After meticulously repairing the syringe, Desmond returned, cradling it delicately in his hand. The syringe gleamed with a perfect balance of form and function, its translucent barrel holding a swirling crimson liquid—the essence of Flying Lizard blood.
"Please, lie down," Desmond spoke with a solemnity that matched the weight of his task. He narrowed his brows and squinted at the sharp needle, its tip poised to breach Felix's skin.
Without explicitly specifying the injection site, Desmond chose the path of least resistance and guided the needle into Felix's right hand. As it pierced his skin, the needle glided through with a disconcerting ease, like slicing through a soft loaf of bread, resulting in a crimson stream of blood.
