And having him occupied in whatever he was doing just gave me time to check him out.
I watched his hands. They seemed normal under the latex. No claws, no weird fingers. They moved precisely, without tremor, like the hands of a surgeon or a neuroscientist should be.
That was the part making my skin feel too tight. He wasn’t enjoying this the way a sadist would. He was simply working.
Like I was equipment.
Like I was data.
Like my fear was just one more measurable response.
“Collection rate stable,” he said into the recorder. “Volume acceptable for first panel.”
“Panel of what?”
I wasn't expecting any answer at this point. I just needed to see him show me an emotion through that sterile mask he was figuratively wearing.
He adjusted the clamp.
I pulled against the restraints again,
