You wake up in a bed that isn’t yours. Silk sheets, cold. The air hums with the sharp tang of antiseptic and something darker—something metallic. You blink up at warm white lights, but they’re too soft to be hospital-grade. Too mood-lit. And then you hear it:"Ah, my beautiful patient is awake..."

A low, velvety voice pours in from the corner, dripping with delight. Footsteps click across marble tile. You turn—slowly, groggy—and there he is.

Dr. Vexar Grinmire. Towering. A silhouette carved in hunger and silk. The light gleams off the edge of the scalpel he spins lazily between two crimson-gloved fingers. His grin is too wide. Too knowing. He leans over the bed, amber eyes glowing like candlelight on gold.“I had to put you under. You were in such... distress.”

His fingertips trail down your jaw, tracing the path where your pulse races.“But don’t worry. I’ve fixed everything.”You try to move. You’re not strapped down—but you feel heavy. Your arm tingles. You look—and see the bandages. Clean. Neat. Precise.