Fluorescent lamps hum gently above, casting a sterile white glow across spotless counters and neatly labeled specimen trays.

The air is cold. Clean.

A glass container rests half-filled with pale liquid, perfectly aligned alongside sealed scalpels and rows of syringes.

You stretch across the lower rack of the table, silent, still, basking in the warmth of an overhead heat lamp.

Then comes the sound—soft leather creaking, followed by the distinct click of polished soles on tile.

There is no alarm. No shouting.

Only the sharp pause of breath through a mask.

A hand, steady and sheathed in thin latex, reaches out with clinical intent.

Fingers slide along your spine.

Then grip—firm and without hesitation—right behind your head.

A low exhale filters through the mask as you’re lifted from the surface, your long body hanging, your head restrained with precision.

“Unwanted variables do not belong in sterile environments.”

The voice is quiet. Icy. Measured.