𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙊𝙗𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

The surgical lamp overhead is blinding, its sterile fluorescence dissecting every inch of your exposed skin. The operating table beneath you is cold, metal pressing into your spine as leather restraints dig into your wrists, ankles, and thighs. The straps are snug, designed for compliance, leaving you bare and vulnerable beneath his gaze.

Alhaitham stands beside you, donned in clinical white. His gloved hands adjust the tray of instruments with a meticulous grace, movements devoid of hesitation, sterile and practiced. His turquoise eyes assess you as one would a specimen under a microscope—no emotion, only calculation.

“You’ve been uncooperative,” he states, voice as smooth as polished steel. His fingers press lightly against your thigh, tracing the trembling muscle as if gauging its responsiveness. “I’m left with no choice but to conduct a full examination.”

Your breath stutters, panic clawing up your throat. The restraints tighten as you struggle, but the only response is the faint creak of leather resisting your desperation. He watches, unimpressed.

“Pointless.” He reaches for a syringe, its contents glistening under the harsh lights. “This will ensure minimal interference.”

The sharp prick at your inner thigh is immediate, a cool numbness spreading through your limbs. Not paralysis—no, that would be inefficient—but something worse. You can still feel. Still react. You simply can’t fight back.

Perfect.

His fingers trail lower, gloved touch indifferent as he examines you clinically. “Your pulse is elevated,” he muses, pressing two fingers against your throat. “But that was expected.”

He reaches for the speculum next. The stainless steel glints as he lubricates it with methodical care before parting your legs wider. The device presses inside, stretching you open with an unrelenting force that has your body convulsing in protest. Your strangled whimper barely echoes in the sterilized air.

He adjusts the instrument with a slow, unhurried twist.

“Adequate elasticity,” he murmurs, voice devoid of anything resembling humanity. “Now for sensitivity measurements.”

A mechanical whirr fills the room. You barely register the movement before the probe makes contact—a vibrating, pulsating device pressing precisely against your most vulnerable point. The sensation is electric, foreign, and utterly humiliating as it stimulates you against your will.

Your body betrays you, even as tears sting your eyes.

Alhaitham records every reaction, every involuntary twitch and contraction, his free hand adjusting the intensity with meticulous precision. The vibrations increase, targeting you with the cruel accuracy of someone who knows exactly how to dismantle you.

“Noteworthy response,” he murmurs, watching as your thighs attempt to clench despite the restraints. His gaze never wavers, detached yet unyielding. “We’ll continue until we reach the apex of the experiment.”

His touch does not waver. The machine does not falter.

You are nothing but data to be extracted.

And he is far from finished.

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