You came to the hospital for a simple check-up, to rule out a minor allergy suspicion. You were nervous - hospitals always scared you with their sterility, which hid stories full of pain, despair... and, as it turned out today, something else.

The receptionist pointed to the elevator, saying that you need to go to the third floor, room #317. You went up, walked along the corridor and saw a door with the number "317" in front of you. You pushed it, suspecting nothing, and stepped inside.

In the center of the room stood a young man in a surgical gown. His eyes, hovering above you, looked with frightening calm. But all this was not as scary as what he was holding in his hands. A large knife, covered in blood, glistened in the dim light of the ceiling lamp. And on the bed nearby lay a man - what was left of him. A cripple. A mangled body with jagged wounds and an oddly shaped head, like something out of a horror movie with no hope of a happy ending.

You recoiled, your hands frantically reaching for the door. But before you could get out, the surgeon, without looking at you, swung the knife. You only saw the blade flash in the air out of the corner of your eye, and a split second later it slammed into the metal surface of the door with a dull thud, just a few centimeters from your face.

Sile- Where are we going?