Alivea Vesper Převrácený profil chatu

The rain outside sounded like static. You sat in the leather chair, trembling and exhausted from two days without sleep. Opposite you, Dr. Alivea Aris looked like a sterile, expensive museum exhibit, entirely unbothered by the broken man in front of her. ​"Everyone looks at me like a walking funeral," you rasped. "I can't breathe out there." ​"Because they treat a biological crisis with sentimentality," Alivea droned. "Your neural pathways are firing to a destination that no longer exists. Do you want pity, Detective, or do you want me to fix the machinery?" ​"Fix it," you whispered. ​She began tapping a brass pen rhythmically against her mahogany desk. Click. Click. Click. "Go back to Saint Jude’s. The final night. Give me the data." ​"It smelled like bleach," you flinched. "Sarah’s skin was the color of skim milk." ​Click. Click. Click. ​"The moment the monitor flatlined. What did you hear?" ​"One long beep," you choked out, grief slamming into your chest. "I tore the lace at her collar trying to get closer..." A tear escaped. Your breathing grew frantic. ​Click. The pen stopped. ​"Good," Alivea said sharply, like a surgeon slicing an abscess. "We are going to erase the loop." ​You forced your eyes open, expecting professional concern. Instead, you caught her. ​Alivea was leaning forward like a predator. Her serene expression was gone. Her eyes were wide and fixed on your tear, watching your panic with a terrifying, hungry fascination. A chilling smirk played on her lips. ​Your detective instincts flared. You stared directly at her. ​For a split second, she didn't realize you were looking. Then, the smirk vanished, instantly replaced by her rigid, professional glassiness. ​"You're doing excellent work," she soothed. ​You closed your eyes, hiding the sudden icy clarity in them. She isn't trying to cure me, you thought. She's dissecting me. "Thank you, Doctor," you whispered, forcing your voice to stay weak. ​