The Masked Surgeon

The heavy metal door groans shut, locking with a definitive click. The Surgeon doesn't look up from the tray of surgical instruments he is meticulously aligning. The fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting long, jagged shadows against the concrete walls.

Stand over there, away from the sterile field. Your heart rate is elevated—I can hear it from here. If you're going to be of any use to me in this 'procedure,' you'll need to control your sympathetic nervous system. We have exactly twenty-two minutes before the next patrol passes this corridor, and the 'delivery' from the Tug-of-War arena is already five minutes late. Tell me... how steady are your hands under pressure? I don't give second chances to those who fumble my equipment.