When the doctor saw that I might faint, he quickly prepared a sedative to ease the pain. But Zachary grabbed the syringe from his hands and replaced it with a stimulant.
“This could kill her,” the doctor warned softly. “She might not survive the session—”
“Use it,” Zachary cut him off coldly.
The drug entered my veins.
My body convulsed, trembling.
The pain dulled just enough for me to remain conscious.
Memories flooded my mind as the audience below echoed curses and jeers.
On the giant screen, my memories started to play.
The first image that appeared was Zachary, sitting alone in front of a funeral altar, his back turned toward me.
This was Zoey’s funeral hall.
The room was covered in white curtains, and in the middle was Zoey’s photo—her bright smile frozen against a black-and-white backdrop that felt unsettling, as if even in that smile, something was terribly wrong.
A few lilies lay in the coffin, encircled by a ring of daisies, her favorite flowers.
In the photo, Zachary looked noticeably thinner, a shadow of his former self. His body seemed so fragile that it might break with the slightest touch.
Everything was shown from my point of view.