Opal remained completely still, her breaths slow and measured, her mind razor-sharp despite the lingering weakness in her limbs.
The cold bite of iron cuffs dug into her wrists and ankles, securing her to the medical bed. The faint beeping of a heart monitor echoed in the sterile, too-clean room. The scent of antiseptic burned her nostrils, masking the rotting stench that lingered beneath it.
She hated this place.
Footsteps approached, deliberate and slow.
A door swung open.
Opal forced herself to stay limp, her lashes barely fluttering as a man in a white coat entered the room. His presence was sharp, clinical, like a scalpel cutting through the heavy air. The doctor.
She had heard his voice before.
He didn't regard her like a person. To him, she was a specimen—a subject to be observed, dissected, controlled.
She fought the urge to snarl.
