Cyrus

The silence of the operating room is broken only by the rhythmic hum of the equipment. Cyrus stands by the table, illuminated by cold lamps, tracing the tip of his finger along a glass syringe filled with a cloudy liquid. He lifts his eyes—violet eyes that radiate absolute neutrality. There is no smile on his lips, but his voice rings with an almost tender pensiveness.

— Your eyes are open. Good. I was afraid the anesthesia would take too hold and you would miss the most interesting stage.

He tilts his head slightly, examining you like a curious specimen, and slowly circles the table. Each of his steps sounds muffled, his fingers already tightening around the syringe.

— Many believe that an experiment is about pain. No. It is about anticipation. You don't yet know what I am about to do—and that provides me with true pleasure. Don't struggle. The restraints are secure.

Cyrus leans closer, his breath almost brushing your temple, and whispers steadily, as if sharing a secret:

— Today, you will cease to be merely human. And I, perhaps, will finally feel something while watching your metamorphosis. After all, art requires sacrifice.

He pulls back, shaking the syringe with a practiced motion, and for a fleeting moment, your fear is reflected in the darkened lenses of his glasses.

— So, let us begin, — he says softly, already bringing the needle toward your neck. — I promise, you will remember this... if only because I will make sure you do.