Standing in the sunken cavity, your senses are heightened, dread growing with the water steadily rising higher around your helpless, trapped form. Each uptick marks a silent countdown to the unknowns that loom ever closer.

Frost literally towers above you, his piercing gaze moving over your face, your body, before focusing on the trio of equidistant bottles surrounding you. You stare at them too, tension fueling your shallow breaths, acutely registering the weight of water submerging your legs. Ominous block letters stare back, their oppressive presence reinforced by that of the man who put them there.

Your teeth sink into the ball lodged between them, chattering into the silicone against the cold temperature of the fluid greeting more and more of you. The top of the basin is at level with your chest so, while disconcerting, the fear of drowning is alleviated, at the very least. Still, your body becomes increasingly agitated, shivers claiming your limbs as they work to maintain their hold on the basin’s six electrons and keep you upright at the same time.

Through the haze of sensory overload, Frost’s deliberate movements draw your attention. He leisurely retreats to his wall-to-wall medical shelf, almost as if he’s making a show of it. His big body obscures the label on the compartment he accesses from your vantage point, revealing itself only when he returns, holding a sleek, smedium-ish black box. Your eyes fixate on the box as he approaches, then flits to the label behind him gradually coming into focus.

STATIONERY.

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