fibrillatory

[fibrillatory]

Heartbeat Roulette

The abandoned medical lab was a cold, echoing shell, its dim lights flickering over dusty counters and discarded equipment. The air carried a faint antiseptic bite, a relic of its past life, now a stage for two reckless, stunning outlaws—Milo and Kai. They weren’t medics, but they’d scavenged enough illicit gear to feed their cardiophile fixation: the visceral rush of their hearts pushed to the edge. Milo was a raven-haired renegade, his face a rugged portrait of brooding allure—sharp cheekbones, a stubbled jaw, and deep green eyes that glinted with a wild, restless energy. His body was lean and muscular, chest a tight expanse of olive-toned skin, pecs firm and sculpted, veins mapping his frame from years of testing his limits. Kai, sandy blonde and cropped short, was a sun-kissed rebel—his features bold, with a square jaw, plush lips set in a sly grin, and amber eyes that flared with daring. His chest was a golden slab of power, pecs broad and carved, faintly gleaming in the lab’s chill, every muscle a testament to his relentless pursuit of the extreme. They craved the sound, the feel, the brink of their steroid-charged hearts—and tonight, they’d chase it in a way that would leave them breathless.

Milo leaned against a rusted exam table, his black t-shirt clinging to his sweat-damp torso after their break-in. He pulled a stethoscope from his backpack, its black tubing swaying as he held it up. “You ready for this, Kai?” he asked, voice low and rough, green eyes sharp. “I want to hear that golden heart of yours up close—see how far we can take it.”

Kai smirked, dropping his bag onto a counter with a metallic clank. He tugged off his shirt, baring the chiseled glory of his chest, and grabbed a silver stethoscope from his stash. “Oh, I’m ready,” he replied, stepping closer, his bare skin catching the faint light. “My ticker’s already restless—let’s push it hard. You first, though—let me hear what’s going on in there.”

Milo grinned, slipping the stethoscope around his neck and pressing the cold bell to his sternum. “Listen up,” he said, taking a slow breath, letting the steady thud-thud-thud of his heart fill the earpieces Kai slipped on. “Hear that? It’s solid—but it’s itching to break loose. What do you think?”

Kai’s amber eyes narrowed as he listened, the rhythm of Milo’s heartbeat—strong, deep, with a subtle skip—hitting his ears. “Damn, Milo—it’s intense. Heavy, alive—like a storm waiting to hit.” He pulled the earpieces out, handing them back. “My turn—check this.” He placed the silver bell over his own chest, guiding Milo’s hand, letting him hear the quick, uneven pulse. “Feel that? It’s already jumping—ready for more.”

Milo leaned in, the stethoscope amplifying Kai’s heartbeat—fast, erratic, alive. “Shit, Kai—it’s wild. That little stumble—it’s pulling me in.” He stepped back, digging into his bag, pulling out a syringe filled with a clear, potent liquid—epinephrine, raw and dangerous. “No veins tonight,” he said, holding it up, the needle glinting. “Straight to the heart—let’s see what they can handle.”

Kai’s grin sharpened, his breath catching at the thought. “Right into it? You’re crazy—I’m all for it.” He grabbed his own syringe, matching and lethal. “Who’s first? I want to hear yours stop before mine does.”

Milo laughed, dark and low. “Me first—you’ve got the stethoscope ready.” He peeled off his shirt, tossing it aside, and lay back on the exam table, his olive-toned chest rising and falling, veins pulsing faintly. “Here,” he tapped his sternum, “make it good.” Kai nodded, positioning the needle over Milo’s heart, then drove it in—deep, steady—pushing the plunger slow. Milo’s eyes widened, a sharp gasp escaping as the drug hit his heart, sparking it into a frantic, stuttering rush, loud enough to echo in the quiet lab.

Kai pressed the silver bell to Milo’s pecs, listening, captivated. “Holy hell—hear that? It’s going nuts—skipping, racing—total chaos.” Milo’s chest heaved, sweat beading across his taut skin, his pecs trembling as the epinephrine surged. “How’s it feel, man? Hot enough for you?”

Milo groaned, gripping the table’s edge. “Like my heart’s burning—pounding so hard it’s gonna bust—fuck, it’s a rush. Your turn, Kai—let me hear yours.” He sat up, shaky but grinning, grabbing his stethoscope as Kai took his place, his golden chest gleaming. Milo took the syringe, aimed for Kai’s heart, and plunged it in—slow, deliberate, watching Kai’s face twist as the drug flooded in.

Kai arched, a rough breath tearing free. “Goddamn—Milo—it’s like a jolt—heart’s all over the place!” Milo pressed the stethoscope to Kai’s pecs, the sound a frenzied mess—racing, skipping, barely holding on. “Fuck, it’s intense—feels like it’s gonna break through,” Kai panted, his amber eyes blazing.

Milo smirked, leaning closer. “It’s unreal—chaotic as hell. Let’s take it further—see how much it can take.” They swapped stethoscopes again, listening to each other’s hearts spiral, the lab alive with the amplified thuds and skips. Kai grabbed another syringe, a heavier dose. “One more, Milo—straight in again. I want to hear yours go quiet.”

Milo nodded, lying back, his chest slick with sweat. “Hit me—make it count.” Kai injected him, the needle piercing deep, and Milo’s heart went berserk—racing, then faltering hard. “Kai—it’s—” His words choked off, face contorting as cardiac arrest struck—sudden, absolute. His chest stilled, a rogue downed.

Kai’s breath hitched, heat surging. “Milo—shit, you’re gone!” He pressed the stethoscope to Milo’s pecs, hearing nothing—just silence where life had thundered. “Fuck—that’s hot—your heart’s stopped.” His hands roamed Milo’s chest, feeling the stillness, his own pulse pounding as he unzipped his pants, stroking himself fast. “Perfect—calm—mine.” He came hard, splattering across Milo’s pecs, the warmth stark against the cooling skin.

