MED•DUSA UN•CHAINED (ilonareichel)

Pharma Theatre begins. Curtain rises. Silence takes its seat before the first molecule speaks. Prologue. The Waiting Room The chairs stand too close to each other, as if they fear the silence. The bulb flickers, but gives no light only tears faces out of the half-dark for a second, and every face already looks like a diagnosis. There are no clocks here. Time is stuck between an inhale and a prescription. Every whisper turns into a side effect, every movement—into an annotation no one ever read. The air thickens, and the heartbeat heard is not your own— it comes from the wall, steady, mechanical, as if the building itself is taking the pulse.

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