Erased

Despite her desperate attempts to stay conscious, Azumi’s body betrayed her, and she collapsed onto the cold floor. For what felt like an eternity, she drifted in and out of the haze, her mind a fragmented mess of pain and fear.

A fleeting moment of clarity came when her eyes fluttered open, and she saw them—the same men. Their outlines were indistinct, their faces veiled in shadow, as though her memory refused to solidify their existence. They spoke in hushed tones, their voices echoing in her mind like a haunting melody she couldn’t escape.

The next thing Azumi knew, she was no longer on the ground but bound to a chair. Heavy metal cuffs encased her wrists and ankles, cold against her skin.

The room was stark and sterile, illuminated by the eerie glow of fluorescent lights above. Before her was a long, steel table cluttered with intimidating laboratory equipment.

She scanned the room with panicked eyes, noticing the peculiar devices scattered about. A centrifuge spun noiselessly in the corner, its purpose ominous.

Glass beakers and vials lined the shelves, some filled with an unsettling red liquid that resembled blood. A strange machine resembling a dialysis unit sat nearby, tubes and needles hanging from its sides like the tendrils of some mechanical monster. Beside it, a large extraction pump hummed softly, its transparent chambers designed to siphon fluids.

A monitor blinked to life on the far wall, displaying a series of complex graphs and heartbeat lines that she couldn’t decipher. Above her, a surgical lamp loomed like an interrogator’s spotlight, its intensity making her feel exposed.

Her chest tightened as she tugged against the restraints, the metal biting into her skin. "What is this?" she whispered hoarsely, her throat dry. Her voice barely carried over the mechanical hum of the room.

The men still stood nearby, their faces obscured by masks and shadows, their hands gloved as they gestured to a clipboard filled with notes. One pointed toward her as if she were an object rather than a person, and the other jotted something down with cold precision.

“Where am I?” she demanded, her voice louder now, trembling with fear and anger. “What do you want from me?”

But the men ignored her, their conversation continuing as though she were invisible. The sight of their indifference sent a chill down her spine, and a single thought burned in her mind: I have to get out of here.

Azumi gasped sharply, her chest heaving as her eyes snapped open. The cold, hard ground beneath her reminded her where she was, the eerie silence of the room broken only by her ragged breaths. She blinked a few times, struggling to focus her vision, and noticed daylight spilling in through the cracks of the boarded-up windows.

"I-It's morning already?" she muttered, her voice weak and hoarse. Her body felt heavy, but she slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position, wincing as she did so.

Her eyes scanned the room, memories of the previous night flooding back—the zombies, the blood, the pain, and the overwhelming darkness. Her heart raced as she inspected her surroundings, half expecting the undead to come crashing through the door.

Then it hit her. She gasped, the realization striking her like a bolt of lightning. "My injuries!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling.

Her trembling hands reached for the bloodied bandages wrapped tightly around her legs. Despite everything, she couldn’t feel the stabbing pain that had consumed her the night before. Cautiously, she began unwrapping the fabric, layer by layer, her movements hesitant and slow.

When the final layer fell away, she froze. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared in disbelief. The wounds—deep gashes she was sure would have taken weeks to heal—were completely gone. Not a scar, not a trace of blood, nothing remained to suggest they had ever been there.

"W-What the hell!" she whispered, her voice trembling with shock. She ran her fingers over the smooth, unblemished skin where the injuries had been. Her mind raced, struggling to make sense of what she was seeing.

She flexed her legs cautiously, half expecting a jolt of pain, but there was none. It was as if the horrors of the previous night had been erased from her body, leaving her physically whole but mentally shattered.

Her gaze darted around the room, as if searching for an explanation. “How… how is this even possible?” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the memory of the faceless men flashed in her mind—the tubes, the machinery, the cold detachment in their voices. Was it just a dream? Or had something far more sinister happened to her?

"I-I should find Victor—" Azumi whispered, but the moment the name left her lips, she froze.

"Victor?" she repeated, her brows knitting in confusion. The name felt familiar, yet distant, like a word she wasn’t supposed to forget.

"Who is he?"