GWEN
When I wake, the first thing I become aware of is a parched throat, then slowly other details unblur into focus. A freezing room, harsh leather strapped to my wrists and ankles. A metal enclosure with large, transparent tubes dotting a corner of the room.
I look forward and still.
In a glass pool, a man—no, an animal?—floats suspended in a body of liquid.
Tearing my eyes from the haunting sight, I drag in a breath, the smell of formalin strong in my nose. I peer up at the metal ceiling and the memories come rushing back, Malcolm's expressionless face as I was dragged away, Ivar's cruel smile, and the prick of the needle in my neck that plunged everything into darkness.
A tear falls down the side of my face and I breathe in through my nose, a tremble working through me. My chest caves as a silent sob tears out of me and soon I'm a mess of whimpers and watery sniffs. I hate him. I hate him so much.
The door suddenly comes open and I turn my head away, hating for anyone to see me vulnerable, least of all them.
"Hello, Gwen." The voice is frail but surprisingly strong. I imagine a man in his sixties with graying hair but with an acute gaze that cuts through your very being.