The surgical lights hummed to life above the table like cold stars.
I stood over Justin in the private theater, gloved hands steady, white coat open at the throat. The first official procedure under the binding clauses was about to begin — a deep neural flush combined with targeted hormone recalibration. It would burn out the last traces of toxin while keeping him fully conscious and hyper-aroused. No sedation. No mercy.
His golden eyes followed my every movement, fever-bright and shattered.
“Doctor Sanchez,” he breathed as I stepped between his restrained legs.
I didn’t reply.
I simply pressed the first probe into the port at his femoral artery and activated the sequence. The low-frequency waves rolled through his bloodstream like liquid fire. His entire body arched off the table wit