But the quiet jolted him. “No—not yet!” Kai dropped the stethoscope, tilting Milo’s head back, sealing his lips over Milo’s for mouth-to-mouth—sharp, urgent breaths, tasting sweat and desperation. Then he straddled him, hands slamming down for CPR—hard, fast, relentless. “Beat, damn it—come back!” Each compression rocked Milo’s chest, Kai’s blonde hair dripping sweat. Two minutes, then a choke—Milo jolted, chest heaving, alive.

Milo coughed, dazed, voice raw. “What—fuck—happened?” He felt the sticky mess, glanced at his cum-streaked pecs, then up at Kai. “You got off on me flatlining, you twisted fuck?”

Kai grinned, breathless, hands still on Milo’s chest, feeling the reborn pulse. “Hell yeah—your heart stopped, hottest thing I’ve seen. Had to bring you back—my turn next.”

Milo smirked, weak but fierce. “Next time, I’m listening to yours quit—and I’ll make it messy.”

[fibrillatory]

Risky Session

After a tiring week, Nate was finally free. Well, he had an assignment, but he needed to clear his mind before doing it. And for that he needed a session. A self-help session. Once the house was empty, he locked his room. Then he opened the secret locker that was located in his cupboard. It was full of his beloved items. His Steth, the defibrillator, tens, and his favorite ekg pads and monitor. There were toys too which he used to overwork his heart. He brought the needed stuff over his bed and began setting up. He lubricated the ekg pads with gel and placed them one by one over his bare chest. He turned on the monitor and then began to squat. His heart rate increased, the ridges over the monitor began to show a different pattern from the normal one. Then he stopped and took deep breaths. Falling back on the bed he placed the Steth's cool metal surface over his chest listening to the hard beating of his heart at different locations. Listening as his valves opened and closed rapidly, trying hard to supply his body with enough oxygen. His breathing because shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly to fill his lungs with oxygen. He grabbed the mask from the bedside attached to a small cylinder and placed it over his mouth. Today he was not going to be merciful. He turned the valve to adjust the level. Then he began to inhale the gas, taking it deep into his lungs. His breathing slowed as his precious oxygen supply was cut by the suffocating mask and his heartbeat slowed down to a dangerous level. His assault on his heart had made him aroused. A tortured groan escaped his lips as he struggled to inhale. Slowly he removed the mask, and his agonizing gasps filled the empty room. His mouth remained open, and his eyes rolled back as pain pierced his heart with each beat and breath. He continued taking deep breaths, massaging his sternum with a fist. His eyes fell over the monitor. His heart was going into tachycardia.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

Ignoring that he placed the mask over his mouth again, increasing the gas volume. It was rapidly filling his lungs; the poor organ was barely getting any oxygen.

Sweating profusely, body jerking, begging for air, he climaxed, gasping in the mask. His wretched heart was finally tired.

And just like that, he flat lined.

﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀﹀

"Come on Nate! Breath!"

The strong hands were compressing his chest rapidly. His skinny chest easily moved against the strong fists. The man could feel his ribs breaking, but he didn't stop. Tilting back Nate's head, he gave him the kiss of life, watching as his chest rose and fell.

"Come on! Breath you bastard! Breath!" He rasped, pushing his heart in a frenzy. He was angry. Angry at what Nate had done to himself.

Suddenly, his eyes fell over the defibrillator. He grabbed it along the gel tube. Smearing the gel over Nate's chest and the pads, he placed them over his heart and adjusted the voltage. Then he gave him a powerful shock. Nate's body twisted and jerked. He gave him another shock. And then there was the sound of his breath.

A deep, choking gasp.

"Shh, it's alright, breath" He said, massaging his chest.

"Ralph…" A bare whisper escaped his lips.

"It is alright now," Ralph said caressing his chest and lying over his body which gleamed with sweat.

Sealing his lips, he blew air into his mouth.

"Your lungs and chest are sore from the compressions. Let me breath for you" Ralph whispered beneath breaths. And he lay over him, breathing for him.

[fibrillatory]

You're Doing Great

Kelsey was breathing so hard it was hard to concentrate. The sounds of the room had given way to a rushing in her ears, like someone thumping on the ceiling that filled her vision. She recognized the pounding of her own heart - pomp pomp pomp pomp - and behind that a faint pinging and beeping somewhere nearby. It was getting hard to catch her breath.

She suddenly realized that someone was saying her name.

"...Kelsey? How are you doing, honey?" A nurse - Kelsey couldn't recall her name - was staring down at her, hovering above the exam table. Her face darkened with every beat of Kelsey's heart, as her eyes involuntarily fluttered with her pulse.

The nurse turned to a colleague standing nearby. "She's having trouble, let's..." The rest was lost as Kelsey gulped air.

"HR is 165," came a voice. "We're not there yet."

"Honey, can you hold up your fingers?" She was back again, hanging in Kelsey's vision. "On a scale of one to five, can you show me how you're doing? One is worst, five is best. Can you do that?

Kelsey's arms are at her sides, and they felt heavy. Like stone. She weakly lifted her right arm at the elbow, showed the nurse three fingers.

"Three, ok." Turning to the others, "We've got a three. Where's the O2?"

As Kelsey was lowering her arm, her blood pressure cuff suddenly inflated. As before, the left one followed suit almost immediately, squeezing her other arm. "Unnnnggghh," Kelsey grunted involuntarily.

"Hang in there, honey." The nurse patted her on the abdomen, unconsciously brushing against the electrodes that were plastered over her sternum. Kelsey felt everything sharply, in painful relief. She was beginning to tire from the heavy breathing.

There was a beep, and then another. Both cuffs rapidly loosened, and Kelsey felt her sweaty skin peel from the insides of the cuffs. A rapid bonging followed then.

"NBPs one-forty-four over one-oh-seven. She's hypertensive." Same voice as before.

"A little early for that much. We're only on the first syringe. She might get above 150 before we're done." A different voice. Kelsey's head was swimming.

Suddenly something was snaked under her nose, brushing across her face. It was a slick plastic tube. "Kelsey, I'm putting you on oxygen, ok? Here, let me place this in your nose." The nurse pressed soft prongs up, up into Kelsey's nostrils, and she involuntarily grimaced. "Let me do this, honey." The tube was tugged and pulled and laid out over her head. Soon, a shockingly cool flow of something was filling her nose. She suddenly felt unable to take a breath, and she gasped with her mouth open. Another bong came from somewhere over her head. "PVC!"

