The nurse leads me through the labyrinthine corridors of Floor 2. The yellow wallpaper blurs, the hum of the lights a constant, oppressive presence. I follow her like a ghost, my bare feet silent on the damp carpet, the pruning shears clutched in my hand.
I don't know if I expect her to suddenly lurch backward and attack me, or if I expect one of those shadowy beasts to appear, or...
Anything.
Following someone through halls I don't know. This is the second time. But this nurse woman is nowhere near as comforting a presence as that stranger had been.
She doesn't speak. She doesn't look back. She just walks, her posture unnaturally straight, her blonde ponytail swaying with each step. She seems completely absorbed in her own world, a world where she's still a nurse, still has a purpose.
I feel a strange pang of... something. Not pity. Not sympathy. It's too cold for that. It's more like a distant, academic curiosity. What did she see? What did she lose? How long has she been here, playing her part in this waking dream?
How did she get to be like this?
We walk for what feels like hours. The corridor finally ends at a large, metal door. It's different from the others. It's painted a faded, peeling green, with a small, square window set into it. The window is grimy, but I can see a room beyond, lit by a harsh, white light.
The nurse stops at the door and puts her hand on the handle. She turns to me, her pale blue eyes finally focusing on my face with a startling clarity.
"The room is ready," she says, her voice soft but firm. "The doctor will be pleased." She pushes the door open. "You should go in. He's waiting."
My hand tightens on the shears. Doctor. The word sends a chill down my spine. Is it David? Is this his domain? A place where he can play God without anyone to stop him?
I hesitate, looking from the nurse to the open door. The room beyond is white. Sterile. I can see the edge of a metal table, a gleaming, surgical light.
I don't want to go in there.
But I have to. I have to see. I have to know.
"What's your name?" I ask the nurse, my voice low.
She blinks, as if the question is a strange one. "My name?" She looks down at her name tag, pinned to her stained uniform. The plastic is cracked, the writing faded. "It says...Nurse." She looks back up at me, a small, confused frown on her face. "That's my name."
Nurse. Not a name. A title. A role. She's forgotten herself completely. It's possible she might never have been a nurse to begin with, just someone made to be a nurse through some kind of...
Colorful ideas flash through my mind of how it could have ended up, but none are particularly more likely than the others. I can't figure out by asking her, and I won't figure out just by staring at her. If I want answers, I have to go along with her, at least for now.
At least carefully.
I take a step toward the door. "What's in there?" I ask.
"The operation," she says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We have to prepare them. For the doctor." She smiles then, a sweet, vacant smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "It's a very important job."
I push the door open the rest of the way.
The room is an operating theater. A large, sterile space with white tiled walls and a polished metal floor. In the center of the room is a single, metal operating table, its leather straps hanging loose. A bright, overhead light illuminates the table, casting the rest of the room into deep shadow.
From what I can see of the room, at least, it's clean. The damage is minimal, the grime and dust and blood that I've found elsewhere is nowhere to be found in this room.
A man is standing next to the table, his back to me. He's tall, dressed in a surgeon's gown, a surgical mask covering the lower half of his face. He's fiddling with a tray of instruments, the metal blades and hooks glinting in the harsh light.
He turns as I enter, and my blood freezes in my veins.
It's not David.
The eyes behind the mask are a cold, piercing grey. The hair peeking out from under his surgical cap is silver, neatly trimmed. He's older than David, his face lined with age and a cold, cruel intelligence.
A man who is highly capable. A man who is extremely dangerous. Of that much, I'm certain.
He looks at me, his eyes taking in my disheveled appearance, the pruning shears in my hand, the blood on my palm. He doesn't seem surprised or alarmed. He just looks... interested.
His hand reaches up to tug down his mask, revealing a face as normal as any other, the lines there matching the age his silvering hair indicates.
"You're injured. Is that why Nurse brought you?" He gestures to the table with a gloved hand. "Lay down. I can fix that for you."
His voice is calm, professional, utterly devoid of warmth. It's the voice of a man who is used to being in control. A man who isn't used to being told 'no'.
I take a step back, my hand gripping the shears tighter. "I'm not here for an operation," I say, my voice steady despite the cold dread creeping up my spine. In this twisted world full of monsters, my mind is only too helpful in imagining what a man like this would do to me on that table.
And the blades of the scalpels near him.
They glint in the light of the operating theater.
I see the moon reflecting in them, and it makes my throat clench shut, the urge to run coursing through my legs, rooted in place.
"No?" He tilts his head, a gesture of mild curiosity, as if he's completely unaware of my discomfort. "Then why are you here?"
"I'm looking for the way out."
He chuckle. A dry, rasping sound that holds far more hopelessness than humor. "Haven't you seen? There's no way out."