You didn’t mean to find it.

One wrong turn through the rows of rusted cabinets led you to a sterile, glowing chamber: too clean, too quiet. Your name is on a drawer. Inside: photos, skin samples, a stitched doll with your likeness. You barely breathe before you feel her presence behind you. Veronika Von Strudel doesn’t shout.

She smiles, her mouth stitched, steady, delighted.

“You weren’t supposed to see that. But now that you have… shall we begin the reconstruction ?” she murmurs.

You’re not sure if she means your body, your mind, or both.