"Ok, stand by." The nurse lowered her head close to Kelsey's. "Honey, I need you to breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Can you do that? There you go. In...out..."

Kelsey tried to concentrate on the nurse's instructions. She wasn't able to follow, exactly. "Uhhhh, I can't...keep...hnnnggg..." she moaned.

"We're supposed to inject again, Farah." The other voice.

Nurse Farah turned, said sharply, "She has to be stable!" Turning back to Kelsey, "Kelsey, honey, let's try something. I'm going to help you lift your arms over your head, ok? Here," she gently scooped Kelsey's right arm in her hands, and motioned to her colleague with a nod. Soon another female nurse was lifting Kelsey's left arm.

"Up we go, there we are." Nurse Farah smiled at Kelsey.

Her arms were sore where the cuffs kept inflating, and Kelsey grimaced in pain. "They hurt..." she said, weakly.

"Honey, we're almost there. The stress test is halfway done, ok? You can do this!" Farah and the second nurse gently laid Kelsey's arms over her head. "Now, Kelsey, breathe for me, the way I said. Can you do that?" Kelsey tried inhaling through her nose, and felt the cool rush of oxygen fill her throat. It did feel easier. "Mmm, ya..." she mumbled, with difficulty. She was still breathing fast, and couldn't take full breaths. The medications, and the exertions, were pushing her heart faster. She felt dizzy, her head swimming. A panic set in, and her body began to tingle, the sensation traveling down her abdomen to her pelvis. "Aaaahh, I'm..." Kelsey gasped again, suddenly thrashing her arm out for balance.

"Kelsey!" Nurse Farah reached out to calm her patient.

"HR 177. She just threw another PVC. Oxygen euphoria?"

"I...I don't know. Hit the crash button," Farah called out, her stomach dropping.

Kelsey's body was burning. "N-nooooo, I don't...uunnnnngh..." She exhaled sharply, and began to wet herself. The sound was audible in the exam room, and Farah could immediately see wetness spread through the thin exam gown.

"She's urinating!" The voice called out. "Yep," Farah sighed. "Belay that crash call. Can you get a sterile sheet for this, please? See if you can get it under her. It's fine." Farah breathed out, her relief audible.

"Noooo." Kelsey, still passing urine, too weak to stop it, was softly crying now, trying to catch her breath. The bonging of the monitor had stopped, though, and Farah chanced a look at her vitals. HR 160.

"Kelsey, honey, it's fine. It's okay! It happens sometimes, believe me." She gently stroked Kelsey's head through the sterile surgical bouffant she wore over her tousled hair. Kelsey was sweating profusely through her scalp.

With a whirr, the cuffs inflated again, as Kelsey sobbed. At least crying meant that Kelsey was breathing, Farah thought. With her arms up, making it easier to breathe, the cuffs ironically gripped tighter - Farah could hear them straining at their velcro. Kelsey, weak, could not audibly protest.

Beep. Beep. "One-thirty-seven over ninety-five." Better, Farah thought, at least for Phase 1 of the test. "Almost cleaned up, Kelsey. Deep breaths, honey." Farah stroked her forehead.

Kelsey felt her body was moving subtly, involuntarily, as the other nurse continued to clean her. The rags were soft and cool against her skin as her embarrassment began to fade. She felt much better, all things considered, and the oxygen did make it easier to breathe. Her heart was still pounding, though, and she felt the uncomfortable sensation of everything stuck and strapped to her. She breathed in and out. Nurse Farah filled her vision, again, holding what looked like a large syringe full of clear fluid connected to her IV line. "Kelsey, we're ready to start Phase 2. Here we go." She firmly pressed the plunger, and Kelsey watched the fluid begin to enter her body. "You're doing great, honey."

=====

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[fibrillatory]

Control

The first needle was the hardest. Though she was unconscious, the slow rise and fall of her chest made the need for precision absolutely critical. If I pushed too hard, I could easily shred her left atria. If I didn't push hard enough, my delicate and depraved process wouldn't be adequate to disrupt her pacemaker completely. Using an ultrasound machine, and years of study of the human heart, I was able to painstakingly pierce her atrioventricular node successfully. The needle pulsed slowly in time with her each contraction of her heart muscle.

After that I was able to smoothly slide the other 7 needles into their respective nodes. Navigating her ribs and her ample breasts made the work difficult, but patience is something I had an abundance of. I was finally in possession of a young woman with a beautiful, albeit defective heart, and I had no intention of squandering that gift. Jennifer came into my office a few days ago, a vivacious red headed thing with perfect 36C breasts and a dazzling smile. She had been traveling abroad, taking a summer off from University to travel the country. She had complained of chest pain during a recent hike and had stopped into the office for an examination. After troubling results from a holter monitor, I undertook a full ultrasound of her beautiful chest. I'll remember that day for the rest of life. As I slid the slick wand she quivered slightly as the gel danced around her left breast. I could not believe my eyes that a young woman as fit as her could have such a weak and diseased heart. Her left ventricle squeezed lazily with every pump, her valves hesitated with every breath she took. Her ejection fraction was no more than 30 percent, her heart was slowly dying within that beautiful chest of hers.

How long have you been having symptoms I asked, still entranced by the image of her failing heart pumping away on the ultrasound. She said she had been having chest pains and trouble breathing off and on for years, but she ignored it as she pursued a high pressure career. Stress, lack of rest, and a poor diet had slowly ravaged a heart that was in desperate need of intervention years ago.

As I finished wiring up her chest, I intubated her and flooded oxygen into her quivering lungs. She was finally ready. I took a step back to admire my handiwork, she was naked, splayed out, her arms and legs bound. I secured her head as the hiss of the ventilator metered the needs of her dying heart perfectly. The needles inserted in her heart swayed silently with every beat. Electrodes dotted her chest as an EKG read out a stable 60 BPM. I taped her eyes closed, she was nothing more than a vessel for a heart I was determined to ravage until it quivered uselessly in her chest.

