Chapter 11: The Good Doctor

“Wake… wake up, my love…”

The voice was distant—soft and syrupy—like an echo drifting through a fogged nightmare.

Val stirred.

Her body felt distant. Heavy. Like someone had poured lead into her bones.

She coughed—a dry, broken sound—and tried to lift her head. Pain stabbed through her skull, white-hot and splitting. The world around her spun in a dull haze.

Where am I? she thought.

“Easy now,” the voice said again, closer this time. Too close.

Val tried to move her arms, but found them restrained. Her heart began to pound with panic.

That voice. That unsettling voice.

Val didn’t need to see it to know.

Her eyes fluttered open—vision blurred, swimming in static. But the silhouette in front of her, looming in the light, was unmistakable.

There it was. That black mask.

Name The Harlequin Occupation Unknown Health Unknown Gear Gas Mask, Robe Weapons Unknown

Pristine rubber, glassy black eyes. A single filter dangled from the nose like a grotesque mechanical snout, gently hissing with each exhale. The polished surface of the mask's eyes reflected a warped image of her own face—sweat-slicked, pale, the left side ruined where Jane had bitten her.

He tilted his head slowly, watching.

“I’m so glad you could finally join us,” the masked man said—giddy with excitement.

Val tried to speak, but her throat was dry as ash. Only a rasp escaped.

“Shhh,” he whispered, placing a gloved finger gently against the nose of his mask. “Don’t strain yourself. You’ve been through so much already.”

“And now… now you’re exactly where you need to be. With me. And the Good Doctor, of course.”

He paused, amused. “He’s dying to meet you, Val. I’ve told him all about you.”

“Only the good things, of course.”

He chuckled as he gently dabbed at her ruined cheek with a damp cloth.

Val flexed, testing her limbs as sensation and strength began to return. Her head throbbed with each pulse, but clarity was beginning to slowly creep back in.

She blinked through the haze and glanced left, then right.

Thick leather straps bound her wrists and ankles to cold metal rings drilled directly into the stone wall. She tugged instinctively, but they didn’t budge. Her weight hung there, suspended like some decorative display pinned to the wall.

Panic stirred in her as the memory of the night returned to her.

“Ellie… Sam… ,” she finally rasped. Her voice cracked, dry and broken, barely more than a whisper.

The world tilted again. Her stomach twisted. She swallowed hard as bile clawed its way up her throat, bitter and burning.

“In time my dear, in time,” the masked man interrupted, his voice lilting with theatrical cheer, “but where are my manners? I forgot to introducing you to our other guests!”

He stepped back, boots echoing against the cold stone floor, and swept an arm toward the shadows beyond.

Val looked up—and her blood ran cold.

Across from her, mounted to the opposite wall, hung three men. Shirtless. Beaten. Suspended by wrists and ankles in the same twisted cruciform as she was—arms stretched outward, bodies slack and broken like marionettes left to rot.

Above and around each of them, blood-dark script had been scrawled directly onto the stone in looping, jagged strokes. Ancient symbols. Spirals, hooks, runes—none she could read, but every one of them vibrated with a sickening wrongness. The markings arched over their heads like halos forged in madness.

What kind of nightmare had she fallen into? she despaired.

Val’s stomach turned.

The masked man tilted his head, admiring the display. “They’ve been… very helpful in our research,” he said with casual pride.

He took a step closer again, leaning slightly.

“The Good Doctor is especially curious about you. That bite on your lovely face—your miraculous survival… it's all he talks about.”

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He let out a soft chuckle, the mask hissing with the sound.

“But he doesn’t understand you like I do, Val. Not yet.”

His voice lowered, reverent now.

“He doesn’t know… that you’re different.”

Val turned her head and retched, bile and acid spilling from her mouth—what little was left in her empty stomach. It hit the stone floor with a splatter.

She gasped, lifting her head slowly, vision swimming.

Three men had entered the room.

They moved silently, one pushing a stainless-steel medical cart, its wheels squeaking faintly over the stone. All three were dressed in crimson robes—rich, ceremonial, trimmed in black. Around their necks hung ornate amulets, shaped like the one the masked man wore. Same twisted insignia. Same oily gleam.

But no masks.

Their faces were bare—human.

Young, pale, expressionless.

Val blinked, her thoughts spiraling. Were they immune to the fog like her? Or was something else at work—some other protection? Some other curse?

