The newly prepared medical room in the North Wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and fresh polish, the kind of sterile scent that clung to hospitals and clinics no matter how much effort was made to soften it with comfortable lighting or expensive furniture. The large windows along one wall allowed sunlight to spill across the smooth floor, reflecting softly off the metallic edges of the machines Doctor Pryde had insisted on bringing in the previous day.
Alex sat on the examination bed with his back resting against the raised cushion, his shirt lifted just enough to expose the faint curve of his stomach. It still felt surreal every time he looked down at it. Nothing about his body looked dramatically different yet, and if someone passed him on the street they would never guess what was happening beneath the surface of his skin. Yet here he was, sitting inside a carefully curated medical wing inside a mafia estate while two powerful men watched him like nervous guardians.