I sat down at the machine, dialing in the first test. A simple stress test. She jerked slightly as a fed electricity directly into her pump, circumventing her pacemaker completely. Her heart rate dropped to 40 BPM. I walked around her, cupping her breasts and palpating her heart. I dug my hands between her tits and pushed, feeling her heart react slightly to the pressure, falling to 36 BPM before rising back to the stable 40 I had dialed in. She grunted slightly, gasping.

She was ready.

I dialed in 140 BPM.

She jerked against the restraints as she felt tingle of electricity dance in her chest. The ventilator kicked in to match as her heart began to race. She pulled against her bindings, her head moving ever so slightly as if every fiber of her being was trying to get away from this torture. Her lungs expanded faster and faster as sweat quickly poured over her.

The EKG read 140 BPM and I examined my patient. I took my hands and danced around her chest, feeling each agonizing pump of a heart pushed beyond its limits. 140 should be fine for a woman her age, but her heart was so damaged, that it felt as if she was running a marathon for hours on end. She gasped under her mask, trying to suck more air into lungs that could barely fill as fluid began to fill them. I was causing cardiac arrest. The idea of driving this beautiful woman into cardiac arrest filled me with pleasure unending as I took out my stethoscope to listen to her heart.

Squeezing, pumping, I could practically feel her engorged heart becoming overwhelmed with stress. Her aorta was swollen with blood as her ventricles desperately tried to move the oxygen she so desperately needed. The needles seized as her blood pressure sky rocketed. I flooded her with more oxygen, buying her more time as her heart stumbled but recovered, continuing its torrid pace.

For 10 minutes I watched as she tried to reach equilibrium, her head desperately trying to tell her heart to slow down. I fondled her breasts, and ran my hand across a body now soaked in sweat. I felt her heart kick in my hands as I pushed down on her chest. I felt her arteries and reveled in the damage I was doing to her heart. Patience however, was required.

I sat down again at the terminal and dialed in 60 BPM. She gasped for air as her heart abruptly slowed down. She drank in air as the ventilator squeezed as much oxygen as it could into her chest.

The first test was a success.

[fibrillatory]

Some pressure fun 😋

Got some pretty good reactions! Quite a lot of skips, multiples in a row, and a few nice long runs of vt! I absolutely LOVE when my heart flips out and flutters like that!! 💚💚

[fibrillatory]

Japanese girl's carotid artery compression heartbeat I have collected a lot of Japanese girls' heartbeat videos. If anyone else has them, I'd be happy to exchange .

[fibrillatory]

IV drip, drugs to keep you awake and alert. Crack open your ribs. Squeeze your heart, just slightly at first. Then harder.

Fuck my heart with your hands

[fibrillatory]

💓💓💓💓💓💓

[fibrillatory]

Pleasure or Pain?

My eyes slowly open. I can feel a large mask on my face providing me with what seems like air, at the moment at least. I am completely naked, sitting upright on some kind of chair, my legs strapped to each leg so they are forced wide, my arms strapped in several places at my sides. I cannot move at all, I am completely helpless.

As my hearing starts to come back to me I can hear a fast beeping. I move my eyes downwards to see my chest completely covered in ECG leads. There are also two large pads that look like they are for a defibrillator and several other type of pads covering my entire body. I can feel things between my legs, something is definitely clipped to my clit and my pussy feels...full.

I start to breathe faster and harder, I feel like I can't catch my breath despite the oxygen being forced into my lungs.

Out of the corner of my eye a door opens and in walks a man wearing a lab coat pushing a trolley with all sorts of machines on.

"Ah, sweetheart, you're finally awake! And just look at that - I can already see your beautiful, little heart fluttering in your chest!"

He walks up to me and pushes three of his fingers hard into the area under my sturnum where my heart is visible, almost like he wants to squeeze my heart into arrest. It hurts and I can feel the frantic beating of my heart against his fingers.

"So strong, such a strong heart you have! Don't worry, I've been keeping a very close eye on your vitals whilst you've been out. I've checked you over... thoroughly" he says with a sadistic smile "and now we will test your body and heart to see how much they can take."

I whimper into my mask as a tear slips out of my eye.

"Oh, sweetheart, don't worry! Whatever happens I will make sure that your heart continues to beat... even if I have to force it to start again!" There's a gleam in his eye as he says that. He's planning on stopping my heart. He will force my heart to stop beating, the only question is, how many times?

My breaths are so fast now, his fingers leave my chest and the lack of pressure on my heart is a relief. He takes something off the trolley and comes back over with a smile.

"Now, let's take a good look at your little heart, shall we?!"

He squirts something cold onto my chest and rubs a wand over it.

"Look!" He says with a sort of wonder in his voice. "That's your heart beating away, beautiful isn't it?!"

On the screen I can see my own heart, frantically beating in my chest.

"Oh, I almost forgot..."

He attaches something with several arms to the back of the chair and brings one down towards my chest. As soon as it touches a loud booming sound echoes throughout the room.

It's some kind of stethoscope that's connected to speakers, the loud booming is my heartbeat pounding in time to what I can see on the screen.

Another arm comes down and he attached the ultrasound wand to it so that it continues to show my heartbeat on the screen without him having to hold it.

"Now, darling, we're going to put that little heart of yours through some tests, but what would you like first? Pleasure? Or pain?"

I start struggling. It's useless though. My body is so tightly strapped down that even breathing is difficult.

"You're right, let's get the nasty stuff out of the way first, shall we?!"

He flips a switch and various muscles in my body start to twitch.

"These are electrical impulses causing your muscles to move involuntarily, at the moment it's just your skeletal muscles that we're affecting, but listen to your heart...it's already started to beat faster"

I watch as he closes his eyes to focus on the sound. I can feel every hard, rapid beat in my chest.

"Ok, that was just a little taster, we'll get back to that later in the pleasure portion of your exam. Now, I'm going to use electrical impulses in a different way. This time, we're going to alter the very rhythm of your heart with it."

I can feel myself getting light headed from hyperventilating and my head starts to dip.

