In the clinic, the doctor moved swiftly, his hands precise and controlled as he tended to Roger. Despite his focus, he couldn't hide the worry etched across his face as he continuously glanced towards the door, anxiously asking, "Where is Andrew?"
Roger, pale and sweating, struggled for breath. The nurse, her movements quick but gentle, placed a paper bag over his mouth, instructing him to breathe slowly and deeply.
"Where is he? I urgently need oxygen cylinders!" The doctor's voice cracked with urgency, a mix of frustration and desperation coloring his words. His brow furrowed deeper as seconds felt like hours.
The nurse, momentarily distracted by the situation, muttered under her breath, "It is a miracle that this old man is holding on for so long..." She immediately regretted it, her face flushing with embarrassment.
The doctor shot her a sharp look, his voice tinged with a reprimanding edge. "You are a nurse; you should not talk like this!" His tone was firm, masking the fear that was bubbling just beneath the surface.
A rapid, nervous knock came on the door, breaking the tense silence in the room. The nurse, her hands trembling slightly, pulled the curtain back just enough to see who was there. Standing on the other side was a woman, her face as pale as a ghost, her eyes wide with worry. Clutched tightly in her arms was a small child, limp and unresponsive.
The doctor's head snapped up at the sound. "What is it?!" he demanded, his voice sharp with the strain of the situation.
"A woman has come, and it looks like she has a sick child," the nurse replied, her voice barely above a whisper, the anxiety palpable in her tone.
The doctor took a deep breath, his mind racing as he weighed the gravity of both situations. "Alright, listen here," he said, his voice steady but urgent. "I will handle things here; you go and look after that child."
The nurse nodded, a mixture of relief and determination flashing in her eyes. She turned and rushed out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. The doctor watched her go for a brief moment before turning back to Roger, his hands already moving with renewed focus and intensity.
The doctor dashed to the telephone, his hands shaking as he dialed Hinikow. "Did the boy arrive?!" he asked, the urgency in his voice betraying his rising panic.
"No, he did not..." Hinikow's voice crackled through the line, the distant sound of rain pattering ominously in the background. "Look, forget about that boy. I will send a wagon out from here," Hinikow suggested, his tone filled with a foreboding calm.
"You know we can't do that! When that boy arrives, immediately contact me! Okay?" the doctor replied sharply, his heart pounding, and while he was on the call he heard a sudden thud behind him. "I'll be hanging up now!" He slammed the phone down and quickly turned to the sudden noise, his stomach knotting with dread.
He found Roger lay sprawled on the floor, struggling to push himself up.
"Roger!" The doctor immediately rushed to his side, his mind racing with fear.
As he helped Roger to his feet, the old man roughly yanked out the syringe connected to his body and the blood spurted from the hole in his hand, staining the floor.
"Roger! What are you doing?!" the doctor exclaimed, gripping Roger's hands to try and stop the bleeding. His movements were frantic as he grabbed a clean cloth from the table and pressed it against the wound. But then he noticed something that made his blood run cold. Roger's face was no longer pale and weak; it was vibrant and alive, his body straight and strong, his hunched back gone. It was as if he had been reborn.
"Are you... Are you alright?" the doctor asked, his voice quivering with confusion. The transformation was so sudden, so unnatural, that it left him reeling.
"Move," Roger ordered, his eyes cold and unrecognizable.
"I cannot; you need medical support," the doctor insisted, his grip tightening. The rational part of his mind screamed that this was impossible, but here it was, unfolding before his eyes.
Roger leaned in close, his breath cold against the doctor's face. "I. Am. Fine." His voice was sinister, sending a chill down the doctor's spine. Instinctively, the doctor released his hold, watching in stunned silence as Roger casually sat on the floor, surveying the room with an eerie calm.
"Sit," Roger commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"What?" the doctor stammered, his mind reeling.
"Sit, here," Roger repeated, patting the floor before him. His eyes bore into the doctor's, compelling him with an unnatural force.
"You stay here. I will be right back," the doctor said, his voice trembling with fear, though he tried to mask it. His steps rushed to the door connecting the corridor outside, but his movements were halted when he heard Roger order him, "I said sit."
On his order, the doctor's body moved against his will, like a puppet on strings. His grip on the doorknob loosened, and he sat down before Roger, his movements stiff and robotic. It was as if he were possessed, his actions no longer his own.
Roger's demeanor remained calm, almost unnaturally as he stared at the doctor with a knowing, sinister smile.
Suddenly, without warning, Roger lunged forward with brutal force and sank his teeth into the doctor's neck. The doctor wanted to ran away, or fight against the man but his body as if it was under some witchcraft did not listened to any of the doctor's orders. He couldn't scream; and all he could do was cry silently.
