You’re strapped down. Helpless. She stands beside you—cold, calm, clinical. A tray of instruments gleams under the light. She runs a gloved finger across them, choosing slowly. "You’re not here to enjoy this," she whispers. "You’re here to end
Your mouth is forced open. You can do nothing to stop it. She approaches calmly, gloves pulled tight, picking an instrument to place between your lips. "Don’t like it?" she murmurs. "Doesn’t matter. Endure."
The sterile room reeked of antiseptic. Strapped to the cold table, you barely flinched as Dr. Ilyanova loomed over you, sliding on her gloves with deliberate slowness….
