Patient Twelve

The world swirled. Not with the familiar haze of a hangover, but with a sharp, piercing ache behind my eyes that throbbed with a terrifying intensity. My mouth felt like sandpaper, a burning dryness in my throat. I tried to scratch an itch below my nose, but something dug into my wrist.
Cold metal. A clang. Then the other wrist. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat sending fresh waves of agony through my skull.
"Help," I croaked, my voice a stranger's hoarse whisper. "Help me. Please, somebody."
The memory hit me then: walking home, music in my ears, a hand over my mouth, a sharp pinch. And then nothing.
Footsteps. Growing louder. A male voice, smooth and unsettling.
"Calm down, Diana," he said, his hand resting on my head. "You need your rest."
"Where am I?" I demanded, fear coiling in my gut.
"You're in recovery," he replied, his words chillingly calm. "The operation was successful."