more than just losing the pain; it was also relinquishing the fleeting moments of liberation, that intense high that momentarily silenced his doubts and made him feel truly alive.

“I… No.” The admission was practically torn from his throat, as his fist clenched impotently at his sides. “I don’t want you to leave, damn it!”

>> “But you need to come down from your high horse! Just once, submit to me, you twisted piece of shit!”

The thunderous peal of Needle's laughter erupted inside the walls like a physical force, a joy that only unnerved him further.

“Didn’t take you for such a skilled comedian, Brennan-boy.” Needle sneered as a response. “As if such imbecilic notion could ever come to pass.”

>> “You’re too weak Brennan. Too cripplingly frail of will and conviction. You will never be able to control me.”

Its ceaseless baying crashed over Brennan in dizzying waves, each mocking syllable sapping what little fortitude remained as his head pounded with mounting intensity. Second by second, more and more worrying physical sensations began to take insidious root, creeping through his veins in cold ruthlessness.

He felt a gnawing ache in his chest, and his mouth felt dry with a thirst that no amount of water could ever satisfy. It was if his very soul was begging in its knees for more of Needle’s toxin, despite knowing full well its potentially destructive effects.

“You’ve noticed it already, haven’t you?” Needle’s laughter finally subsided, but the cruel tone remained —its eyes resembling those of a spider savoring the helpless terror of its ensnared prey. “It doesn’t matter how fervently you try to ignore it.”

>> “Your basest strata has already been rewritten to suit my whims, to conform obediently to all of my desires.”

A sentence cast on the air like a tangible miasma, saturating Brennan’s senses until they blotted out all else. Yes, he could feel it —the ravenous craving emerging through his marrow, his muscles, and every agonizing cell crying out for the venomous relief that only Needle could provide.

“You cannot live without me, Brennan.”

>> “And you will surrender everything, mind and body, to do exactly as I command without a single fail.”

His body was already anguished well past the endurable limits, his resolve hanging by a frayed thread. To resist any further invited a torment he could scarcely fathom… So what choice did he have left?

“For the time being, this circus of degenerates you’ve found yourself surrounded by is… convenient enough for my designs.” Not even considering the minimal possibility of defiance, Needle continued on with casual indifference. “But you better start working on that pitiful attitude of yours while I give you the chance.”

As it began dissipating again, it teased him with the rusty malevolence of its barbed proboscis glinting like a holy relic, away from his grasp as his fingers failed to reach its translucent form.

“Because I won’t be alleviating your anguish this time, no matter how desperately you grovel on the floor for it.”

>> “Not until I'm confident you learnt your lesson.”

Just like that, all of his attempts failed, as they always did. The delusion of autonomy, stripped away. He had no choice but to follow Needle through this labyrinth of broken glass, finding himself in a neighborhood he could no longer escape —fate sealed, as the convulsions of withdrawal began to overpower him.