Page 7 of Milk & Malice: Vadik
Below it, beneath a trapdoor hidden under a rug, was the second floor.
That one was for discipline.
If she was bad, she would see it.
Only then.
I parked the car inside the garage, away from sight. The rear hatch lifted with a soft hiss as I wheeled the cart out, guiding it across the tile and into the operating room. The wheels clacked over the threshold.
This was it.
The moment I’d waited for.
She didn’t stir when I lifted her.
Her breathing was soft. Steady.
The sedative held.
I laid her gently onto the operating table, her body limp under my hands. She was warm. Supple.
Compliant.
The monitor came online as I attached the leads—chest, finger, scalp. A steady pulse lit up the screen in green waves. I inserted the IV line into the external jugular—fast access, low risk of arterial puncture.
Her vitals held.
Beautiful.
I reached for the shears and began cutting her clothes away, slicing through cotton and lace without ceremony. She wouldn’t need them again.
The music began—Swan Lake, extended version.
My favourite section queued perfectly.
The violins climbed. The piano shimmered.
I scrubbed my hands and elbows in the basin.
Hot water. Disinfectant.
Ritual.
Respect.
I dried them, pulled the gloves on one finger at a time.
Latex snapped into place.
Fitted. Precise.
My tools were already sterilised, arranged, waiting.
Scalpel. Bone saw. Sutures. Titanium pins.
The mask came next.
I adjusted the straps and centred the shield.