"Oh, let's get something to hold your head up shall we?"

He moves to the cart and pulls out a neck brace and attaches it around my neck so it's forced upright

"There, now do try not to pass out. We'll start lightly"

He moves over to me with two paddles in this hands, he places them over the two pads on my chest and watches the ultrasound screen. He forces electricity through my beating heart and I jolt in my seat. I'm also watching the screen and I see, and hear, my heart stumble for a moment before beating normally again.

"Wonderful!" He says with a smile. "I'm going to continue doing this, each time increasing the electricity going through your heart"

He zaps me again. This time it hurts. I can feel a pain in my chest as I receive the jolt. My breathing catches, the ultrasound and speakers show no movement for a second before starting again.

He waits a minute before giving me another jolt. I cry out in pain. With each jolt my heart takes longer to beat properly again.

On the fifth jolt I know I'm done. I cry out in pain again as my body shudders from the electricity and this time it's different. My heart is still moving, but it's not right. Even I know it shouldn't be like that. It's shaking, there's no rhythm. Through the speakers it sounds wrong. I can't breathe.

"Ah, there we go, fibrillation. That's all your poor little heart could take. Isn't it beautiful!"

My eyes start to get blurry.

"Don't worry my darling, just a little longer."

He casually pulls a lever on the chair which sends my torso backwards so I'm now in a reclining position, still with my legs strapped downwards and wide open.

He looks at me with wonder as he gently puts his fingers inside me.

His eyes shut.

"Oh, sweetheart, you're already so wet for me. I think you're going to enjoy the next part! But, first, let's get your heart beating properly again shall we?!"

I see him grab the paddles just as my eyes shut completely.

He shocks my heart 3 times. The third time I suck in a huge breath, my chest in agony.

My breathing continues to be agonising as I look up at his face.

"There you are, darling! Your beautiful, little heart took three shocks to bring her back. You started to worry me. We're going to stay here for a little while and keep an eye on it."

He says as he rests his fingers over that spot below my sturnum again.

"You just rest now, sweetheart, we'll start the pleasure soon enough"

[fibrillatory]

Some short pressure play and afterwards, but got some pretty good runs of skips and vt 😍

[fibrillatory]

Don't Answer the Door

You are startled awake by a knock on your door. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:13 AM, and your heart flutters in your chest from the jarring disturbance. Groggy, you fumble for the light switch, blinking against the sudden brightness in your living room. The knocking continues.

Feeling a swell of unease, you approach the door. Peering through the peephole, you see two figures in dark suits, their posture rigid, their faces concealed by the distorting glass. You can’t make out any details—only that they’re official, authoritative, and impatient.

Your mind races. No one comes by at this hour for trivial reasons. You open the door with caution, pressing yourself against the frame. The two individuals stand in the hallway, their expressions cold, unreadable. They flash government identification so quickly you barely catch the emblem—some military or paramilitary organization you do not recognize. The taller of the two thrusts a crisp white envelope toward you without a word.

“Sign here,” the shorter one orders, voice devoid of emotion. You glance at the proffered documents, your stomach churning. Its heading reads: “Summons for Immediate Conscription: Experimental Soldier Program.”

Your eyes flick from the paper to their stern faces. “This… must be a mistake,” you begin, your voice trembling with the aftershocks of being yanked from slumber. “I’m just a civilian. I’m not in the reserves—or the military at all.”

Neither agent reacts. Reluctantly, you press the pen to the document and sign where indicated, wondering if you even have a choice.

“Report to the specified facility at dawn,” the taller agent informs you. “Any delay will be treated as desertion.”

They leave as swiftly as they arrived, departing down the hallway without further explanation. The words “compulsory conscription” and “Experimental Soldier Program” practically burn themselves into your mind.

An hour of restless pacing follows. Yes, you’re in good physical shape; you lift, you run track, you’ve taken pride in sculpting your body. But you’re no fighter.

The directive is clear, and the hour is growing late. Knowing you can’t escape this, you make a feeble attempt to sleep again, but every time you close your eyes, you imagine the two agents’ stony faces.

At dawn, you force yourself out the door and head to the address included in the summons.

When you finally arrive, armed guards greet you with silent scrutiny. Past the barbed-wire gate, past an austere courtyard, you’re directed into a squat, concrete building. Inside, the corridors are utilitarian, lined with unmarked doors and glaring fluorescent lights that hum incessantly.

They guide you to a large, steel-gray reception hall. On one side, you see a queue of grim-faced men and women—some in military fatigues, others looking as out-of-place as you do, obviously civilians. At the front of this line, bored clerks at desks check documents and stamp papers. An official gestures for you to join the line.

When your turn comes, a clerk scans the barcode from your summons, then passes your file to someone else who breezes through it silently.

“Fitness aptitude but no military training. Conscript assigned to Medical Research Trials.” He glances at you impassively. “Report to Lab Sixteen—down the west corridor, second right.”

You blink, swallowing hard. So they don’t intend to toss you into the battlefield. You almost feel relief. Almost. But something about “Medical Research Trials” feels equally foreboding. You muster a shaky nod, following the corridor signs that lead deeper into the facility.

Your footsteps echo as you move forward, unsure who to address. Eventually, a freckled redheaded woman—her hair pulled into a tight bun—approaches you. Her freckled nose crinkles with a faint smile that tries to be warm but only heightens your unease.

“You must be the new one,” she says, studying a tablet. “Come with me. I’m Dr. Whitley.”

At the center of this room, under harsh lights, stands an examination bed fitted with thick leather restraints. The sight of those straps makes your pulse spike. You glance at Dr. Whitley, suddenly desperate for answers. But before you can voice your concerns, a slender, disheveled-looking male assistant guides you to the table.

“Right this way,” he says politely, gesturing for you to lie down. When you hesitate, Dr. Whitley murmurs, “Just a precaution. The procedures can sometimes trigger involuntary thrashing.”

The assistant carefully loops the leather restraints around your wrists, over your biceps, across your torso, and around your ankles.

Your voice cracks with tension. “Is this—truly necessary?”

