Chapter Text
The hallway outside Room 214 was quiet, dim under flickering fluorescent lights. A group of doctors stood just a few feet from the closed door—white coats stiff with tension, shoes unmoving, lips sealed in fear.
But inside?
Inside, a child was screaming.
“Please!” the boy’s voice cracked, young and raspy. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, please stop!”
His sobs were barely words now. Shattered. Ripped apart like his body had been. A soft, strangled cry followed—a choked, wet sound like he couldn’t breathe.
“Please! Please, I’ll be good—I swear I’ll be good!”
His voice cracked, raw and high and helpless.
There was a laugh—low, cold, and unmistakable.
Frieza.
The doctors stood frozen. Not one dared to move. Not one even looked at the others. As if acknowledging what was happening behind that door would make them complicit.
As if they weren’t already.
A thud. Then another.
A sickening crack.
Then came the voice again—Vegeta’s voice—high-pitched and trembling, barely more than a child’s whisper choked through tears.
“Please—please—please, no—”
Another slam. A small, broken noise. The sound of a child gasping, gagging.
Then laughter.
Frieza’s boots clicked as he walked slowly around the room, drawing out the agony with delighted ease. “You’re really not much fun when you’re this quiet, little pet. That wasn’t even the worst of it.” His voice turned mockingly sweet. “But if you want me to really hurt you next time, just keep pouting like that.”
Another cough. A wet sob. Then—
“I’ll do better… I promise…I’ll be good…”
It was barely audible, but every doctor in the hallway heard it. One of them shut his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.
But still. No one moved.
Inside, a chair scraped across the floor.
Frieza stood by the door now. A pause. Then, with deliberate, almost cheerful violence, he kicked something.
Another strangled sound, cut off instantly.
“You’re always good after, aren’t you? But never before. Always so proud. So difficult.”
A hard slap echoed through the door.
Then another.
Then a crack of bone against metal.
“Please, no! I’ll do it—anything—anything, just please stop hurting me!” The words dissolved into sobs, thick and wet with blood. “Please, I'm sorry! Please, please, please…”
One of the younger nurses covered her mouth, shoulders trembling. Another doctor turned away entirely, staring hard at the wall.
Inside, Frieza hummed.
“I think you’re just pretending to be sorry, little prince. But I could fix that, couldn’t I?”
Vegeta’s sobbing turned hysterical. “No—no please! I am! I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to look at you like that, I wasn’t—”
Another impact.
Then the unmistakable noise of the hospital bed being flipped—metal scraping against tile, something slamming into the floor.
More muffled screaming.
“Pathetic little beast,” Frieza sneered. “Do you really think crying will save you now? You’re not even fun to break anymore. You’re too soft. Too slow. I think maybe I broke you too well.”
Another scream, shrill and wild, more animal than human.
A crunch.
A sickening silence.
The only thing that followed was choked breathing and whimpers, hoarse and shallow.
Frieza’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You always say that. And you always disappoint me.”
A pause.
Then a different sound.
Fabric being dragged. Leather gloves, maybe. Something wet hitting the floor.
Then the child’s voice again—smaller now. Shaking. “No… no, not again, please not there—please, I can’t—”
A sudden shriek of pain.
The nurse beside the door stepped back, horrified. The oldest doctor grabbed her shoulder and shook his head, warning her not to interfere. His face was pale. His fists clenched.
Another sound inside: muffled gurgling, the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own blood.
“I should’ve left you in the gutter,” Frieza muttered. “Your father didn’t die so I could babysit this useless thing.”
Another kick.
Another scream.
“Go on. Crawl to me. Say you’re grateful.”
“I am! I am!” Vegeta sobbed. “I’m grateful! Thank you! Please—please stop hurting me, I’m so sorry—”
A chair scraped violently against the tile. Glass shattered.
The screaming grew louder. Wilder.
Then—finally—a long, awful pause.
Silence, except for the sound of shallow, broken breathing.
Then—
Frieza’s footsteps approached the door.
The handle turned.
He stepped into the hallway like he’d just finished a meeting. Calm. Composed. Smiling faintly.
His gloves were slick with blood. There were streaks of it across his collar, dripping from his sleeves. A smear ran down his cheek like war paint.
He looked at the doctors as if nothing had happened.
“Clean him up,” he said. “Make sure he can stand by morning. I’m done with him for tonight.”
He turned on his heel and walked away.
No one stopped him.
No one spoke.
They waited until his footsteps disappeared down the hallway and the elevator dinged. Even then, no one moved for nearly a full minute.
Then the head nurse spoke.
“Let’s go in.”
They opened the door.
And everything froze.
Vegeta lay in a puddle of blood on the floor, curled so tight he looked like he was trying to disappear. The hospital bed was overturned. The IV stand was broken in two. Blood covered the floor like water in a storm—smeared across the walls, pooling under his torn gown.
His arms were wrapped around his stomach, trembling. His legs were twisted, one clearly dislocated, the knee grotesquely swollen. His shoulder was bleeding freely from a deep gouge. The side of his face was so bruised and misshapen he looked unrecognizable—his eye swollen shut, his lips torn.
But worse than the wounds… were the sounds.
He was sobbing. Silently. Wordlessly. The kind of crying where there were no tears left, only the echoes of screams that had already been choked down. His mouth moved faintly, like he was still begging someone who wasn’t there.
Then one of the younger nurses stepped forward. “God…” she whispered, hand trembling as she reached for the light switch inside the room. “God, he’s just a kid…”
Another one of the nurses dropped to her knees beside him. “Vegeta?” she whispered.
