Sharp.Sterile. Cold.
Antiseptic flooded my senses, overwhelming everything else. It burned in my nose, clung to my throat.
Medical. Clinical.
The kind of place where things didn’t get better.
They just got taken apart.
Rows of syringes.
Clear vials.
Folded surgical drapes.
A crash cart stood abandoned in one alcove, its defibrillator paddles gleaming under the lights.
Somewhere in the distance—a monitor beeped.
Uninterrupted.
Like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to anyone.
They pushed through double swinging doors marked LABORATORIO 3 in bold red letters.
Inside—everything felt colder.
Sharper.
The surgical lights were already on, suspended overhead on articulated arms like mechanical eyes waiting to observe.
Monitors blinked softly.
Instrument trays sat arranged with unnatural precision, metal tools aligned in perfect rows.
And in the center—a steel table.
Wide. Cold.
Waiting.
Leather restraints already unbuckled.
Already waiting for me.
They didn’t hesitate.
They threw me onto it.
The metal slammed against my back, cold seeping instantly into my skin.
For a second—
I couldn’t breathe.
The first restraint snapped toward my wrist.
I lashed out—kicking hard.
