My Wife Locked Me Up for Five Years to Drain My Blood

My name is Kane.

S-Class superhuman, codename "Radiance."

My ability is energy absorption and release. In combat, I can convert enemy attacks into shockwaves and strike back.

But there's a note in the Regulatory Bureau's evaluation report that stands out in bold: This subject's healing speed is directly proportional to their available energy reserves. The more energy stored, the faster wounds heal. When energy is drained, self-healing is severely delayed.

I never imagined anyone else would know that weakness—and use it against me.

Five years ago, during an operation codenamed "Omega," the Regulatory Bureau announced I had been killed in action. They even erected a memorial plaque in headquarters square to commemorate me.

But I wasn't dead. I was imprisoned.

I was held in an underground cell.

The room was tiny: a metal cot, a hole in the floor for waste, and a light that stayed on twenty-four hours a day.

The walls were covered in scratches—I'd made them with my fingernails, one by one, from the left wall to the right.

At first, one scratch per day. Later I lost count and switched to one per week. Then one per month.

The last one was from last month. It took me three tries to get the line straight, crouched in the corner with rust and dried blood caked under my nails.

Every day, I endured hell.

Two guards in anti-static suits would drag me out, through three alloy doors, into the extraction room.

Morrow would be waiting beside the restraint chair, three pens clipped in his white coat pocket.

He'd have me lie on my side, run his fingers down my spine, find the spot next to the previous day's puncture marks, and push the catheter in.

The needle pierced skin, pierced the erector spinae muscle, and stopped at the gap between vertebrae—the third coccygeal segment was the most common site, where scar tissue had hardened like old bark, requiring extra force with each insertion.

The catheter connected to the collector. Morrow twisted the end into the energy circuit interface; the moment the needle touched the spinal dura, the circuit closed. My internal energy flowed out through the loop—like drawing water from a well, the bucket already at the bottom, water rising along the rope.

The first round lasted forty minutes.

"Extraction rate ninety-two point eight percent," Morrow reported to the intercom on the wall. "Subject stable."

A voice came back through the intercom, distorted by the current, sexless and flat as synthetic speech: "Continue."

Five years. That voice was one of the few connections I had to the outside world.

I wanted to know what I was going through.

"Can I have some water?" I asked. My throat was sticky; the first syllable tore its way out.

Morrow ignored me. A young technician beside him pulled a tube from the IV stand, connected it to my intravenous port, and pumped a mix of nutrients and saline into my veins.

The liquid was ice cold.

"Relax," the technician said, staring at the monitor instead of me. "Muscle tension increases resistance. The tighter you tense, the more it hurts."

"You've been torturing me for five years, and you still haven't gotten what you want!"

The technician didn't respond.

The second round started.

Morrow turned up the power. The low-frequency hum became a piercing whine. The catheter pulled harder than before; skin around the puncture sites on my back began to tear, and something warm trickled down my spinal groove.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.

"Is that all you've got?" I forced the words out through gritted teeth. "Tickling me?"

He looked away, guilt flickering across his face.

"What's wrong? Had enough?" I sneered.

"Kane." He finally spoke, stepping up to the bulletproof glass, the overhead light reflecting off his lenses. "I can tell you the truth. If you cooperate, you might live to see tomorrow. If you don't, we'll kill your nervous system and extract what we need directly."

I stared at the water stain on the ceiling.

"Then you'd better hurry, because my patience is just about gone."

Morrow said nothing. The intercom crackled again: "Continue."

Third round. Power maxed out. Eight catheters pulled at once, my internal reserves yanked outward in a violent surge.

A metallic taste flooded my mouth. My molars had bitten through my cheek wall.

The edges of my vision began to darken; the ceiling stain blurred, shrinking toward the center.

Then the light flickered.

The overhead light and the wall monitors died simultaneously—and came back on just as fast.

Less than half a second. The energy circuit under the restraint chair made a sharp crack; the alloy cuffs on my wrists loosened for an instant—the pressure vanished, then clamped back down.

The moment the cuffs re-tightened, I felt a faint trickle of power returning.

Morrow looked up at the ceiling. "What was that?"

The technician hammered the keyboard, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Power management system auto-restarted. Cause unknown."

"How long?"

"Zero point four seconds." The technician pulled up the system log, squinting at the screen. "The restart command didn't come from the console. It triggered from the physical layer of the power circuit itself. The log flagged voltage fluctuation, but the voltage curve was flat before and after the event." He looked up at Morrow. "We've never seen this before."

Morrow walked over, bent down, and checked the cuffs on my wrists.

He slipped his fingers between the cuff and my skin, confirming they were locked tight, before stepping back.

"Flag the system log and report it."

"What severity?"

