THE DIMENSIONAL MERCHANT-Chapter 80 - 79: Interrogation

Location: Unknown Basement – Earth

Halden’s eyes opened slowly.

It felt like waking underwater—everything blurred, muted. His thoughts drifted like dust in a storm. Pain pulsed at the base of his skull, rhythmic and cruel, like a drum echoing in a cave.

Overhead, a bare bulb flickered once and buzzed faintly. It swung gently on a rusted wire.

He tried to move—couldn’t.

His wrists were bound tight behind the chair. His arms were numb, locked in place too long. His legs were strapped down, ankles crushed against cold iron. The chair beneath him was bolted to the floor.

He breathed slowly. Deliberately. His Bureau training whispered in the back of his mind:

"Pain is information. Fear is adrenaline. Control both—and you’re still alive."

Then the memories hit him like a flashbang.

The Lancaster house. The hidden door. The Project Astraline files.

And then—

Pain.

Someone had struck him. Hard. Then everything went black.

Now he was here.

Wherever here was.

He scanned the room. Cement walls. No windows. Moisture slicked one side of the concrete. The air was thick with mildew... and something sharper beneath it.

He saw the table next. Laid out in perfect, surgical rows—tools.

Not tools for fixing.

Tools for breaking.

Pliers. Hooks. A scalpel. A rusted hammer. Even a small surgical saw—the kind used to separate fingers from hands.

A single lamp glowed over the table. It flickered once, then steadied.

Halden tested the ropes again. No give.

Then a voice behind him—smooth, calm, almost cheerful:

"You’re awake. Finally."

"You made me wait a long time."

Halden turned his head as far as he could. Footsteps echoed against the floor. A man stepped into view, his face half-lit by the lamp.

Halden’s chest tightened—not with fear. With recognition.

"...You?"

The man smiled slightly.

"Yes. I am."

He stepped fully into the light. Not too close. Not too far. The kind of distance where you could watch a man break—safely.

Halden said nothing. He held the man’s gaze, searching for something—weakness, humanity, even rage.

There was none.

"Why are you doing this?" Halden asked, voice flat.

The man gave a soft laugh.

"No, no. I ask the questions. You’re the one tied to a chair, remember?"

He moved to the table and ran his fingers slowly along the tools—like a man selecting dessert.

"So," he said, almost tenderly, "tell me: What were you doing there? And who sent you?"

Halden didn’t answer.

He just stared.

Chest rising and falling. Slowly. His silence was louder than any scream.

"Yes, I know you won’t say anything easily. It seems like you’ll make me work hard." He sighed, as if disappointed. "Which I hate to do. But what can I do? You’re forcing me to."

He picked up the hammer. Turned it in his palm like he was checking its weight.

"You see," he said lightly, "I don’t enjoy this part. I prefer conversation. Civilized people should be able to talk things through."

Then, without warning—he stepped forward.

No theatrics.

Just a clean swing.

CRACK.

The hammer struck Halden’s shin—not hard enough to shatter, but sharp enough to send lightning through bone.

Halden clenched his teeth. Didn’t scream.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

The man exhaled through his nose.

"See? That’s what I mean. Now I have to keep going."

He leaned in closer, his tone almost curious.

His eyes were pale—cold—void of emotion. Studying Halden like a specimen.

"You broke into the wrong place," the man said. "That house isn’t a home. It’s a vault. And you picked the wrong lock."

Then, almost gently:

"You have beautiful eyes. I’ve always wanted a pair like that in my collection."

Halden’s breath hitched.

But he didn’t flinch.

Instead, he spat blood on the floor.

"Go to hell."

The man laughed again. Quiet. Almost fond.

"Eventually. We all will. But I’ve got a few... detours planned first."

He reached for the next tool—a heavy, modified industrial stapler. Steel, stained, and retrofitted.

"You know," he mused, "people think pain breaks a man. But it doesn’t. It reveals him. The strong ones don’t scream. They whisper."

He brought the stapler down on Halden’s left hand.

CLACK—!

"AAAGGHHHHH!"

"AAHHH—F-FUCK!"

Metal bit into flesh.

Halden screamed. His body recoiled, blood spilling from the web between his thumb and forefinger.

Drip. Drip.

The man’s eyes lit up—almost pleased.

"Beautiful sound."

Halden’s breath came fast now.

Hhhhhh—hhhhh—

Sweat beaded down his temple.

Still, he forced the words out:

"You’re not going to get away with this. Once the government finds out—"

CRACK!

"HHHHHRRRRAAAHHHHHH!"

Another hammer strike. Same leg. Deeper this time.

A white flash burst behind Halden’s eyes. His body twisted in agony, and the edges of the world blurred.

The man didn’t yell. He didn’t gloat. He just waited for Halden to return to consciousness. Like it was a routine checkup.

"You think they don’t know?" he said quietly. "You think they don’t allow this?"

He gave a short, bitter laugh.

"How do you think we’re even able to do this?"

Then, with cold certainty:

"You still believe there’s a line—between right and wrong, law and crime, government and shadow. But the truth is—we form the government. We write the script.

Their job? It’s not to stop us.

It’s to cover for us."

Another bitter laugh. The kind that didn’t reach the eyes.

"You really don’t get it. That’s what I love. People like you—blind, ignorant, patriotic ghosts—you’re still clinging to the rules of a game that ended a long time ago."

He leaned in slowly. Closer. Close enough that Halden could smell it—the man’s breath. Faintly minty.

"You’re still playing checkers while the real game is chess. Deep State. Private labs. Shadow funds. You’re a decade behind."

He stood tall again. Shrugged.

"And you think anyone cares about a missing agent? Not even active duty anymore. Retired. Forgotten."

Halden didn’t respond. His vision pulsed. The pain in his hand was now a living thing.

"You’re sick," he muttered.

The man tilted his head.

"Maybe. But I’m alive. You’re not—unless you cooperate."

He turned and reached for the scalpel.

"Let’s see how long that defiance lasts... without fingers."

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