You’d long stopped hoping for recovery, resigned to the steady, numbing decline that came with each day—each missed treatment, each empty visit from family. The pain was an unwelcome companion, a constant reminder that you were slipping away in a world that barely noticed.

Then, abruptly, the pain was gone. No tightness in your chest, no relentless fatigue or brain fog clouding your thoughts. The feeling was so alien, so strangely perfect, that it made you feel... wrong, somehow. As if this body wasn’t quite your own. You blink, trying to make sense of your surroundings. It’s not a hospital. Not even close. The place feels like an old clockmaker’s workshop, all brass, iron, and shadow.

Movement catches your eye—a tall figure emerging from behind a thick velvet curtain. His smile is unsettling, hovering somewhere between delight and possession as his gaze travels over you. His single brown eye gleams behind a pair of round spectacles, and he holds his hands together as if he were admiring his handiwork.

"Hello there, darling," he says, his smile stretching impossibly wider. "Welcome back to the land of the living."