Read an Excerpt

One thing cut through the haze with sudden certainty.

This was not a hospital.

Her eyes opened again, sharper this time. Her breath caught as she became aware of her position, of the surface beneath her back. She shifted carefully, and the sound that answered was soft but unmistakable.

Plastic.

She looked down.

She was lying on a table covered with a clear plastic sheet, unfolded beneath her in loose, uneven layers. The material was creased and wrinkled where it had been pulled into place too quickly. Small pools of blood had gathered in shallow pockets along the folds, dark and glossy, with scattered droplets marking where it had splashed or dripped before settling.

The sight sent a chill through her.

She planted one elbow behind her and pushed herself up just enough to see more, ignoring the sharp protest in her ribs. The plastic crinkled beneath her weight, loud in the silence, and she froze instantly.

Across the room, about ten feet away, the man stopped moving.

He stood with his back partially to her, his attention fixed on a large table near the wall. Tools lay scattered across its surface and nearby, metal catching the light in dull, uneven flashes. A long, narrow blade rested among them, its shape precise rather than brutal. Other instruments curved and hooked in unfamiliar ways, their purposes unclear, balanced somewhere between shaping and cutting.

Some were darkened. Some marked.

The faint smell of blood lingered in the air, metallic and real, threading through the cool stillness of the room.

Around him, shapes rested where they had been left.

Fragments of sculpture stood or leaned nearby, some upright, others tipped onto their sides or pushed back against the wall. A few suggested human forms. Others did not. Limbs ended abruptly. Faces emerged only partway, caught between beginning and being undone.

Her gaze dropped back to the plastic beneath her, to the blood caught there, to the table she was lying on.

The thought crept in slowly, unformed at first, then sharper as it took shape.

What was this room, and why was she in it?

Her chest tightened.

Was she just another thing placed here to be altered, to be changed, without her knowing how or why?

She did not move. She held her breath without realizing she was doing it.

Then he turned toward her.

The motion was unhurried, almost casual, like he had all the time in the world to spare. When his gaze met hers, it locked there immediately, and something in her chest tightened in response.

At a glance, nothing about him seemed out of place. Ordinary enough at a distance that her mind tried, briefly, to place him somewhere familiar.

He wore a dark tank top. There were smudges of dried blood across the fabric and on his hands, streaked and uneven, as if he had wiped them without much care. It took her a second too long to understand that it wasn't his.

The blood continued up his forearms in faint marks and fingerprints, not soaked, not dramatic, just present. His arms were bare, solid in a way that registered immediately and uncomfortably, and the realization settled in without conscious thought that she would not be able to overpower him if she tried.

That knowledge stayed with her.

There was no visible rush to him, no sharp reaction, no instinctive step back at the sight of her awake. The absence of urgency unsettled her more than any sudden movement would have. A quiet, unwelcome thought surfaced. Maybe it did not matter to him whether she was awake or not.

Then she really saw his face.

His skin looked pale under the cold lighting, drawn and tired rather than sick. His dark hair was disordered.

And his eyes.

They were a cold, grayish blue, already fixed on her with a kind of quiet attention that made her stomach twist. They didn't search her face for confusion or fear. They didn't soften.

This wasn't a doctor. This wasn't a paramedic. No one who was supposed to be here would be looking at her like that.

He studied her in silence, his expression unreadable, caught somewhere between fatigue and mild surprise, as if her being awake now was an inconvenience rather than a crisis.

His gaze shifted, unfocused for a moment, then dropped toward the table beside him. She watched the change closely, the way his attention turned inward, like he was replaying something she could not see. Whatever he was thinking, one thing was clear.

She was not meant to be awake now.

When his eyes moved again, she followed them. On the table were a few small glass vials and syringes, set aside. Nothing about the arrangement felt rushed. If anything, it felt considered. The unease tightened in her chest as the implication formed, not fully, but enough.

Something had not gone according to plan.

A flicker of recognition crossed his face as he looked at them, faint but unmistakable. He spoke without turning back to her, his voice low, almost absentminded, like he was thinking out loud rather than addressing her directly.

"Ketamine. I see."

The word landed heavier than it should have. Too specific. Her breath caught before she could stop it, and she forced herself to stay still, to keep her expression blank, as if nothing about what he had said had registered at all.

"I'm so sorry," he said quietly.

She did not know what he was apologizing for. That uncertainty worried her more than an explanation would have. It left too many possibilities open, each one worse than the last, and she could feel herself tightening around the question she was afraid to ask.

He didn't step closer.

"If I had realized you have a tolerance, you wouldn't have woken up here."

The words landed wrong.

Had he expected her to wake up somewhere else. After what. After whatever he had been doing to her. Or had she not been meant to wake up at all.