White walls buzzing under fluorescent tremors — antiseptic jungle. The doctor leans in, gloved hands parting pink geometry like he’s deciphering an ancient code in flesh. The speculum clicks — chrome insect probing into wet silence. He stares deep, not with lust but with the bureaucratic horror of a man cataloging mutations in the Ministry of Interior Tissue. It’s all there — folds and secrets, soft membranes pulsing like the walls of Interzone. Somewhere, a nurse coughs. Somewhere else, a tape reel clicks on: ‘Subject stable. No anomalies yet. Continue observation.’ The vagina stares back — an eye of meat, an oracle speaking in mucus and muscle. He is no longer a man. Just a technician in the vast machine of biological absurdity.