Everything narrowed down to this single moment.
This single man.
This blade.
And me.
The man’s grin widened as he stepped between my spread legs, the scalpel catching the surgical lights in sharp, cruel flashes.
My stomach dropped.
No.
No—no—no—
I thrashed violently against the restraints, every muscle in my body straining as I tried to wrench free.
The table rattled beneath me, metal legs scraping against the tile, buckles tightening with every desperate movement.
“Stay still,” he muttered, almost annoyed, as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience.
His free hand pressed down on my thigh, pinning me more firmly in place.
Then—the blade touched my trousers.
Right at the inner thigh.
I felt the pressure first. Then the slow, deliberate push.
Fabric resisted for a split second—then gave way.
A soft, tearing sound followed as he dragged the scalpel through the material, carving an uneven path upward.
He worked with disturbing patience, widening the cut, shaping it into a crude opening around the most vulnerable part of me.
Each movement of his hand made my chest tighten.
Each shift of the blade sent a fresh spike of panic through me.
“No—!” I jerked harder, hips twisting violently, trying to disrupt his angle, trying to throw him off balance.
But he adjusted easily.
Like he expected me to fight. Like this was part of the game.
“Stop—!” My voice broke, shaking but fierce. “Get away from me!”
Tears burned down my temples, mixing with blood that had already begun drying on my skin.
I had heard stories like this before.
Seen what men like him did when no one stopped them.
“I’m not going to let you—”
My voice cracked, but I forced it out anyway.
“I won’t let you touch me like that.”
