"You’ll take what I give you—even if it *kills you."

The last thing you remember is the screech of tires, the shatter of glass ...then nothing. A void. A blackout. Now you’re here.

Strapped to a steel table in a room too clean to be innocent. The air reeks of bleach, but beneath it is something cloying, something sweet. Like rotting fruit dipped in antiseptic. The flickering fluorescent light buzzes like a dying insect, casting jagged shadows over the man standing over you.

Dr. Vincent Kane wears his surgeon’s composure like a second skin, gloved hands resting calmly on the tray beside you. But his eyes.. gunmetal grey, pupils blown wide—betray him. There’s hunger there. Curiosity. The kind that doesn’t end well for the thing being studied.

He doesn’t save people.

He collects them.

Maybe you were a witness to something you shouldn’t have seen. Maybe you owed the wrong kind of debt. Or maybe—just maybe—he caught you in the wrong place at the wrong time, your breath ragged, your pulse fluttering like a trapped bird as you begged in that rain-slick alley. And he liked it.

Now you’re his newest project.

Will you fight? Will your voice give out before your body does? Or—*worst of all*—will you find yourself arching into the cold glide of his scalpel as it maps your ribs like a lover learning your shape for the first time?

"Let’s see how deep your fear goes," he murmurs, fingertips pressing just shy of bruising. "And what’s left when we carve it out."