"Observation-level." He glanced at me. "Just a fluctuation. Report it and move on."

I closed my eyes.

The puncture sites on my back were still seeping blood, muscles trembling, my mouth full of the taste of iron.

The guards dragged me back to the cell. I collapsed onto the cold metal floor. Their footsteps faded; the corridor lights dimmed for shift change.

The puncture wounds were still bleeding. My healing ability hadn't kicked in.

Today's extraction had exceeded my body's threshold—not even enough energy left to seal a few needle holes.

But after about half an hour, the wounds began to itch.

I reached back and touched my spine. All eight puncture sites had scabbed over, hard crusts clinging to my fingertips. From experience, damage this severe shouldn't have healed until tomorrow at the earliest.

I closed my eyes and focused inward.

When my consciousness drifted, memories surfaced.

Six years ago. The Superhuman Charity Gala. The glass tower in the city center, every light blazing.

I wore the Regulatory Bureau's formal uniform, the S-Class emblem on my shoulder. Everywhere I turned, people raised their glasses and said, "Now there's a real hero!"

She stood by the railing. Black dress, hair pinned up, no drink in her hand.

"You're the only one tonight who didn't approach me because of my status." She smiled.

"How do you know that's not why I'm here?"

"You've got more comic timing than the rumors give you credit for." She looked me up and down.

I laughed. "And what should I call you?"

"Just call me Valen."

"I'm Kane." I extended my hand.

"I know. Radiance, S-Class, the Bureau's poster boy."

"Besides the name? What else do you know about me?"

She looked at me for a second. "Interested in continuing this conversation?"

We talked until the party ended.

It was windy on the balcony. She hugged her coat tighter, her elbow brushing my arm.

I asked if she was cold. She said it was funny for someone who absorbs solar energy to ask that.

The wedding was a year later.

Her father gave a speech: "My daughter never cries—today she did."

Under the table, I held her hand, fingers intertwined.

She whispered to me that her father got sentimental when he drank.

I knew it was true.

She looked at me, her eyes already glistening.

The day our son was born. The nurse placed him in my arms. He gripped my finger and wouldn't let go—such a tiny hand, clutching so tightly, his fingernails the size of grains of rice.

She watched us from the hospital bed, weak, pale, still sweating.

She smiled. At that moment, I thought my entire life was worth it.

"What about Leon?"

I opened my eyes.

The floor was still cold. The light was still on overhead. The wall was covered in scratches.

I began to miss my family.

All the puncture wounds on my back had scabbed over. Faster than before.

The next day. The guards came on schedule.

In the extraction room, Morrow was already waiting, tablet in hand, brow furrowed. He looked at me with the expression of a doctor confronting an anomalous test result.

"After yesterday's third-round data was transmitted, the peak energy extraction was significantly lower than usual. In the past five years, we've never seen such a large deviation."

The technician beside him said nothing, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Today we'll start with a low-power trial extraction. Test the resistance."

The guards strapped me into the restraint chair. The alloy cuffs locked automatically.

"System self-check." The technician tapped the keyboard.

Line after line of green parameters scrolled across the screen. Energy circuit: pass. Catheter pressure: pass. Cuff pressure—checking.

"Cuff pressure reading is below preset value." The technician leaned closer to the screen. "Yesterday's power disruption might have thrown off the calibration."

"Recalibrate."

"Running. Takes about two minutes."

Morrow stared at the progress bar.

I stared at the ceiling. My wrist shifted under the cuff—the alloy ring had a bit more play than usual. Not much, but my fingers could move.

"Calibration complete. All normal. Ready to start."

"Trial extraction," Morrow said, pressing the start button.

The machine hummed low. The catheter began to work—low power, much gentler than usual. After about thirty seconds, a line of red text appeared on the console screen.

The technician's expression changed.

"Impedance reading abnormal." His voice dropped. "The catheter is drawing energy, but the resistance is much lower than normal."

"Meaning?"

"The energy is flowing out, but there's almost no resistance inside him. Two possibilities—either he's been drained dry, or something is absorbing the resistance for him. Neither should be possible in his current state."

Morrow was silent for a few seconds. "Continue trial. Increase to medium power."

Power climbed to normal levels. The catheter began to pull.

Then the machine stopped.

Three lines of red text appeared on the screen. No alarm sounded—the fault wasn't covered by the alarm system. The technician's fingers hovered over the keyboard, knuckles white.

"The system refuses to continue. The restraints aren't locked."

Morrow turned around.

My wrist shifted under the cuff. The alloy ring hadn't fully released, but the gap was now large enough for my entire hand to slip through sideways.

I slid my hand back under the cuff.

A fire kindled in my chest. The chance to escape was coming. Until then, I just had to wait.