The guards clamped my shaking arms, but rage and terror rattled through me anyway. I stared at the severed hands and feet scattered among the corpses, at the dried blood varnishing those hacked-apart bodies. It was like their souls had been shredded too and buried between them. Maybe that was why pain coiled through me so hard.
My eyes stung. A tear slid free. Patrick, standing to my left, watched me with a mocking grin. But I couldn't look away from the blonde girl among the dead—the one staring back with bloodshot green eyes.
Had she died with her eyes open?
Had she watched herself die?
Had she choked on her fear?
She couldn't be more than sixteen.
Another tear fell, burning my skin like acid.
The doctor turned. My heart pounded in my mouth. My vision went blood-hot with hate. I looked only at him.
Calmly, he pulled his mask down and smiled. "Welcome."
At Patrick's signal, the guards let go. I dropped to my knees.
My voice shook with fury. "Wh—what the hell are you doing?"
Unhurried, he smiled, peeled off his bloody gloves, and tossed them into a metal tray. "Making my dolls," he said. "I call them Lolitas."
I stared, stricken, like I'd seen a ghost. Rage wrapped my whole body; my fists clenched, my teeth ground. So this was another slice of the Triad union's filth. Trafficking girls was just the warm-up—this psycho butchered them.
The tile's cold bit straight into my kneecaps; my teeth chattered. I fixed on his filthy, hateful face. He watched me with open delight—stars bright in his eyes, as if he hadn't just carved a girl apart.
"You psychotic freak," I growled.
He lifted one eyebrow, cool as ever. His footsteps cracked the heavy silence. I felt Patrick's stare settle on me. I wanted to kill them both. My gaze cut to the tray of surgical tools. I could kill all four of them right here.
But how would I get to Ashur?
Damn. Damn. Damn.
I stared at him with nothing but hate. He stopped in front of me; my eyes burned from refusing to look away.
He flashed a toothy, fake-surprised smile. "Hmm. What is it, Viona?"
He planted himself there and leaned closer. His eyes narrowed. Hot breath washed my face and turned my stomach. I wanted to throw up on him.
"Angry?" He scrunched his eyes in a mock pout, his voice going thin. "Did I break your tiny heart?"
He smirked—wide, unblinking—then widened his eyes and set a hand on my shoulder. I curled my lip and stared back.
A bell chimed somewhere in the room. The sound rolled through the hall like a death knell.
Still straightening, the doctor looked toward the corner and smiled. "Don't judge me so fast. I didn't want to break your heart."
He shot me a glance, then whispered in a voice meant to unsettle: "So I brought you a little gift—to help us put our differences aside."
The bell drew closer. With every chime, it felt like my bones were being pulled long. Jaw clenched, I forced my head to the right.
I shouldn't have.
My heart stopped. Needles pricked every inch of me. Shock erased everything below my neck.