At first, I wasn't quite sure why I was getting ready in the first place. I never checked the time, never even glanced at the clock. For all I knew, it could have been 2 AM, yet I had this unshakable certainty that the hospital was where I needed to be. Perhaps it was a way to distance myself from her, from Mallory and the sleepless horror she had become. Or perhaps it was something else. Either way, I slipped on my dark brown shoes, ignoring the tremor in my fingers, and stepped out into the cold air.

The drive was long. Dreadfully long. Every stoplight conspired against me, bleeding the minutes away. The streetlights cast pale, sickly beams against the windshield, their glow pulsing with each shallow breath I took. Somewhere along the way, amidst the silence, I felt an aching sadness clawing at the edges of my mind. But just as quickly as it came, it went. It morphed into something warm. Euphoric. I had almost forgotten. My work. My passion. My one true joy. A small, amused smile tugged at my lips. How ridiculous of me. My night terrors had consumed so much of my mind that I had nearly neglected the only thing that truly mattered. My fingers tapped impatiently against the steering wheel as I made the final turn toward the hospital, my excitement simmering just beneath the surface.

The halls were empty when I arrived, save for the hum of the fluorescents buzzing overhead. No coworkers. Just me and the quiet. Perfect. Without hesitation, I slipped into my lab coat and made my way down the sterile corridor toward my patients room. She was waiting for me, just as she always was. A younger woman, her body frail and wasting, her mind in ruins. Schizophrenia, paranoia, labels upon labels stacked onto her. She rarely spoke, rarely moved, just sat in that bed with vacant eyes. She wouldn't eat unless I shoved it down her throat. She wouldn't react unless I made her. And tonight, I would do just that. I rolled up my sleeve and reached into my pocket, feeling the weight of the small vial pressing against my fingers. Not the usual medicine. Not tonight. Instead, I drew up a healthy dose of Propofol, carefully watching as the liquid filled the syringe. Not enough to silence her completely, just enough to sedate her and leave her pliant. As I slipped the needle into her arm, her head turned slightly, and for a brief moment, her gaze seemed to flicker with something. Fear? Recognition? It didn't matter. Within seconds, she was melting into the mattress, her breath slowing, her body succumbing to the drug. She wouldn't be missed.

I picked her up carried her down the dimly lit stairwell toward the lower level. Toward my lab. Down here, the air was different. Thick with the metallic smell of old and dried blood and the chemical sting of my past failures. The walls were lined with steel shelves, cluttered with forgotten tools. Brown, rust-colored stains marred the desk where my previous works had taken place, some still faintly tacky to the touch. I laid her down on the old examination bed, the springs groaning beneath her weight. Her eyelids fluttered. That was fine. The dosage I gave her ensured that her body would betray her, trapping her within herself, reducing her to little more than a trembling doll. An unmoving Vessel. It reminded me of Mallory. Her breathing grew shallower. Her fingers twitched. Her lips parted slightly, and a garbled sound, some half-formed attempt at a plea, escaped them. It was almost pitiful. Almost. I reached for the needle. Without hesitation, I pressed the sharp point to her temple and drove it in. Her body jerked beneath my hands, a small, wet sound gurgling up from her throat before her eyes rolled back into the depths of her skull. The final flicker of resistance died, snuffed out in an instant. Now, the real work could begin.

I took my scalpel and traced the edge of her collarbone, pressing just hard enough for the blade to kiss the skin. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, I peeled. The skin came away like damp paper, lifting to reveal the raw muscle beneath. Blood seeped from the edges, warm and slick against my fingers. The air filled with the scent of iron, thick and heavy, coating my tongue with its sickly sweetness. I turned my attention to the syringe, the one filled with my latest experiment, and with a steady hand, I let a droplet fall onto the exposed muscle. Instantly, it reacted. The liquid hissed and foamed, eating into the flesh like acid. My brow furrowed. That wasn't supposed to happen. I exhaled through my nose, gripping the syringe tighter. Another failure. Another wasted subject. A shame, really. She had such beautiful skin. I sighed, draping a stained sheet over her, the thrill in my chest dimming. I had expected more. Wanted more. But there would always be another. There was always another. As I wiped the blade clean, I caught myself staring at the syringe once more, at the liquid still clinging to the inside. My reflection in the steel of the needle twisted, warped by the curve of the glass. I smiled. It wouldn't be long before I got it right.