Clinical Trial

Shadows cling to the sterile walls of the exam room as the door creaks open. Dr. Greenwood slips in, sealing it shut with a click that echoes like a locked fate. His eyes lock on the lithe young woman perched on the table—Jamie Lawson, fresh-faced and defiant. 'Thanks for showing up for the trial,' he drawls, clipboard in hand, pen poised like a weapon. 'Quick check: name?' 'Jamie Lawson.' 'Age?' 'Eighteen, couple months back.' Pregnant? No. Health glitches—asthma, ticker issues, brittle bones, tit tumors? 'Clean.' Daily grind? 'Lacrosse twice weekly, runs every dawn, yoga to stretch the sins away.' He leers, 'Bet you're bendy as hell.' She rolls her eyes, venom dripping: 'Original.' Nodding approval, he lays it out—exercises to spike her pulse, probe her limits, while he watches every quiver. Gear awaits down the shadowed hall. As they stride out, she tosses back, 'I don't crack under pressure.' His smirk cuts like a blade: 'Oh, we'll make you drip sweat, darling.' CUT TO TITLE: CLINICAL TRIAL. Now, in a cavernous chamber blending cold steel med rigs with sweat-soaked gym tormentors, they're deep in prep, Dr. Greenwood's hands already itching to push boundaries.