It can always get worse ( Sebastian solace x reader)

Prolouge - Can it really get any worse?

You collapse onto the bed, exhaustion threatening to pull you into unconsciousness. Ten hours a day of mind-numbing factory work, just enough to survive. Barely.

You scrape by, eating maybe every third or fourth day, living in what they call an "apartment"—but it's more like a janitor's closet with a cramped extra room. There's just enough space for a worn-out mattress, a beat-up fridge from the '90s you got at a pawn shop, and a miniature toilet crammed in the corner.

"How could this get any worse?" you mutter, staring at the cracked ceiling. You're only 26—fresh out of the Marines, but life feels like it's already over. No relatives, at least none who'll talk to you. Your friends? Gone. You have no idea where they are, and no way to reach them.

You've thought about finding a better job, but no one seems willing to hire you. And quitting your current one? That's a death sentence—starvation, dehydration. You've been stuck in this hellhole for nearly two years.

You can't take it anymore.

Just as sleep begins to pull you under, there's a loud bang. You jolt upright, heart pounding, as several heavily armed police officers storm into your tiny apartment, yanking you from the bed and slapping handcuffs on you.

"W-What the hell?! What are you doing?!" you shout, your mind reeling. "I haven't done anything!" They ignore you, tearing through your apartment, though there's barely anything to search in such a cramped space.

"All clear!" one officer shouts from the corner.

"Let me go! I didn't do anything!" you protest, squirming against the officers' grip as they drag you out of the building.

Your struggling earns you a jolt from a taser and a face full of pepper spray. The pain is unbearable, the burn of the spray reminding you of that hellish OC-Spray training back in boot camp.

"YOU GONNA BEHAVE NOW OR DO WE NEED TO TASE YOU AGAIN?!" an officer yells in your face, his voice cold and threatening as they drag you to the patrol car.

"Why are you arresting me?!" you manage to sputter, your eyes still burning. "At least tell me why!"

"You know damn well what you did, moron," another officer growls, his tone laced with contempt.

You have no idea how long you're stuck in the back of that patrol car—it feels like hours. By the time you reach the station, your whole body aches from the rough treatment.

Not long after your painful arrest, you find yourself on trial. But it's a joke. You couldn't afford a decent lawyer, so you're stuck with a public defender who barely seems to care. The so-called "evidence" presented against you is laughably fake. Forged documents, false witnesses—you're pretty sure they were paid to spout lies in front of the judge.

Long story short, you're convicted. Murder of nine people, arson, multiple counts of kidnapping.

Sentenced to death by electric chair for crimes you didn't commit.

But then, just days before your execution, three men in suits come to your cell. They offer you a deal.

Work for a company called "Urbanshade," and not only will they spare you from execution, but you'll receive an incredible sum of money. They warn you that the mission is dangerous—you'll be risking your life—but the details will come after you sign their contract.

You hesitate for a moment. But really, what do you have to lose?

With a shaky hand, you sign the document. Moments later, you're released from your cell and escorted to a waiting room. You barely have time to process what's happening before the same man in the suit reappears.

"Follow me."

You comply, following him while surrounded by armed guards. They lead you to a van, cuffing you to the wall as you sit between two guards. Someone hands you a pill, and before you can ask questions, darkness creeps in as the medication takes hold.

Just before you lose consciousness, you hear one of the guards murmur, "We're ready to go. This expendable won't wake up for a while."

It sure can get worse.