Page 71 of Mission Shift

I willed my body to move, to work, but it was useless.

Everything was shutting down. The only thing still working was my mind.

I was aware of everything.

Oleg grabbed me under my arms and knees and heaved me onto the steel table. My spine was pressed against the cold metal as he latched thick leather restraints around my ankles.

Once those were secure, he removed my handcuffs and wrenched my arms to my sides, strapping them down to the table as well.

I couldn’t move.

My lungs barely worked, and each breath was becoming more difficult as my diaphragm struggled.

The doctortsked, finally stepping into view.

“You fought,” he mused, peering down at me. His expression was mildly disapproving, like I was nothing more than a disobedient child.

I wanted to snarl at him, to spit in his face, but I couldn’t even do that.

Not with the drug shutting me down.

“Now I have to provide supportive measures.” He sighed.

He tilted my chin up, pressing two fingers under my jaw, checking my pulse. His touch lingered, trailing lower, skimming over my collarbone and pausing on my sternum.

“Breathing is intact but shallow. I’ll have to intervene,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re lucky. It was a small dose. If it had been more, your diaphragm might have stopped working entirely.”

He reached for something on the tray beside him. My stomach turned. I recognized what it was.

A laryngeal mask airway device.

Panic seized my chest, but my body refused to obey; I couldn’t jerk away, couldn’t stop him.

His gloved fingers pried my jaw open, angling my head back. My throat burned as he forced the device past my lips, guiding it down my airway in a smooth, practiced motion.

A deep, suffocating pressure settled in my throat when the device nestled over my larynx. Dr. Gore then pulled a syringe from the tray and inflated the cuff, sealing the airway. It was now a secure passage, ensuring I could neither choke nor resist.

There was a soft hiss followed by a mechanical hum when he connected the LMA tubing to a portable ventilator and adjusted the settings. The machine took over instantly, delivering measured breaths in a steady, controlled rhythm.

Now he had his hands free. Free to do whatever he wanted.

I wanted to gag, to wrench away from the suffocating intrusion, but the drug left me helpless. Each artificial breath was a violation, a reminder that I had lost complete control over my own body.

His gaze flicked to the portable monitor beside him, which was currently dark. He reached for a bundle of electrode leads, peeling back the adhesive strips.

“Can’t have you slipping away on me,” he said, pressing the first electrode onto my chest, just below my collarbone. His touch was clinical, methodical, as he placed another on my ribs, then one on my abdomen.

He attached the final lead and flipped the monitor on. The screen came to life, and a rhythmic beeping that mirrored my racing heartbeat filled the room.

“Ah, see? Your heart is pounding. That’s good. I want you awake for this. I want you to feel every second of it.”

My panic surged, but there was nothing I could do.

I was his prisoner. His specimen. His entertainment.

And the real nightmare was only beginning.

Dr. Goryachov leaned in, his face hovering just above mine.

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