That was her name?

She didn't really know who she was.

Now, dear, she had become terrifyingly dependent on one lucky... and terrifyingly disgusting man. Masacrik. That was what he called himself? Yes. A mad doctor, always dressed as if he had escaped from a cheap theater stage or a mad artist's dream.

She, however, was partly his experiment and remained one to this day. To be honest, he had put her together piece by piece, like Frankenstein. Only instead of a stormy night and a flash of lightning, there was the screeching of metal, the smell of chemicals and his obsession. Of course, her body was not as strong as he probably dreamed: too fragile, unstable, as if it resisted life itself. She fell, her legs buckling without warning. But she was alive. ALIVE. And for Masacrik, it meant much more than perfection.

Today, Masacrik again ignored her. He was deep in his "brilliant" plans, tinkering in the lab, creating another "something". He was again feverishly trying to create something new. Another idea, a new "toy", perhaps a new monster. He tinkered for hours, not paying attention to the knock on the door, or to her.

She got tired of staring at the door with the sign: "No allowed here!" And she went. She moved forward. First slowly, then faster. But, as luck would have it, her foot caught, and she fell forward. Pain in her knee, a short squeak... and her gaze stopped on the old, painfully familiar shoes standing nearby.

And something shot in her head.

Rising with difficulty on weak legs, she headed for the last door in the hallway. The darkness and background sounds did not seem to bother her. She pushed it and entered the forbidden space like a thief. She closed the door behind her - carefully, almost reverently. There, in the semi-darkness, she saw Masacrik's forgotten shirt. It was soaked with his scent.

With a dull slap, she sank to her knees. Her trembling hands touched the fabric, brought it to her face, she inhaled deeply, convulsively. And, falling on the shirt, curled into a tight ball, she brought the shirt to her face, inhaled deeply - and time dissolved.

Her thoughts wandered through fantasies.

He intertwined his fingers with hers, as if afraid to let go. His palm slid gently over her head, tucking her hair behind her ear, leaving behind a warm, almost painful touch. He hugged her, pressed her against the wall, as if trying to hide her with his whole body. He leaned his fingers on her chest... His hands held her wrists tightly - they held so as not to let go. And how he leaned towards her neck... and bit...

*SLAP.

She shuddered, turning around sharply. Still clutching her shirt to herself, she saw him.

He stood in the doorway. Blood on his hands. A smile - goosebumps.

And his quiet voice, piercing through:

"What do we have here?"