The glass doors of the PharmaCorp clinic slid open with a soft hiss, ushering Jane into sterile, icy-cold air. It smelled of antiseptic and money. The latter was especially appealing. It was this smell, or rather the lack thereof in her own life, that had drawn the twenty-year-old student here. The reception area was decorated in calm, neutral tones—gray sofas, blue accent walls covered with abstract paintings, presumably intended to be calming. But Jane couldn't relax. Her fingers fiddled nervously with the strap of her old backpack, filled with notes from an introductory sociology course. "Jane Doe?" a woman in a white coat rose from behind the counter, her smile as flawless and lifeless as the interior. "My name is Linda. Come with me, Dr. Murdoch is waiting for you." Jane nodded, feeling her legs buckle. She followed Linda down the long hallway, their footsteps echoing dully on the glossy linoleum. The office doors were closed, their nameplates bearing incomprehensible abbreviations and numbers. Dr. Murdoch's office was spacious and sunlit. A man of about fifty, with graying temples and an inquisitive, searching gaze, sat behind a massive steel desk. "Miss Doe, please sit down," his voice was low and calm. "I'm glad you responded to our program." “I’m glad of the opportunity too,” Jane squeezed out, sitting down on the hard chair opposite. "Excellent. Then let's skip the preamble," the doctor pushed the tablet aside and folded his hands on the table. "PharmaCorp has developed a new analgesic, CephaloMid. Preclinical trials have shown high efficacy and minimal side effects. We are now moving on to phase three—testing on volunteers. Your task is simple and extremely important." He paused, letting the words sink in. "You'll take one tablet daily, at the same time every day. Preferably in the morning. And keep a detailed self-monitoring diary." Dr. Murdoch pulled a thick blue notebook from a drawer and handed it to her. "Write down everything. Absolutely everything you experience. The slightest changes in mood, energy level, appetite, sleep quality. Mild dizziness, dry mouth, changes in taste perception... Any sensations, no matter how minor, in your opinion. This is critical to the final safety profile of the drug." Jane picked up a notebook. The paper was smooth and expensive. She imagined filling it out, sitting in the university library between lectures. It would probably feel like taking notes on a particularly boring subject. — I understand. Write everything down every day. "Exactly," the doctor smiled. "Standard protocol. In addition to keeping a diary, you'll need to come to us once a week for tests and a discussion. The entire process will take three months. The reward, as you know, is five thousand dollars, paid upon completion of the program." Five thousand. A sum that would solve all her problems for the next semester. Books, rent, a broken laptop, a chance to breathe a little. “I have no questions,” Jane said, her voice finally gaining strength. "Excellent. Then please sign these documents. Informed consent." Linda, who had been standing against the wall this whole time, silently handed her a stack of papers and a pen. Jane skimmed the text. Numerous clauses, vague wording about possible risks, data confidentiality. She signed at the bottom of the last page. Quickly, before she changed her mind. Dr. Murdoch nodded and opened the top drawer of his desk. From there, he removed a small, dark, opaque plastic jar with a white, airtight lid. "Here's your course. Thirty tablets. You'll start tomorrow morning." He held out the bottle. "And remember, Miss Doe, your meticulousness is the key to success. We're interested in all the effects. Even those that might seem... unusual to you." His gaze lingered on her for a second, and Jane felt a slight, almost imperceptible chill down her spine. "Thank you, Doctor," she said, taking the jar. It was light, almost weightless, but in her palm she felt the weight of her entire future. A few minutes later, she was already leaving the clinic, squinting in the bright daylight. An orange jar tucked into her jeans pocket, a blue notebook in her backpack. Somewhere ahead lay her ordinary life—lectures, part-time work at a cafe, evenings spent studying. But now she had a secret. A small one, the size of a pill, which she was supposed to take the following morning. She didn't yet know that this small white object would unleash something deep, wild, and utterly uncontrollable within her, forcing her to rewrite not only her observation journal but also herself. *** The morning began with its usual chaotic rhythm. The alarm rang, a quick shower. The water washed away the remnants of sleep, but couldn't wash away the slight nervous excitement. Getting ready resembled a high-speed montage: pulling on jeans, throwing on a light top, quickly drying her hair, dabbing mascara on her lashes in front of the mirror, which reflected her nervous face. It was in this confusion that the orange jar nearly vanished into oblivion. Jane spotted it on the edge of the sink just as she was reaching for her backpack. "Damn!" she breathed, unscrewing the sealed lid. Inside were thirty small, unremarkable white pills. She shook one into her palm, looked at it with a grain of salt, and, scooping a glass of water, swallowed it. No taste, no smell. Just another morning routine. She dashed out of the house and ran to the bus stop, beads of sweat already forming on her back. The bus was stuffy and cramped, as it always was during rush hour. Jane squeezed herself between a portly man with a briefcase and a student glued to her phone. But today the heat felt different. Not as an external discomfort, but as something welling up from within. A wave of warmth spread from the center of her stomach, slowly spreading through her veins, filling them with a light, almost imperceptible tingling. She attributed it to the running and the general stuffiness. She burst into the classroom literally a second before the professor began his lecture. Out of breath, her cheeks flushed, she plopped down in the only empty seat next to Simon. "Overslept again, sleepyhead?" His lips stretched into a wide, kind grin. Simon had been her personal enclave of calm since they'd run through puddles together in kindergarten. Now he was also the epitome of college-age handsomeness: broad shoulders that looked perfect in a simple T-shirt, blond hair perpetually tousled, as if he'd just