Dr. Whitley lifts a hand, as though to soothe an anxious animal. “We’ll be quick,” she says softly. “You’ll be perfectly fine.”

Fine. The word rattles uselessly in your mind. The overhead lights glare, making you squint as your heart pounds in your ears. You hear scuffles around you—other lab personnel filing in. A brunette in thick-rimmed glasses approaches with a calm, professional demeanor. She doesn’t bother asking permission before removing your shirt, her fingers lingering on your skin in an oddly reverent way. On your exposed chest, she places sticky electrodes connected to an EKG machine. You glimpse the display in your peripheral vision, its lines jumping in time with your pulse.

Thery pay no attention to the obvious distress expressed in your frantic heartbeat. Dr. Whitley studies the readout, tapping on her tablet. “Has the subject’s DNA been preserved so we can proceed with the experiment?” she asks aloud.

“Yes,” the male assistant replies. “We have the sample and the baseline data from their file.”

Dr. Whitley sets aside her tablet. “All right. Let’s see how that extraordinary physique holds up.” There’s a subtle, disconcerting excitement glimmering in her eyes.

The brunette with glasses retrieves another device—a small ultrasound probe. She applies a cool gel across your sternum and gently presses the wand against your pounding heart. On a nearby monitor, a grayscale image of your heart appears, pulsing and contracting in real time. You watch with wide eyes, unsettled by how intimate this glimpse inside your body feels—especially when you’re strapped down and powerless.

“Look at this,” Dr. Whitley murmurs. She points to the screen, where the shape of your heart flickers in contoured lines. "The ventricular wall dimensions are on the upper end relative to its advance size, but not constrictive."

The brunette nods, adjusting her thick glasses as she studies the display. "The heart rate is elevated now, but that's to be expected given the circumstances."

The redhead approaches the monitor more closely. "Optimistic about those contractions as well."

Lost in the moment, you feel a prick in your arm as the brunette fixes an IV port, and then there’s a sharp sting when she injects a cocktail of liquid that feels alarmingly warm. Within seconds, your heart pounds faster, harder.

A beep on the EKG intensifies, becoming frantic. Your breath hitches, sweat beading on your forehead. You can almost feel the wave of chemicals coursing through your veins.

“Look at the response,” the brunette exclaims softly, adjusting a dial. “We’re climbing steadily. Those contractions you like are getting stronger.” She says with a smile to Dr. Whitley.

You try to control your breathing, but the flooding anxiety sends your respiration into ragged, shallow gasps. Dr. Whitley steps closer, placing her hand against your slick chest. The warmth of her palm contrasts with the cool gel, and you can tell she’s feeling your heartbeat directly, pressing down just enough to sense every contraction.

“Oh, feel that,” she breathes, voice tinged with a near-reverent awe. “It’s wild—like a caged animal.”

A strangled whimper escapes you, your vision swimming. Each thunderous palpitation grows more forceful than the last. The edges of your awareness blur as the room spins. In the background, you hear them discussing your “incredible baseline,” the range they can push, the data sets they need to gather. Words like “glycosides” and “tolerance thresholds” begin to blur into an indecipherable haze.

Driven by equal parts horror and instinct, you struggle against the restraints. The leather digs into your wrists and ankles, unyielding. Dr. Whitley’s hand remains firmly over your chest, her demeanor more predatory now, a thin-lipped smile curving her freckled cheeks.

She glances at the brunette. “You said it yourself—I’ve always had a soft spot for strong hearts.” Her fingertip draws slow circles against your pectoral muscle. “There’s something so intimate about feeling another person’s life force like this, beating under your hand.”

The brunette’s mouth quivers with a grin. “Just don’t push too hard,” she cautions. “We need the subject alive for continued data collection.”

As if on cue, you feel another searing jolt of medication surge through the IV. Your body jolts. The beeping on the EKG ratchets up a notch.

From the corner of your eye, you see the dark haired man scribble notes: “Heart rate: 190… 200… 210…” His voice is a clinical drone. “Ventricular function… strong but nearing upper limit.”

Dr. Whitley leans over you again, studying your face. The overhead light draws harsh shadows across her features, making her freckles stand out like dark flecks of rust. “You’re doing very well,” she coos, as if praising a prized lab animal. “Just a bit more, and we’ll have what we need for this session.”

Her words run through your oxygen-starved mind. Session. That means there’s more to come.

You barely register the next injection into your IV port, only the jolt that makes your chest seize momentarily. The EKG squeals in response, and you tremble against the straps, moaning through gritted teeth, begging them to stop. Dr. Whitley presses down again, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her palm.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “So strong… so determined to live.”

The brunette nods, stepping away to analyze real-time data on a monitor. “We have enough for the day’s baseline,” she says. “Let’s stabilize, then prepare for the biopsy this afternoon.”

Biopsy. The word jolts you, fanning the embers of your terror. Before you can beg for mercy—though in your core, you suspect it would be futile—your body is swept in a hazy wave of sedation. Some new mixture floods your veins. The tension in your muscles goes slack, your eyelids drooping.

The next time you regain awareness, it’s all at once. No gentle easing into reality—just a sudden, blinding rush of fluorescent light overhead, a wave of antiseptic stench, and the cold press of metal beneath your back.

Gradually, your vision clarifies enough to see Dr. Whitley leaning over you. Her red hair is pinned in a messy bun this time, stray curls framing her freckled cheeks. She’s not wearing the typical neutral expression of a physician. Instead, she looks… enraptured.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she murmurs, almost intimately. Her gloved hand lifts from somewhere around your sternum—or what should be your sternum. She steps aside, momentarily revealing the open cavity of your chest.

Your mind screams at the sight. Even in your near-sedated state, you realize you’re looking at your exposed ribcage—no, not exactly that, either. Metal retractors hold apart what must be the edges of your chest wall. And within that space… something wet and pink is beating, pulsing in a disturbingly recognizable rhythm.

Oh God, that’s your heart.

Terror floods you, but your body remains mostly limp, pinned by sedation and perhaps other restraints you cannot even feel. You try to shout, to ask what they’ve done, but only a thin, rattling exhalation escapes your lips.

