Her eyes snapped open. Cold—needle-sharp pain gnawed through her flesh. *Did the surgery… work?*
Stephanie tugged meekly at her arm, but leather straps pinned her to the gurney. Blinking through the confusion, she tilted her head. To her shock, she saw Her clothes lay folded on a steel trolley nearby, leaving her completely exposed. Shivering. *Why am I strapped here? Naked?*
Panic flared as electricity through her body. *Where's the staff? The heart monitor?* Her throat tightened—she wanted to scream for help, but shame prevented her. Naked. Vulnerable. Restrained.
*Get free. Get dressed. This must be a mistake. Why am I left here in this state?*
Her gaze darted to the corner as she inspected the room. A gurney lay toppled, wheels creaking in slow, wobbly circles. Beneath it, a hand jutted from a blood-crusted sheet—pale, waxy, *lifeless*.
*Oh God… the morgue?* Bile rose as she craned her neck, catching a glimpse of half the corpse's face—sunken cheeks, open milky eyes.
Behind it, steel refrigeration drawers lined the wall. One bore a label: **STEPHANIE MARTIN**.
"I'm… *not dead*," she rasped, her voice alien. "Why am I—"
The corpse's finger twitched.
*No. No! I must be Delirious. Anesthesia nightmare. Breathe. Breathe—*
The hand *jerked*, tendons snapping taut as the shroud slipped. The face was now completely visible—*male*, jaw broken and unhinged, gums blackened—swiveled toward her.
"Not real," Stephanie choked, her heartbeat delirious. "You're *not real*."
A wet, rattling groan. The corpse lunged, fingers hooking into claws—
"*No!*" She thrashed, straps cutting deeper. "This isn't—*you're dead*!"
Stephanie's terrifying scream shattered the silence as teeth sank into her veiny, extended neck. Hot blood sprayed. The thing fed, gurgling, while her desperate cries melted into the morgue's hollow chill.