None of them spoke.

Pushing the cart into place in front of their other three captives, the robed men stood behind it—hands folded, eyes cast down.

The masked man turned slightly, noticing her attention on them. “Ah,” he said softly. “The Acolytes. Faithful hands of the Good Doctor. Don’t mind them, my dear. They’re here to help.”

Name Acolytes of The Good Doctor ×3 Occupation Unknown Health 100% Gear Robe

And with that unsettling introduction, the door to the chamber groaned open once more.

A man stepped through—small, older, maybe in his sixties. His silver hair was neatly combed back, not a strand out of place. He wore a pristine white lab coat that hung crisp and pressed from his narrow shoulders, the hem swaying slightly as he walked.

Underneath it, a charcoal grey shirt and matching slacks—professional, clinical. Black penny loafers tapped softly against the stone floor with each step.

On his face, a pair of silver horn-rimmed spectacles rested neatly on the bridge of his nose.

He paused just inside the threshold, scanning the room with detached interest, as though arriving to inspect a museum exhibit rather than whatever twisted nightmare Val found herself in.

“Ah! The Good Doctor, at your service, my dear,” the masked man announced with mock grandeur, stepping aside with a dramatic bow.

Name The Good Doctor Occupation Unknown Health 100% Gear Lab Coat

But the old man said nothing.

His expression remained unreadable as he strode silently to the nearest medical cart. Without ceremony, he peeled away a cloth covering the top tray, revealing what lay beneath.

Val’s heart skipped.

Three large syringes, each resting in carved grooves on the metal tray. Each one fitted with a thick steel plunger. Inside the glass barrels swirled something dark—black, viscous, almost oily. It clung to the glass like tar.

Without looking up, the old man spoke, his voice cold and direct. “Bring me another cart. For the girl.”

One of the red-robed acolytes nodded and turned on his heel to obey.

Val’s pulse quickened. The restraints bit into her wrists as she instinctively pulled against them.

“My dear,” the masked man said suddenly, interrupting the silence like a knife through paper, “this is where we must part—for now.”

Val didn’t respond. Her eyes were locked on the door, dread building in her chest like pressure in a sealed drum.

“But not without a parting gift,” he added, voice lilting with glee.

He knelt before her, reaching beneath her suspended legs to retrieve a worn black sack tucked against the stone wall. She watched, unable to stop the icy grip of fear twisting in her gut.

“Something to remember me by,” he cooed, untying the drawstring with deliberate care.

“There are things in this world my love… relics of immense power… once wielded by the legends of ancient times. Times of angels and demons… of wizards and warlocks…” His voice grew softer, reverent, almost childlike with wonder.

"It has been my life’s joy to seek out and retrieve these artifacts—priceless relics, each with its own grand story. The Good Doctor might call me a collector of old junk," he chuckled, "but I assure you... he's very much mistaken."

From the sack, he pulled something wrapped in a layer of deep red velvet. With a theatrical flourish, he peeled the cloth away.

Val’s breath caught in confusion.

It was a helm.

Faded silver or maybe tarnished steel—it was hard for her to say. It looked ancient. The faceplate bore arched slits where eyes might peer through, and a narrow, fluted nose guard that extended down the center like a blade. But it was the wings—two sweeping, curved and feathered fins that jutted from either side of the helmet—that drew her eyes.

They looked ceremonial. Regal. And yet somehow… familiar.

The metal had dulled with age, but something about it shimmered faintly beneath the grime.

The masked man held it out toward her, gloved fingers stroking the ridges of the winged design.

He lifted the helm slowly, almost reverently, and placed it atop her sweat-slicked head. The cool metal settled against her skull, heavy and suffocating. Val shuddered beneath its weight.

Then he laid his gloved hands on her shoulders, his grip firm but almost affectionate.

“My Valarie,” he whispered.

“My Queen.”

“My Valkyrie.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

As it creaked open, red-robed acolytes began to enter—wheeling in the final cart, a syringe gleaming under the candlelit room.

The masked man didn’t look back.

The door shut behind him with a heavy, echoing thud.

And Val was left alone to face the coming of her certain doom.

End of Chapter Stats

Name Val Occupation Combat Medical Technician (CMT) Health 15% Hunger 40% Thirst 70% Gear Helm of the Valkyrie Skills Battlefield Medicine, Standard Weapons Trained Kills 11