“Shh,” Dr. Whitley soothes, sliding back into your line of sight. She’s wearing a surgical cap and mask, though the mask is tugged down just enough to reveal her mouth in a small, pleased smile. “You’re stable. We had to open your chest to resuscitate you effectively and examine some… structural qualities. Your heart is larger than we anticipated—stronger, too. But it needed a little help.”

As if on cue, you feel an odd tickle, and then something cold glides across the surface of that beating mass. You cannot feel your chest wall, but the raw sense of motion resonates through your body. You’re excruciatingly aware that your heart is outside your body’s normal protection.

A fresh wave of adrenaline floods your system, or maybe it’s something Dr. Whitley just injected into your IV. She sets a large syringe down, and her expression brightens with a frightening, clinical enthusiasm. “Your heart’s conduction system is still reactive,” she tells another figure you barely register to her left—a nurse? An assistant? You’re too disoriented to focus. “But we want to see how it holds up under high-stress conditions. Given what happened earlier, I want to push it carefully this time.”

Careful doesn’t describe what happens next. Dr. Whitley places her hand flat against your heart—your actual heart—and the sensation buckles your mind. There’s a moment of primal panic, the knowledge that someone’s palm is physically in contact with the essence of your life, your existence. Her grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough that each beat is transmitted right into her glove, and you can tell she’s measuring every contraction.

She flicks a switch on the IV line. Immediately, your heart rate spikes. A trembling quake runs through your arms, and you gasp for air, which you can only half pull into your lungs. The EKG machine to the side chirps faster, almost frantic. Your heart pounds, straining against her palm.

She glances at the monitors. “Good,” she breathes. “Strong sinus rhythm at 120… 130… climbing.” Her green eyes gleam, half-lidded in fascination. “Let’s aim for 180. Then I’ll begin defibrillator testing.”

Defibrillator testing. The phrase sends a jolt of dread through your drug-clouded thoughts. Normally, defibrillation is used to restore a normal heartbeat when it’s lost, but she wants to test your heart’s “electrical resistance” at an accelerated rate. Alarm bells ring in your mind, but your limbs remain numb to commands. Whatever sedation they’ve used keeps you still, but tragically conscious.

With an eerie calm, Dr. Whitley slips a slender paddle-like device from a sterile tray nearby. It’s an internal defibrillator paddle, smaller than the usual external paddles but no less capable of delivering a massive shock. She holds it close to the apex of your heart, her other hand bracing gently against the organ’s side. On a separate console, the dark-haired assistant raises the charge level, reading out numbers that blend into a horrifying litany: “50 joules… 75… 100.”

At that moment, your heart is galloping near 180 beats per minute, each contraction rattling your half-open ribcage. Dr. Whitley nods once. The assistant presses a button.

The current slams into your heart like a tidal wave. Your vision goes white, and your body jerks upward despite the sedation. Even your respiratory attempts stall. For a second, your heart surges out of rhythm, thrashing erratically. The EKG squeals. It’s unclear whether it’s going to recover or slip into another flatline.

Dr. Whitley pulls back, checking the monitors and the limp spasm of your heart. “Sinus conversion… no, it’s fibrillating. Increase the energy in increments of 20 joules.”

Another shock. Your entire chest cavity—what remains of it—contracts violently. The wet muscle of your heart convulses under the contact. Stars explode in your vision. Even your mind, dulled by sedation, can barely cling to consciousness. Then the monitors beep in that dreaded monotone again: a flatline.

“No,” Dr. Whitley hisses, as though scolding your heart for not cooperating. “We’re not done.”

She drops the defibrillator paddle and quickly gestures for a different tool. In your delirium, you see it flash silver: a large syringe, maybe adrenaline or some specialized stimulant. She rams it directly into the muscle of your heart with a practiced jab. The sharp invasion of the needle conjures a swirl of nauseous dread in your gut.

The EKG remains flat. Gritting her teeth, Dr. Whitley removes the syringe and does something both primeval and intimately horrifying: she begins manually pumping your heart in her hands. Wrapping her gloved fingers around the unresponsive muscle, she squeezes it rhythmically, trying to coax it back into beating. Each squeeze makes your mind spin—an unnatural, nauseating feeling of an external force attempting to animate your core.

“Come on,” she mutters, her focus absolute. “Respond!”

A flicker. The EKG hiccups with an uneven beep. Then another. Your battered heart twitches, as though deciding whether to obey or give up entirely. With another firm compression from Dr. Whitley’s hands, it makes a feeble attempt at a beat on its own. The flatline disappears, replaced by slow, uncertain pulses.

“Good,” she praises softly, practically massaging your heart to guide it. “There we are. You’re too strong to quit now.”

Fresh sedation is introduced into your system. You find you can breathe slightly easier, but your chest remains unfeeling, your mind caught in the dreadful awareness of her manipulations. Slowly, your heart stabilizes, though it’s weaker than before. The EKG reads a tenuous sinus rhythm around 80 beats per minute, far from the explosive 180 that had been forced upon it.

You feel her shift her grip on your heart, and then you sense the clamp hooking around something thick and vital. The aorta. She’s actually holding it between her fingers. Despite the sedation, your body tries to recoil on pure reflex, but you can only twitch in your restraints.

Dr. Whitley gently pinches the top of your aorta. “Let’s see how it handles slight occlusion,” she remarks, applying pressure. The EKG spikes with a ragged beep as your heart works harder to push blood through the newly restricted vessel.

“Hmm,” she muses, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. “Systolic pressure is… quite high. That’s very good. Let’s test its elasticity.”

She transitions from using her fingers to applying the clamp. The metal jaws bite into your aorta with measured tension. Your struggling heart falters for a beat, then resumes, pumping fiercely against the partial blockage. The beeping grows frantic again.

Every contraction feels sharper in your remaining sense of your chest cavity—like a muffled wave of pressure fighting against an immovable dam. You can’t produce a coherent scream, but your mouth hangs open in silent torment. You vaguely hear Dr. Whitley ordering the assistant to record the new data points: “Mark the pressure reading at clamp intervals of 10 mmHg. We’ll see how far we can push before distention becomes dangerous.”

