Two red-clad guards clamped down on my arms and hauled me forward.
The corridor's cold, white light stabbed at my eyes—my eyes hadn't seen light in a long time. My whole body shivered from the chill.
Like a sheep sent to slaughter, I was headed for the place they'd carve me open—the place where my blood would turn the white tiles red.
Should I run? Not now. I wasn't on the floor where Ashur was kept.
I didn't know this hallway. Longer, colder—eerily like a hospital. A white ceiling. Harsh fluorescent glare. My knees scraped the floor raw; the rasp of skin on tile tangled with the guards' footfalls and shredded the silence.
I looked around. No cameras. No extra sentries. I swallowed hard. Where were they taking me? What were they planning? Kill me early? That made no sense—the doctor needed me.
I kept trying to get my feet under me, but they yanked so hard I fell behind again, dragged like a carcass.
Gasping, I fixed on a white metal door ahead, a pink triangle stamped across it.
I ground my teeth. Was I scared? Yes. My heart slammed harder; cold sweat slicked my skin. Thoughts swarmed—what if they really meant to kill me? What if I couldn't slip the cuff in time?
Why wouldn't this damned hallway end? If the angel of death was waiting behind that door, why not meet the bastard already?
The closer we got, the stronger the smell became—dried blood and sour sweat. Maybe it was lodged in my nose. The disinfectant dominated, really, but my mind kept clinging to the darker notes.
**Patrick—the admin—**strode past us and stopped at the door. Time stalled. My heart pounded in my mouth; sweat ran down my temples.
He turned toward me. I set my face hard—anger looks better than fear.
His skin was pale and slick; his eyes were two dead pits. His mouth curled into a smirk.
A bad feeling crawled through me. Something awful was about to happen. Every nerve I had knew it.
Still locked on my eyes, he smiled—mocking—then wrenched the iron door open. The screech scraped at my nerves.
The guards shoved me inside.
The moment I stepped in, my breath locked. My eyes snagged on the scene ahead. My knees buckled, but the guards dragged me toward that cursed spot—the one my gaze burned to leave but refused to.
The doctor stood facing an operating table, his back to me, sawing through a teenage girl's arm. I heard the gritty crunch of bone; the blade rasped, chewing through flesh and marrow.
Stunned, I watched. He wrenched her forearm free at the elbow and dropped it into a steel pan like a useless cut of meat. The girl had no arms and no legs. A clear tube ran down her throat; a white bandage blindfolded her eyes. Her long hair spilled off the table like a waterfall, drowned in blood.
It felt like my insides shut down—like I was bleeding out where no one could see. My heart didn't beat. I was nothing but eyes.
I turned—and took a second hit.
To the right of the operating table, bodies lay heaped in piles. The room reeked of blood. Sour liquid crept up the back of my throat; I wanted to throw up everything I'd seen and forget it—but forgetting was impossible.