I ran like hell, the echo of the doctor's laughter chasing me down the endless, flickering corridors. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I didn't dare slow down. I could hear the slap of his shoes behind me, the metallic clatter of his tools. I turned a corner, heart pounding, and—bam!—he was right there, grinning behind his mask.
He tackled me to the ground, knocking the wind out of me. For a second, I thought it was over. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the worst. When I opened them, the doctor was looming over me, a syringe in his hand, the needle glinting in the sickly light.
"Hold still, patient," he crooned, pressing the needle toward my arm.
"Like hell!" I snarled, grabbing his wrist with both hands. He was stronger than he looked, but desperation makes you do crazy things. I twisted, using every ounce of strength I had, and managed to shove him off me. He stumbled back, cursing, and I scrambled to my feet, bolting down the hallway without looking back.
I found a staircase and practically threw myself down it, taking the steps two at a time. At the bottom, I ducked into the shadows, chest heaving. The doctor didn't follow. Instead, his laughter echoed down the stairwell, cold and mocking.
"You're only making it worse, Itsumi!" he called. "You're condemning yourself to a death most exquisite. I'll be waiting!"
His words sent a chill down my spine. I'd been in some bad situations before, but this was on a whole new level of fucked up. I pressed on, moving through the dimly lit corridors, trying to ignore the pounding in my head.
Then I heard it—a chainsaw, revving somewhere nearby. I froze, heart hammering. I peeked around the corner and saw her: a nurse, her uniform stained and torn, wielding a chainsaw like it was just another day at the office.
"Oh, come on!" I groaned, turning and sprinting in the opposite direction. The halls blurred past me, surgical lights flickering overhead. I ducked into a locker, slamming the door shut and holding my breath. The chainsaw roared past, fading into the distance.
I let out a shaky sigh, pulling out my notebook to write a note—anything to keep my mind from unraveling. But before I could start, a hissing sound filled the locker. Gas. Shit. My vision swam, my limbs went numb, and everything faded to black.
When I came to, I was strapped to a wheelchair, my head pounding. The doctor stood in front of me, grinning like the devil himself.
"Awake at last, my favorite patient," he sneered. "You really thought you could escape? How adorable."
He wheeled me into a room filled with medical tools—scalpels, saws, things I didn't even recognize. He circled me, studying me like a piece of meat. His eyes lingered on my face, my hands, my arms.
"Red eyes, short black hair, smooth skin… Not very muscular, but there's something interesting about you," he mused, tapping his chin.
I glared at him, spitting every insult I could think of. He just laughed, picking up a bone saw.
"Let's see what makes you tick, shall we?"
He grabbed my left hand and, without warning, began sawing through my ring finger. Pain exploded through me, white-hot and blinding. I screamed, cursing him, cursing this place, cursing everything. He didn't stop. He moved to my right hand, slicing off my middle finger with the same brutal efficiency.
I howled, tears streaming down my face, rage and agony mixing in my veins. The doctor slapped me hard, snapping me back to consciousness.
"Don't pass out on me now," he taunted, waving my severed fingers in front of my face before placing them on a tray with his other tools.
He left me alone, the door slamming shut behind him. I fought against the restraints, desperate to get free. After what felt like forever, I managed to break loose, stumbling to the corner of the room to vomit. My hands throbbed, blood dripping onto the floor.
I spotted my camera on a table. The doctor had been recording everything. Of course he had.
I cursed the world, cursed the doctor, cursed myself for ever taking this job.
This place was hell, and I was its favorite plaything.