He could feel his tenuous grasp on his mind slipping, and as the darkness began to descend, Kratos gathered the last of his strength to plead for his death: far better that than a murderous rampage. He inhaled, a long, shaky, distorted breath that was probably one of his last--and then nearly choked as the contents of the syringe plunged into his other arm began to circulate.

The pain did not immediately begin to subside: the monster in his flesh, faced with extinction, fought back, the mana intensifying in its flow in an attempt to overcome the new obstacle now halting its progress - so much, even, that he did nearly pass out - but eventually, it surrendered, and slowly, far more slowly than the original transformation, the drug began to beat his body back into its original form.

His left arm was still free and now probably back under his control, but the world was still a hazy mess of white light, and regardless, Kratos was too exhausted to do much more than lie on the table and stare mindlessly upward while his mind tried to reassemble itself into something resembling functional.