"You're Late."

Chapter 2: Inescapable Intrusion

Chapter 2.1: A Band-Aid and a Plan

This gosh darn chip, I feel like I'm going insane. It's become the unwelcome guest that refuses to leave, a constant reminder of that surreal encounter and the shadowy woman who has entangled me in her web.

Each morning, as I prepare for another day at the hospital, I can't help but glance at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It's not vanity that draws my gaze; it's a relentless need to check for any visible signs of the chip. It's as if I expect it to reveal itself to the world, a conspicuous mark of my vulnerability.

The hospital break room, once a haven of brief respite, has now transformed into a battleground of paranoia. My colleagues, engrossed in their conversations and tasks, remain oblivious to my internal struggle. They see a doctor diligently focused on her work, but beneath the facade, I'm unraveling.

The incessant itch at the back of my neck taunts me, a constant reminder of the invisible intruder in my life. I've tried explaining it away as stress or allergies, but the truth is undeniable. It's the chip, an insidious presence that I can't rid myself of.

During lunch breaks, instead of savoring my meal, I find myself lost in thought. What does this woman want? Why has she chosen me as her target? These questions gnaw at me, fueling my anxiety.

I've done my best to research the technology behind such implants, but my efforts have yielded nothing but frustration. It's as if this chip exists in a realm of its own, eluding detection and comprehension.

And so, as I navigate the halls of the hospital, I carry this heavy burden of secrecy. I'm trapped in a never-ending game of cat and mouse, and I can't help but wonder when the chase will end and the truth will finally be revealed.

💉❤️🩺

In a secluded corner of the bustling hospital, I found myself sitting alone, a silent observer of the world around me. My colleagues, their white coats and scrubs adorned with various medical devices, gathered in small clusters during their break. Laughter and animated conversations filled the air, providing a momentary respite from the relentless demands of our profession.

As I sat there, my attention drawn to the scene before me, a nurse passed by with a cart laden with supplies. The small, shining silver surgical instruments neatly arranged on the cart caught my eye. I recognized them, their correct names flashing through my mind like a mental catalog – forceps, tweezers, and scalpel handles. It was a sight that should have been ordinary, but for me, it was a revelation.

'Bingo,' I thought, a spark of excitement igniting within me. This was an opportunity, a potential clue hidden in plain sight. The nurse entered a nearby room, presumably to attend to her duties, and left shortly after. It was my chance, and I couldn't let it slip away.

With a sense of purpose, I stood up and made my way to that room. It was unassuming, with pale blue walls and medical posters adorning them. The sterile scent of disinfectant lingered in the air. As I entered, I closed the door gently behind me, sealing myself in a realm of possibilities.

The room I had entered was eerily empty, devoid of any human presence, save for the tray of meticulously sterilized surgical tools that lay before me. I took a deep breath and let out a sigh, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. I knew I had to act quickly.

My eyes scanned the contents of the tray, a scalpel gleaming dully under the overhead lights, and a pair of tweezers waiting patiently for their purpose to be fulfilled. My hands moved almost instinctively, reaching for the tools. It was as if my mind was on autopilot, not fully comprehending the implications of what I was about to do.