Rain's POV:
I inch closer and the chains come into full view.
Thick links of rusted metal wrap his wrists and disappear into the iron bedframe, each one stained dark where skin and old blood have rubbed against it.
They look heavy enough to bruise bone.
The previous patient I saw, the asset, never had restraints like these.
This one needs them.
So what is he?
A criminal?
His eyes slide over me, slow and invasive, lingering where they shouldn't, as if he has all the time in the world.
His stare leaves a greasy film on my skin.
"Ya here to tend to me?" he says.
His voice is low and rough, and when he speaks his pale tongue drags across a half-crusted lip, peeling dried blood away.
The room smells sharp and sour at the same time.
Antiseptic layered over old sweat, rust, and something faintly sweet beneath it all.
Rot, maybe. Or infection.
The cold presses in from the walls, crawling up my sleeves and settling in my bones.
And then memory hits.
