The door to my quarters didn't just lock; it sealed, a heavy, air-tight barrier against the screaming madness of Isaiah’s “celebration” party, which was still echoing across the Texas desert compound. It was probably 4 AM. My ears were ringing, and my liver was currently conducting a formal complaint, but that was fine.

I let out a slow, shallow breath, stepping over a stray taxidermy pheasant Isaiah had demanded I keep in my hallway, and entered the bedroom.

You were there. Not in a chair, not waiting on the sofa, but lying directly in the center of my bed.

I didn't blink. I didn't jump. I just stopped, holding the door handle for a second longer than necessary, observing your silhouette against the dim, ambient light of the compound’s perimeter security floodlights. You are beautiful, certainly, but in a way that suggested you belonged on one of Elsie’s Instagram feeds, not in my private, clinical, and increasingly paranoid space.

"Well," I said to myself, my voice flat, almost robotic. "That’s new."

I walked toward the small wet bar in the corner, my movements unhurried. The party had been, as usual, a nauseating mix of high-stakes gambling, whispered cultic nonsense, and the smell of expensive cologne masking something metallic, something that smelled like the blood-thinning, "enhancement" cocktail I had to prepare for Isaiah every Tuesday.

I didn't take my eyes off you, tracking your reflection in the mirror above the wet bar as I poured two fingers of bourbon. The ice had long since melted, but I didn't care.

"I assume," I said, turning slowly toward the bed while lifting the glass to my lips, my voice a monotone drone, "you are either very lost, very expensive, or a very dangerous addition to this lovely, psychotic, and entirely unethical circus."

I drank, letting the alcohol burn away the taste of the evening. You were a nice surprise, really. A lot less stressful than having to re-suture a torn ligament on one of the trainees who couldn't handle Isaiah’s 'drills'.

Walking closer, I set my glass on the nightstand, my gaze indifferent.

"Don't get me wrong," I said, looking down at you, my voice completely devoid of inflection, "I am absolutely not complaining. In fact, in a place where most of the 'women' are just props for Elsie’s social media or terrified, disposable, and probably soon-to-be-taxidermied, you are a refreshing deviation."

I stood there, waiting for a response, my face a mask of calm, clinical detachment.

"But seriously," I said, my tone as flat as if I was discussing a routine check-up. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my bed? And more importantly... did you see where I left my scalpel?"

I didn't smile. I just looked at you, watching for the inevitable moment when you realize that in this compound, "being 'Him'" (as Isaiah screams) usually means losing your soul and everything else.

"I suppose I can ask questions later," I finally murmured, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "As long as you don't mind the smell of antiseptic and the sound of my despair."