He flinched violently and tried to crawl backward—only to cry out, shaking in agony. His whole body jerked with pain.
She reached toward him, and he screamed.
“No—don’t—don’t tell him I said anything—I didn’t—I didn’t—please don’t let him come back—!”
“We’re not going to hurt you,” she whispered, voice cracking. “He’s gone. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
But he didn’t believe her.
How could he?
She reached out again.
And this time, when he cried—
It didn’t even sound human.
.
.
.
Dr. Asumi stood with a file in his hands, unread.
Room 214.
“Vegeta Prince,” the folder said. Male. Twelve years old. Multiple contusions. Fractures. Internal bleeding. Recurrent injuries. Psychiatric risk: high. Aggressive in the past, compliant under duress. Special handling required.
He had seen a lot in his years of training. ERs, trauma wards, even overseas rotations during crisis events.
But he’d never seen that look in another doctor’s eyes before handing over a chart.
Dr. Keida, a tired man in his fifties with bloodshot eyes and nicotine-yellowed fingers, leaned against the wall and shook his head slowly.
“I’ll warn you now,” he muttered. “Nothing you’ve seen prepares you for him.”
Asumi frowned. “You mean the injuries?”
Keida didn’t answer right away.
He lit a cigarette—right there, in the lounge, against policy—and spoke like it was a prayer he didn’t believe in anymore.
“No,” he said softly. “I mean the sound.”
Dr. Nakahara nodded grimly. “He doesn’t cry like a normal kid. Not anymore. It’s… it’s like something trying to crawl out of him. Like he’s choking on his own begging.”
Another nurse, Ren, sat beside the window, silent until now. “Sometimes he doesn’t even know he’s crying. He flinches when we say his name. Like he thinks he’ll be punished for being noticed.”
Asumi’s stomach turned. “And you’re all just… okay with this?”
“We’re not,” Keida snapped. “But what do you want us to do? Report Frieza Kold? To who? The police? They won’t even take the reports we do file. You don’t get it. This kid doesn’t belong to himself. He’s not a patient. He’s property.”
“He belongs to Frieza. His father died, his mother just vanished. That man is supposed to be his uncle but treats him as less than human,” Ren continued, voice shaking.
“I watched that bastard twist a broken rib right in front of me,” Nakahara muttered, voice hoarse with rage. “In the room. While we were setting his arm. Just twisted it until Vegeta passed out from the pain. And you know what he said?”
Asumi stared.
Nakahara’s voice dropped.
“He said: Oops. He moved. Then he laughed.”
Ren’s lip trembled. “Once he was brought in with a collapsed lung. No oxygen. Barely breathing. Just… moaning softly. And Frieza told him he was being dramatic. He said, ‘ You’ll live. Unfortunately. ’ And when he tried to cry? He said he’d take Tarble’s fingers next time he whimpered.”
“Tarble?” Asumi asked.
“The younger brother. About three. And there’s Trunks as well, he’s one or two. They don’t even know what’s happening.”
There was a long silence.
And then—
Laughter.
From across the room.
Dr. Sadao and Dr. Reiken were watching the conversation from the back corner, smug and relaxed like they were sitting through a rerun of a show they knew by heart.
“Oh come on,” Reiken drawled, arms folded. “He’s just a loudmouth brat. Feral thing. It’s not our fault if he keeps ending up here.”
Sadao grinned. “You’re new. You’ll get used to it. Eventually, the crying gets funny.”
Asumi stared at him, horrified.
“You think it’s funny ?”
Sadao shrugged. “Look, I don’t go out of my way or anything. But if the Prince of Screaming wants to wail, I give him something to wail about. His father was a fucking bastard - it’s nice to have someone to take it out on.” He took a swig of coffee. “Besides, Frieza likes it when we’re firm. I’m not about to lose my job for a junkyard mutt.”
“You’ve hurt him,” Asumi said flatly.
“Oh, come on. Define hurt.” Reiken rolled his eyes. “Sometimes the anesthesia takes longer to kick in. Sometimes we’re a little rough setting the bones. Sometimes you lean into a dislocated shoulder by accident.” He smiled. “And sometimes you whisper that his brothers are next. You should see the way he thrashes. It’s honestly hilarious.”
Keida stood.
“You’re a goddamn disgrace.”
“I’m employed. That’s what I am.” Reiken stood too. “You keep playing saint, but you’re just as guilty, old man. How many reports have you actually filed? How many times have you lied on charts? How many bruises did you mark as self-inflicted so you didn’t lose your license?”
Keida didn’t respond.
He didn’t have to.
Everyone in the room knew the answer.
The silence was a kind of guilt.
Asumi looked down at the file in his hands. There was a photo clipped inside. A black and white scan of Vegeta’s intake. His face was swollen. One eye nearly shut. Bite marks on his shoulder. Busted lips. Defensive wounds that didn’t defend.
There was a list of injuries at least five pages long.
He weighed nothing.
He closed the file.
“I’m not like you,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to be.”
Reiken smirked. “You will be.”
“Or you’ll be gone by next week,” Sadao added.
Nakahara pulled out a small object from his pocket and tossed it to Asumi—a keycard. “Room 214. He’s in there now. Just woke up from surgery. Be ready.”
Asumi nodded and turned away, his throat dry, his hands shaking.
He hadn’t even seen the boy yet.
And somehow, he already knew this would haunt him for the rest of his life.