The stench of disinfectant mingled with rancid mutton assaulted my nostrils. This was no ordinary kidnapping.
Pulsing fluorescent veins throbbed across the walls as six men and four women slumped in a circle of examination chairs. The goat-skull masked figure adjusted an antique defibrillator, its paddles smeared with brain-like mucus.
"Welcome to cognitive recalibration therapy." The mask turned, revealing thirteen surgical scissors sewn into his lab coat's hem.
The tattooed gangster erupted first, his dragon ink rippling. "Who the fuck kidnaps from Portland Street?!" He swung a steel chair that froze mid-air—neural tendrils sprouting from the legs to entangle his wrists.
"Ninth personality calibration commencing." The mask activated the defibrillator.
Amid screams, the Chanel-clad socialite tore open her collar, exposing a data port. "This hellhole was shut down seven years ago! The walls are coated in C12 neurotoxin indicators!"
The woman in a lab coat scratched bloody grooves into her armrest. "Eleven chairs... Why eleven chairs?"
My pen burned through the pocket. As the gangster cursed, it transformed into a scalpel engraved Memory Surgeon - QIXIA.
"Silence." The mask placed paddles on his chest. Electricity cracked as the goat skull split, revealing the smiling boy's face beneath.
The socialite vomited mechanical leeches. "He's syncing our pain receptors!"
Too late. Electrodes touched the boy's temples. When his skull exploded, cobalt blood spelled 168:00:00 on the walls.
Nine black cards materialized in our palms. Mine bled fresh text:
Cognitive Tier: 7
Remaining Calibrations: 3
Attending Physician: QIXIA
The housewife pointed at my newly appeared bloodstained lab coat. "You're one of them!"
My scalpel autonomously carved the chair arm—etched with three hundred fading QIXIA signatures.