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The aftermath of the breakfast proclamation found me reclining on a sterile hospital bed, the clinical ambiance accentuating the gravity of the impending medical examination. Chan, the resident physician with a penchant for wielding a scalpel, was positioned by my side, ready to embark on the meticulous task of examining my neck and the embedded tracker.
In the periphery of the medical drama, two figures were ensconced in a corner, deliberately distancing themselves from the ominous sight of bodies secured by chains. Amidst the palpable tension, the boys engaged in a spirited game of UNO, their animated voices offering a discordant soundtrack to the sterile surroundings.
The minutes crawled by as Chan meticulously scrutinized my condition, his focus oscillating between my neck and the digital readout of the tracker. The glint of a scalpel induced a surge of hysteria, prompting a hasty retraction of my initial consent. An awkward exchange unfolded, and my attention diverted from the looming instrument to the neutral expanse of the ceiling.
"Scared? It won't hurt much. I already put some morphine inside your body. If it's too much to handle, just say the word, and I'll stop," Chan reassured me, his words punctuated by a glance that betrayed a hint of curiosity at my sudden apprehension.
Despite the anxiety brewing within me, I nodded, granting him my unwavering trust. The ensuing hour unfolded as a paradoxical blend of medical procedure and intermittent small talk. My responses were reduced to hesitant hums, the fear of disrupting the surgical process superseding any desire for conversation.
As Chan deftly navigated the stitches, a sensation of mild discomfort accompanied the faint sting—a far cry from the torturous experiences etched into the fabric of my past. The room, now devoid of the occasional spectators, resonated with a focused yet almost serene atmosphere.
Occasional visits from Felix and Seungmin punctuated the surgical interlude, their initial curiosity yielding to boredom as they abandoned their post, securing confirmation from Chan that Minho would remain oblivious to the proceedings.
With the tracker liberated and emitting a steady red beep, Chan shifted his focus from the medical task at hand to a more elusive matter. As he resumed the delicate dance of stitches, he broached the topic of the preceding night, his words carrying an enigmatic weight.
"Here's a query. Are we going to overlook what happened last night?"
Our eyes met momentarily, a silent exchange transpiring before my gaze returned to the blank expanse above. A tentative response escaped my lips, "I-I think it's better that way. I-It's not like we have any meaning behind it?"
"...yet," Chan's ambiguous assertion lingered in the air, punctuating the tentative détente. With a calculated smirk, he rose, leaving me to gingerly tap the freshly stitched skin.
"Since you aren't really mad about what happened last night, don't be surprised if more continues," he remarked, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes as he sauntered out, the click of the door serving as a prelude to his next surgical endeavor.
The combination of his cryptic words and the unexpected peck on the stitches left in the wake of his departure held the promise of a tantalizing complexity—an intricate dance between danger and allure that could induce a cascade of fluttering butterflies in the stomach of any woman.
