DONG... DONG... DONG...
"Advisor, my apologies for the interruption, but... it is past the time you instructed me to wake you."
The Advisor heard the knocking at the door and slowly surfaced from a state of complete mental shutdown.
He was in a luxurious guest room, reclining on a soft, comfortable chaise lounge, the kind one might find in a therapist's office. Beside it, a high-end record player with a genuine vinyl record was playing a gentle, soothing symphony.
A glass of expensive red wine, with only a few sips taken, sat nearby, completing the picture of elegance and luxury.
But when he found he couldn't feel the weight of his arm, he lifted it to look. His entire right forearm was gone, and the remaining stump of his upper arm showed signs of melting, like a half-burnt candle.
