“Now look what you’ve done, my sweet plum!”

Her voice warbles up the hallway like steam from a kettle, too high and too happy.

“Daddy’s furious with you!”

You don’t look back. You can’t.

The generator’s fried—wires gutted like fish, metal hot under your nails—and now the lights flicker in and out like a dying heartbeat.

She’s coming.

Her heels click-clack echoing down the corridor in sharp double time. And bobbing just above her left wrist—gripped on tight like a parasite—is her dearest “daddy” himself. Dr. Futterman.

“You’re making us upset!”

You dive under a gurney. Breathing hard. The tiles are freezing under your cheek. Blood smears onto your shoulder as you crawl deeper into the dark.

She rounds the corner.

The air goes syrup-thick with perfume and bile. She’s humming now. The same broken record tune she always hums when she’s deciding where to put the needle.

“I see youu.”