rolled out of bed. Eyes the color of warm chocolate. "Shut up," she muttered back, pulling out her notebook, but her hand lingered briefly on his forearm as she sought support, settling herself more comfortably. And this casual, friendly touch suddenly echoed strangely within her. Through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, she felt the heat of his skin. And this heat seemed to synchronize with the inner fire smoldering within her. She suddenly felt as if she could feel every molecule of air sliding over her, every movement of the fabric of her top. "Okay, okay," he gently nudged her with his shoulder, and the push sent a slight vibration through her body. "You're all red. You were flying like crazy." “The bus... it’s hot,” she squeezed out, trying to breathe more evenly. She tried to focus on the lecture on social structures, but the professor's words drifted away like smoke. Her consciousness was riveted on her own body. On the strange heaviness in her lower abdomen, on the way her nipples had swollen and hardened, rubbing painfully against her lace bra. On the warm wetness that had begun to pool between her legs. It was disconcerting, strange, and... pleasant. As if someone had slowly turned an invisible dial on her sensitivity, and now everything around her—the creak of the chair, the whispers behind her, the smell of old paper, and the faint scent of Simon's cologne—struck her nerves with incredible force. "Are you okay?" Simon leaned toward her, his whisper right next to her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "Hungover? Or have you already fallen in love with the new lecturer?" Their usual joke today sounded like something more. She turned her head and met his gaze. And suddenly, with absolute, animal clarity, she realized how much she wanted to feel his lips on hers. For his large, strong arms to embrace her, to press her against that hard, muscular chest. The thought was so unexpected and intense that she looked away abruptly, feeling her whole face burning. “No, it’s just... my head is a little dizzy,” she whispered, clasping her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. She sat motionless until the end of class, staring at her notes, where vague, shameful images appeared instead of words. And inside, that strange, damp heat grew, insistent and demanding, like the quiet voice of some ancient, newly awakened instinct. She thought with dread and curiosity about what she would have to write in her blue notebook that evening. "The slightest changes in mood, energy level..." Yes, there were changes. And they were far from anything related to the headache. *** Two hours later, Jane sat in the farthest corner of the university library, in the rare book room, where only the most desperate of recluses wandered. Here, centuries of dust clung to leather, and silence thick as honey filled the air. But today, even that silence couldn't drown out the roar in her blood. The strange arousal, which had initially been merely an annoying background noise, now reached an incredible, excruciating pitch. It pulsed within her with a low, insistent hum, turning her body into one continuous, exposed nerve. Walking from the philosophy section to these shelves of forgotten tomes was torture. Every step echoed with the friction of denim against the inflamed, unbearably sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Her nipples burned, swollen and hard as peas; every movement of her T-shirt caused both pain and a strange, aching pleasure. She sat hunched over a table piled high with books. A fog swam before her eyes. The world narrowed to the pulsing between her legs—wet, hot, demanding. It flowed there without ceasing, disconcerting her with its magnitude. Shame mingled with an animalistic, all-consuming desire. She didn't care about the consequences, about propriety, about anything. Her brain refused to work, issuing a single, crystal-clear command: cum. Now. Immediately. Her heart pounded wildly, filling her ears with a deafening thud. She looked around—not a soul. Only rows of endless shelves and portraits of old professors glaring sternly at her from the walls. Her breathing became ragged, wheezing. It was madness. Pure madness. And yet, as if of its own accord, her hand sank beneath the table. With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned her jeans, then unzipped them. The breath of cool air on her damp skin made her shudder. She slipped her hand inside, beneath the thin cotton of her panties, already soaking wet. The touch of her own fingers on the swollen, incredibly sensitive nub was like an electric shock. She nearly screamed, biting her lip until it hurt. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She didn't need caresses, tenderness, or languor. She needed a generous, sweeping finish. Now. She covered herself with an open book—some tome on medieval architecture—and, staring at him with a gaze that held no comprehension, began to rapidly and desperately rub her fingertips over her swollen, pulsating flesh. Each movement sent a wave of heat through her lower abdomen, causing her thighs to clench involuntarily. She squeezed her eyelids shut, trying to suppress the moans rising in her throat. Her ears were ringing. She was one solid, greedy desire. His fingers glided effortlessly, generously lubricated with her own juices. She quickened her rhythm, breathing short and ragged, like a cornered animal. Her thoughts vanished. All that remained was the growing, inexorable vortex within, a coiling spring, ready to spring back at any moment. And then it hit. Not a wave, but an explosion. A dull, crushing spasm that wrenched a strangled, hoarse breath from her chest. Her entire body froze for a moment in agonizing ecstasy, and then went limp, overwhelmed by a shock so powerful it blacked out her vision. The spasms slowly receded, leaving behind trembling knees, a deafening emptiness in her head, and wet, sticky fingers in her jeans. She slowly, with difficulty, pulled her hand out, feeling her heart gradually return to its normal rhythm. A sharp, sickening wave of shame washed over her. She had just... been in the library... God. Jane rested her head on the cool wooden tabletop, trying to catch her breath. Then her gaze fell on the blue notebook lying nearby. "Write down everything. Absolutely every sensation." A bitter, hysterical smile touched her lips. Yes, she definitely had some "sensations."