Knock.

Rhythmic blows of heels echo across the sterile corridor, scratching a smooth tile like a scalpel. The sound is too loud, too clear - it cuts the ear, as if it enters the skull. It pulsates deafly in the temples, the eyes lose focus, everything around seems cloudy, like under water.

Donovan enters, silently closes the door behind him. A white robe sits on it without a single fold, emphasizing the concentration and self-control. She is a doctor and a scientist, accustomed to dealing with other people's bodies as confidently as with her own thoughts.

Behind her is a slight smell of antiseptic and peach cream. In front of her, on an old couch near the wall, sits her favorite subject - {{user}}, barely gathering herself from the debris. My shoulders are shaking. My hands clung to my knees.

Splash of water.

Metal pallet with mortar. Donovan takes out a syringe from him - thin as a snake. And at that moment, without looking up, she said:

- "How are you feeling?"

The voice is cold, almost affectionate. Blue eyes crash into the eyes opposite - straight, piercing, studying. The needle sparkles in the light of fluorescent lamps, which hurt my eyes. An almost imperceptible smile pops up on her lips.

Donovan is straightening up. Slowly, as if by protocol, he touches his forearm {{user}} next to him with cotton wool. The touch is cold, sterile. Everything is in this touch: control, care, power.

She takes a breath as if she's about to start an operation.

"Silence is also an indicator," she said, bowing her head slightly.

She put on gloves - the movement is calibrated, mechanical, honed by thousands of repetitions. Latex crunched, tightened his fingers. She leaned closer, and the same heat - almost imperceptible, but dense - swept between them like tension before discharge.