The soft, persistent buzz of a hospital room filled the air, an ever-present background noise that made each passing moment feel heavier. Above, the exam room’s bright, heated light shone down without mercy, drenching everything in a harsh glare. This relentless illumination created a strange, uncomfortable film of sweat and stickiness that clung to Zavier Sullivan’s skin and face, making it impossible to find comfort or escape the oppressive environment.

From just outside the room, the muted sounds of conversations and snippets of daily life drifted in. The wait became nearly unbearable, each minute stretching out a Zavier listened to the indistinct happiness and laughter of others beyond the closed door. The contrast between the cheerful noises outside and his own anxious isolation only made the waiting more agonizing.

The frustration poured out in whispered curses. The sound of footsteps approaching and the slight click of the door latch release provided a brief and welcome distraction from the internal breakdown brewing inside him. But when the door was quickly latched again, any hope for relief vanished, replaced by a flare of anger. “Oh, this mother fucker!” As soon as the door shut, Zavier could hear his gastroenterologist’s voice in the hallway, talking with another man. A storm of grotesque visions tore through Zavier’s mind, each scene more savage than the last—a reel of torment that could make even the darkest souls recoil. “Golf? Seriously—golf?” Zavier’s jaw tightened as the words echoed in his head. He sat rigid in the chair, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to the air like a warning. His doctor’s voice, warm and casual, floated across the room as if nothing else mattered.