The locker room was a refuge, a place where she could escape prying eyes and the mounting chaos of the approaching competition. The neon lights overhead emitted a faint, almost imperceptible hum, casting a pallid glow on the tiled walls. She stood alone, her gym bag abandoned on the bench beside her. In a few minutes, she would dive into the water—but first, there was this moment, this clandestine ritual she was about to perform once again.

She reached into her bag with deliberate slowness, her fingers grazing the fabric before closing around the syringe. Every movement was mechanical, perfected by habit. She’d repeated this act so many times it had become an extension of herself—a necessary step to stay on top. This is my strength, my assurance, she told herself, trying to believe it. The undetectable doping agent was her secret weapon against tests, her shield of invincibility. She barely had to tug the bottom of her swimsuit to expose her thigh; the cut was already high on her hips.

The cool air brushed her skin as she positioned the needle with precision. Her pulse quickened, hammering at her temples—not from the impending race, but from the act she was about to commit. Funny how I hate needles, she thought bitterly, but I don’t have a choice. She paused, her eyes meeting her reflection in the tarnished mirror across from her. A flicker of doubt crossed her gaze. Come on, hurry—you’re running out of time.

Just as her fingers tightened around the syringe, ready to plunge the needle, a sharp metallic click echoed through the room.

The locker room door swung open, and a man stepped inside.

She startled, half-turning, the syringe still clutched in her hand.

Her heart raced so violently she thought it might burst from her chest. Who is he? Why is he here? The questions exploded in her mind, her eyes widening in panic.

The man closed the door behind him with agonizing slowness, each second stretching endlessly, as if he relished her shock.

He stared at her, a faint smile playing on his lips. That smile—calm, cryptic—unnerved her further. A crushing weight pressed down on her; her limbs refused to obey. If I scream, someone will come. They’ll see the syringe. It’ll all be over. The fear of exposure paralyzed her, killing any urge to react. No matter what she did, she was trapped.

He stepped forward, his shoes whispering against the cold tiles. Every sound amplified the tension, time itself slowing under the gravity of his approach. She retreated, step by step, until the wall blocked her escape. What does he want? Why won’t he speak? Her thoughts spiraled, scrambling for a way out—but there was none. Cornered, vulnerable, her breath turned shallow and ragged.

He stopped inches from her, so close she could feel his breath warm against her face. His eyes locked onto hers, and the icy certainty in his gaze made her blood run cold. Without a word, he reached for the syringe still clenched in her hand. His fingers brushed hers, sending an involuntary shudder through her. Shame and fear twisted into a knot in her throat—yet she didn’t resist. She let him take it, hypnotized by his unreadable stare.

For a moment, he studied her, his smile widening just enough to deepen her unease. Then, with his free hand, he grasped the top of her swimsuit. She flinched—an instinctive jerk—but remained frozen. What is he doing? Her breath hitched as he tugged gently, sliding the fabric aside to expose one breast, firm and round—an athlete’s body.

Heat flooded her cheeks. Why? Why is he doing this? Confusion drowned her, but she didn’t move. The fear of crying out, of betraying her own guilt, held her in place, exposed and at his mercy.

Holding the syringe with unsettling confidence, he brought the needle to the side of her breast. She held her breath, eyes fixed on the glinting tip as it inched closer.

No—not there! Dread spiked, but her body still refused to react.

The sting came sudden and precise. A sharp pain lanced through her as he drove the needle in, then depressed the plunger, releasing the liquid into her flesh. Her lips pressed together, stifling a whimper; her eyelids fluttered shut against the burn. It’s done. He did it. She didn’t understand, but shock left no room for thought.

He withdrew the needle with surprising care and set it on the bench beside her. Then, just as deliberately, he adjusted her swimsuit back into place, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat on her skin. Another shiver ran through her—part fragile relief, part profound discomfort. It’s over. He’ll leave now.

He took a step back, his gaze lingering. She searched his eyes for answers, for clues, but they remained impenetrable.

Without a word, he turned and opened the door. Then he was gone, vanishing into the hallway as silently as he’d arrived, leaving her alone in the oppressive locker room. She stood motionless, her breath uneven, for what felt like an eternity.

What just happened? Who was he? Why? The questions swirled, unanswered. She looked down at the empty syringe, then back at her reflection. The ache in her breast pulsed faintly—a reminder of what now coursed through her veins.