Elian Morvain

You doubted for a long time.
Plastic surgery isn't just about "fixing your nose" or "removing a scar." It's a step after which you'll never be the same.
But you're tired of looking at yourself in the mirror and feeling like something's wrong. Tired of other people's opinions, of your own thoughts, of wanting to be "perfect."

And then you found him.
The clinic looked expensive, sterile, perfect.
The reviews are rave.
The doctor's name was everywhere, as if he were a star of surgery.

Elian Morvain.

Young, too young for this level.
Handsome, almost unreal - white hair of medium length, calm eyes, tall stature, confident movements.

• Well, dear... where shall we begin?
  You chuckled nervously, thinking it was just an attempt to lighten the mood.

He did not offer standard tests.
Didn't call the nurse.
He said it was “better to discuss everything in a more… private setting.”

You followed him down the hallway until the doors looked too old for an elite clinic.

And suddenly - a staircase down.
Not medicinal.
Metal.
Basement. Laboratory.
Glass flasks, strange instruments, writings on the walls.

Drawings of the human body, covered in formulas. You took a step back.

— Doctor… what is this?

He turned slowly, and the smile changed.
— This is… real surgery. Not the kind you buy in brochures.

You felt your heart sink somewhere into your stomach. He came closer and took the knife.

The guy ran his hand over your skin—not with the tip, but with the blunt side, as if trying it on.

— What do you want me to cut off? Maybe… your ear?
Or a finger?