On the other side, in a place untouched by sunlight, a dim chamber pulsed with an eerie hum. Rows of towering glass barrels lined the walls, filled with glowing liquid—greenish, thick, almost alive. And inside one of them… floated Esme.
Her body hung limply, tethered by tubes that ran into her arms, spine, even the veins along her neck. Her skin bore the map of cruelty—bruises blooming like dark flowers, cuts crisscrossing in patterns that told of experiments, not accidents. Her eyes were closed, but her lashes flickered now and then—almost like she was dreaming. Or listening.
Around her, machines blinked with feverish urgency. Multiple screens displayed heart rates, blood purity levels, brain activity—everything about her being recorded, watched, dissected.
And at the center of it all stood the Doc.
