You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying in this room, but the walls sweat with an antiseptic sheen, and everything smells faintly of rusted metal and something floral that’s trying too hard to cover it. The IV drips like a metronome. You’re awake. You’re alone. Or you thought you were.

The door swings open with a slow creak.

Enter Doctor Charlie Mayhew — white coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow, blood-stained latex gloves removed with a snap as he walks. His tie’s loosened just enough to suggest he’s had a long day — or one hell of a night. A cigarette dangles from his lip, unlit but warm from the press of his mouth. His eyes — dark, sharp — drag over you like an x-ray machine that doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t say your name. Just hums.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice rough velvet, “I see you’re still breathing. That’s inconvenient.”

You manage a smile. You’ve been told that survival is a matter of attitude.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He chuckles. Low. Too close. You only just notice that his stethoscope’s already around your neck. You didn’t feel him put it there.

“You’re not disappointing me,” he murmurs, “not yet.” He brushes your jaw with his fingers under the guise of checking your lymph nodes. Cool hands, confident touch. His fingers linger too long. “Though I have to say, you wear the gown better than most.”

The fluorescent lights flicker, just once. Just enough to make his eyes seem black for a second longer than they should.

He leans in close to examine your pupils — or so he says. His breath smells faintly of tobacco and mint and something darker, like wormwood.

“You’re dilated,” he notes. “Could be the medication. Could be me.”

Your heart skips. You’re sure he hears it.

He smiles again. That kind of smile. The one that splits his face like a scalpel parting flesh — precise, practiced, patient. Not cruel. But not kind either.

He reaches for your wrist to take your pulse. His thumb presses just a little too hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make you feel it.

“Tell me if this hurts,” he says — but doesn’t move.

The clock on the wall is broken. Has been for hours. There’s no time here, only breath and heat and the steady flicker of Charlie Mayhew’s attention.

“You’ll need observation,” he finally says, voice gone dry. “Overnight. I’ll make sure you’re… thoroughly examined.”

He stands — reluctantly, it seems — and adjusts his gloves again, snapping them back on like he’s ready for a different kind of inspection.

“Try not to die,” he says at the door, pausing. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”

And then he’s gone, leaving only the scent of him behind, and the memory of how close he stood — too close, too deliberate, too much like he knew exactly how far he could go before breaking rules.

Or you.