However the doctor could still feel the extreme pain of his flesh tearing away under Roger's relentless bite. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat of terror and pain, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
Roger tore away from the doctor, chewing on the flesh he had ripped off, his mouth smeared with blood. He held the doctor in his lap, an almost perverse tenderness in his grip. The doctor, still alive and barely conscious through the excruciating pain, could only watch in horror as Roger savored the taste of his flesh.
Roger's eyes gleamed with a savage delight as he looked down at the doctor, who lay helpless in his lap. Then, with the same brutal motion, Roger bit into the doctor's stomach. The pain was indescribable, a searing agony that ripped through the doctor's entire being. Roger continued to bite deeper and deeper, tearing into the doctor's flesh and chewing it casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The doctor's vision blurred, his life force ebbing away with each savage bite. He could feel his consciousness slipping, the world fading around him.
In those final moments, the doctor's mind was a storm of agony and disbelief. How had it come to this? His last conscious thought was a desperate plea for it to end, for the nightmare to be over. And as Roger continued to tear into his flesh, the doctor's world finally went dark, the pain and horror fading into the abyss of oblivion.
From the first tear of the flesh, blood poured from the gaping wounds. The crimson liquid flowed so profusely that it began to stain the floor, creating a dark, expanding pool around the lifeless body. The metallic scent of blood filled the room, mingling with the faint smell of the medicines.
Roger, still in a trance-like state, continued to chew on the torn flesh, his mouth and hands slick with blood.
A soft knock suddenly broke the macabre silence, receiving no answer, the nurse entered the room swiftly, her footsteps echoing faintly against the cold floor.
Her eyes flew wide open at the horrifying state that greeted her. The doctor lay dead and motionless on the floor, his once vibrant face now a pallid mask of pain. Flesh was torn from parts of his body, exposing raw muscle and bone to the naked eye. Blood continued to seep from the wounds, the pool around him growing ever larger.
The nurse was so shocked by the scene that she forgot how to respond. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her legs gave way beneath her. She fell back onto her butt, her mind struggling to process the horror before her. Her breathing became shallow and erratic, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
She saw Roger casually step out of the bathroom, wiping his hands dry with a green towel. His demeanor was disturbingly calm and when their eyes met, Roger's expression was unsettlingly serene. He placed his index finger on his lips in a mock gesture of silence, signaling her to stay quiet. The coldness of his gaze made her blood run cold, and she felt a deep, primal fear clawing at her insides.
Instinctively, the nurse scrambled to her feet, her movements frantic and uncoordinated. She dashed out of the room, her mind a storm of terror and confusion, desperate to find others in the clinic. But Roger appeared behind her almost instantaneously, as if materializing from thin air. With a swift, brutal motion, he yanked her back into the room, his strength overwhelming.
He threw her aside onto the floor with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. "You know," he said, his voice disturbingly calm, "insulting my beautiful face like that was not a wise choice," he said with an eerie detachment.
The nurse, coughing and struggling to regain her breath, gathered the courage to ask, her voice trembling, "Did you do this?" She attempted to negotiate, her fear making her desperate.
"Does it matter?" Roger replied, his tone dismissive, almost bored. He took a deliberate step closer to her, his eyes cold and unfeeling.
"Do not come close or I will scream!" the nurse warned, her voice rising in desperation. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for any means of escape.
Roger's response was chillingly calm. "I will feel bad if I have to put such a pretty woman to sleep," he said softly, as if commenting on the weather, his words carrying an undercurrent of menace.
The nurse's resolve cracked. As she prepared to scream for help, no sound emerged from her mouth. She instinctively raised a hand to her neck, as if that might somehow protect her.
Roger's voice cut through the oppressive silence. "Clean up the place," he ordered. "Neat and clean." His tone was calm and commanding, as if he were merely giving a routine instruction.
The nurse paused, the terror in her eyes slowly replaced by a strange, unsettling calmness. Her movements became slow and deliberate, as if she was put under a spell. With a numbing acceptance, she nodded slowly, her face a mask of horror and resignation.
Sensing something was amiss, the security guards approached the room. When they opened the room, they were met with a sight of sheer horror: the nurse, now hunched over the doctor's mutilated body, was chewing on his flesh. Her hands, clothes and her face was covered in blood.
One of the security guards noticed a strange, calm man who had just stepped outside of the clinic. The guard, his instincts on high alert, decided to question him. But when he stepped out to confront the mysterious man, he found that the man had vanished, leaving no trace behind.
Hinikow sat in his study, absorbed in a book about human autonomy. The room was dimly lit, the only light was coming from a single lamp on his desk. The sudden ring of the bell, jolted him from his concentration.
Opening the door, he found a healthy old man standing with a calm expression.
"Yes?" Hinikow asked, his voice steady.
The old man's gaze remained fixed on him, devoid of any warmth or emotion. "Did a young boy drop by?" he asked, his voice smooth and unperturbed.