(Third Person).
Two weeks had passed since the black van had swallowed the pregnant woman by the roadside — two weeks since her muffled scream was silenced under gloved palms.
In the underground corridors of Section Nine, the fluorescent lights flickered with a cold, clinical disinterest.
Down here, time was measured not in days, but in heartbeats… and in how long a body could last under a scalpel.
Dr. Nera paused outside Observation Room C, clipboard in hand. Her eyes flicked to the notes:
Subject 27-B: Human, female, approximately eight months gestation.
Yet when she lifted her gaze through the small reinforced window, what she saw made her heart squeeze, though she quickly buried it under practised detachment.
The woman, barely thirty, lay strapped to a gurney, ankles and wrists bound in padded restraints.
Strands of sweat-soaked hair clung to her pale forehead. And her belly… round, straining, as if pleading silently for the nightmare to end.
