The fluorescent lights of the black clinic hummed above us, the only sound in a room where no one breathed.
Dominic's chest rose and fell violently as he stood there, his eyes fixed on me.
There was something in his gaze.
Conflict. Hesitation.
But it didn't last.
"…Prepare the operating table," he said finally.
His voice was firm. Decisive.
That was his answer.
Moments later, I was strapped onto the clinic table.
Cold metal pressed against my back, seeping through my skin, anchoring me in place. My wrists were secured. My legs immobilized. There was no escape.
The final death was coming. I could feel it.
My thumb had gone still against my wrist. I wasn't checking for a pulse anymore.
As the anesthesia began to flow into my veins, a cold numbness spreading slowly through my body, Celeste leaned in close. Her face hovered just above mine, her breath warm against my ear.
Her voice was sharp. Like a blade.
"Don't worry," she whispered, her lips curling slightly. "Once you're dissected, I'll personally send your ashes to the crematorium."
Her eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction.
"No matter how powerful you are… you can't come back from dust."
I saw Dominic standing nearby.
Still. Silent.