I Woke Up in the Marvel Universe, But All the Heroes Are Women?-Chapter 61: Back to Work

My blood has crusted around the gauze. I can feel it when I touch the edges of the bandage covering what used to be my right eye. It itches sometimes, but the pain meds keep the worst of it dull, a small mercy in this underwater hell.
Norma's arm tightens around my waist as she spoons me, her breath hot against the back of my neck. The steady rise and fall of her chest tells me she's still asleep, but even unconscious, she maintains that possessive grip. Like I'm a stuffed animal she can't bear to let go of.
I stare at the wall, counting the rivets for the hundredth time. It's been five days since she took my eye. Five days of this new routine.
She doesn't even bother making me teleport. Just crushes a pill into my food and waits for it to take effect. Whatever it is makes my limbs heavy, my thoughts sluggish, but leaves me conscious enough to experience everything she does to me. A special kind of torture, present but powerless.
A tear slides down my cheek, tracing a warm path to the pillow beneath my head. I try to blink the others away, but they keep coming, silent traitors revealing my weakness.
"Honey, are you crying again?" Norma's voice is thick with sleep, but I can hear the smile in it, that awful maternal tone that makes my skin crawl.
"Sorry," I whisper, hating how easily the apology comes now, how quickly I've learned to placate her.
Her lips press against my neck, and I feel her smile widen against my skin. "There's no need to cry," she says softly, her fingers splaying possessively across my stomach. "I've got you."
I close my remaining eye, wishing I could disappear into the darkness behind my eyelid. I used to dream of being a superhero, of fighting alongside the characters I'd worshipped my whole life.
The chain on my ankle rattles slightly as I shift, trying to put even a millimeter of space between our bodies. It's pointless.
"What are you thinking about?" she murmurs, her hand sliding up to rest against my chest, directly over my heart. She must feel how it races at her touch, a pavlovian response of fear.
I say nothing. What is there to say anymore? Her hands slide possessively over my body, fingers tracing patterns across my skin like I'm her property. She hums a tune I don't recognize, the vibration of her chest against my back making me feel sick.
"I have to go today," she says finally, her lips brushing against my ear.
"What?" The word escapes me before I can stop it, a flicker of hope igniting in my chest despite everything.
"Yup," she confirms, stretching languidly behind me. "Been down here too long. Need to get back to business." Her fingers trace the edge of my bandage, making me flinch. "But don't worry, I'll be back this weekend."
The brief flame of hope extinguishes as quickly as it appeared. Just a temporary reprieve, not freedom. Never freedom.
"In the meantime," she continues, her voice taking on that sickeningly playful tone, "I decided to invite an old friend of yours to watch you."
"Huh?" I turn slightly, my remaining eye widening with confusion and fresh terror.
Norma stirs and sits up, the mattress shifting under her weight. She studies my face with that clinical detachment that always precedes her moments of twisted care. When her eyes land on my bandaged eye, a frown creases her perfect features.
"Come on, honey," she says, her voice soft in a way that makes my stomach churn. "It's time to change that bandage."
I sit up obediently, my movements mechanical. The chain on my ankle clinks against the metal frame of the bed, a constant reminder of my captivity. Norma reaches for the medical supplies she keeps on the small table beside the bed, her movements precise and practiced.
Her hands are gentle as she peels away the old gauze, her touch almost reverent. I keep my remaining eye fixed on the wall, counting rivets to distract myself from the intimacy of her care.
"Looking better," she murmurs, though I know it's a lie. The socket is probably still raw and hollow, a gruesome reminder of what she's capable of. "Just a little cleaning now."
The antiseptic stings, but I don't flinch. I've learned that reactions only encourage her. She applies a fresh bandage with the same careful precision she uses for everything, smoothing the edges with her fingertips. When she finishes, her hand lingers on my cheek.
"I'm going to miss you so much," she whispers, leaning forward to press her lips against mine.
I remain perfectly still, my mouth unresponsive beneath hers.
Her eyes flash, that dangerous green darkening as she pulls back. "Honey," she says, a fake little laugh bubbling from her throat. "Good boys kiss back, remember?"
The threat beneath her words is clear as day. I've learned the consequences of disobedience in this underwater prison. With resignation weighing heavy in my chest, I lean forward and kiss her properly, inserting my tongue the way she taught me she likes it. My body goes through the motions while my mind retreats to some distant corner where I can pretend this isn't happening.
"That's better," she purrs when we separate, satisfaction written across her face. Her fingers trace my jawline possessively. "Are you going to miss me?"
I stare at her, the words "no" burning in my throat like acid. What I wouldn't give to spit that single syllable in her face, to see her perfect composure shatter one last time before she hurts me again. But self-preservation wins out, as it always does now.
"Honey..." she prompts, her voice hardening just enough to remind me of the fork.
"Yes," I whisper, the lie bitter on my tongue.