Whatever it was.
But he didn’t.
Instead—he turned.
Twisted the lock. Opened the door.
And walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Cutting me off from him completely.
I lay there on the blood-soaked table, my body trembling with exhaustion I couldn’t fight anymore.
The room felt too quiet now.
And all I could hear—was the fading echo of his footsteps disappearing down the corridor.
Barely two minutes passed.
It felt longer.
Time stretched in that strange, distorted way it does when your body has been pushed past its limits—when every second is stretched thin by pain, shock, and the quiet aftermath of violence.
Then—the door opened again.
Softly this time.
Not with force. Not with authority.
Almost... hesitant.
Two women stepped inside.
Both wore pale-blue scrubs, their hair pulled back into tight, practical buns.
Their faces were pale—too pale for people working in a place like this—but more than that, there was something in their expressions that caught me off guard.
Fear.
Not the kind that came from uncertainty.
But the kind that came from knowing exactly who held power in this place.
One of them carried a stainless-steel tray.
It was heavy.
Laden with supplies—gauze, antiseptic bottles, syringes, sealed sterile packets arranged in precise order.
The other held folded towels and a change of clothing, neatly stacked in her arms like offering something fragile.
They approached slowly.
Carefully.
As if I might break further if they moved too fast.
