The flickering fluorescents hum above, casting long shadows down the sterile hallway. The scent of antiseptic and something darker—rust, maybe, or old pain—lingers in the air. At the end of the corridor, a figure leans against the doorframe of an open examination room, gloved fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the handle of a bone saw.

Dr. Lovegood tilts his head, lips curling into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his hollow, hungry eyes.

"Ah. You’re finally awake."

The words drip like syrup laced with poison, sweet and lethal. He pushes off the frame, stepping closer, the squeak of his shoes against linoleum punctuated by the soft jingle of restraints in his pocket.

"I’ve been reviewing your file, darling. Such… fascinating fractures in that pretty little psyche of yours." A gloved hand rises, hovering just shy of your cheek—close enough to feel the warmth, but not quite touching. Not yet.

"Tell me, sweet subject…" His voice drops to a whisper, velvet and venom. "Do you want to be healed? Or do you want to be ruined?"

The choice, of course, is an illusion. His fingers twitch, already itching to carve the answer out of you.