She tightens the clamp further. Another beep from the monitors. Your heart lurches like a panicked animal. She glances over with a satisfied curve to her lips. “Remarkably strong,” she comments, the same way a mechanic might admire a high-performance engine. “Even with partial occlusion, it’s still pushing blood efficiently. I wonder if we can refine those glycoside cocktails to build even more force…”

“There,” Dr. Whitley murmurs to someone behind her. “Look at the state of it now. Fat, bloated, and vascular—thoroughly engorged.” She shakes her head in a kind of clinical wonder. “Beautiful, really… It’s still trying valiantly, despite the occlusion.”

“What admirable resilience,” Dr. Whitley says softly, leaning closer, her hand pressing lightly on the top of your heart. Even with sedation muting your pain, the sensation of her gloved palm against the bare muscle is almost unspeakably perverse. “Squeezing so hard… but every contraction meets that clamp.”

She nods to the assistant, and you feel a subtle release of pressure—just a fraction. Your heart leaps, as if starved for the chance to push out a full volume of blood. The relief is fleeting, though, because Dr. Whitley doesn’t actually remove the clamp; she merely adjusts it, letting a bit more blood pass. You can sense your heart throbbing, swelling, pressing outward to fill the newfound space. It’s horrifyingly intimate, feeling that muscle balloon, gulping blood to send it through.

“Look how it squirms,” Dr. Whitley murmurs with a note of awe. it’s struggling to recover from the partial strangulation, but it’s not giving up. Fascinating.”

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch her mouth curve into something like a smile. She curls her fingers around the device, then deftly snaps it off. The clamp—or whatever contraption was occluding your aorta—releases fully. Your heart, no longer choked, thumps in a series of relief pulses that ripple through the cavity. It expands and contracts in robust waves, as if gulping in fresh life. The EKG responds with a higher, steadier pitch, though still faster than normal.

“There we are,” Dr. Whitley says, voice lowered to a near purr. “Look at it—so vigorous now, flushed with blood. The contractions are returning.”

Her hand slides across the muscle’s surface, and you feel your heart spasm under the contact. Another wave of cold floods through your IV, no doubt her doing. Your pulse spikes in response, thumping erratically for a moment until it finds a new, unnatural rhythm. Heat flushes your face, mixing with the chills of terror and the sedation in your veins. Each beat rings like thunder, as if you can hear it in your ears, sense it in your skull.

The difference is staggering—where moments ago your heart was strangled, now it’s unleashed, each contraction deep and forceful. In a sickening way, the sensation is almost euphoric. Your battered organ is desperate to reassert itself. It seizes the chance, pumping with renewed vigor, and the relief is so abrupt it’s disorienting.

Dr. Whitley observes every surge, measuring the bounding pulses with her other hand, as though she can count each gush of blood in her palm. “Incredible,” she whispers. “This subject’s heart is among the most reactive I’ve ever seen. No matter how hard we push it, it clings to survival with remarkable ferocity.”

The assistant steps forward to check the monitors, adjusting dials that control fluid drips, sedation levels, and stimulants. “Systolic normalizing,” he announces, scanning a readout. “If you’d like to proceed with additional tests—”

Dr. Whitley silences him with a subtle gesture, then gives a slight shake of her head. “No, not just yet. Let it recover. I want to see how it manages on its own for a moment.”

She eases her gloved hand around the apex of your heart, as though cradling a fragile artifact. Each throb jars you—mentally, physically, spiritually—knowing she’s effectively holding your life in her grip. Though there’s no direct pain, the knowledge of your vulnerability is more excruciating than any scalpel cut.

Time passes in weighted moments, each of your heartbeats echoing in your ears and throughout the lab. Dr. Whitley hums under her breath, enthralled by the motion of the muscle. The rest of the lab staff stands at quiet attention, letting her examine the heart’s unsubdued recovery. With each contraction, the organ flares, glistening under the intense lights—again, you’re thankful for the sedation that keeps raw agony at bay, but the mental horror is still enough to make your head swim.

“Admirable,” Dr. Whitley repeats, though more softly now. “It’s as though it’s reclaiming lost territory. Even after repeated shocks, high-pressure occlusions, forced arrests… it beats like it wants to take on the world.”

She runs a careful finger along an engorged coronary. “Look how enlarged these are,” she remarks, addressing no one in particular. “They’re inflated, carrying blood to a heart that refuses to quit. Note the color—rich and oxygenated. Subject’s hemoglobin count is higher than baseline, likely a response to the repeated stress.”

Her words blur into clinical jargon. Your eyelids slide lower, sedation tugging you back to semiconsciousness. For a dreadful moment, you see every ripple in the wet muscle, the branching veins like a labyrinth of dark lines feeding the organ.

[fibrillatory]

Pressure got it really racing this time, and quite a bit of skips too 🥰

After a long somewhat frustrating day, of course being me, making my heart suffer and stumble is how I choose to cheer myself up 😅 and indeed its great reaction definitely put a big smile on my face the whole time ☺️

[fibrillatory]

Making my heart skip and stumble with pressure

This video is part of the day I mentioned on my last videos where I "tortured" my heart. After it had been beating and pounding fast for more than an hour, I decided to apply some pressure. Everytime I pushed hard it skipped and stumbled over itself irregularly and even with some fibrillation sometimes. It fibrillated about 6 times and it becomes the most visible the more it goes into the video.

[fibrillatory]

I do adore how sometimes it can be beating slow and calm yet still sound like such a broken mess 🧡 like imagine laying your head on a lil guys chest and being met with this 🤭

[fibrillatory]

Pressure in my heart using a bed

The bed makes every movement of my heart visible, and the ecg shows what exactly is happening in there. Lots of skips and irregularities to enjoy!

[fibrillatory]

Caught some bigeminy the other night! 🎉

For whatever reason, when it's in this state of skipping and stumbling repeatedly, not only does the murmur get super loud but its throbbing feels super rough too. Both these runs instantly made me SO horny 🤤 my little heart both beating improperly AND pumping improperly?? Ohh my 🫀 💦💦

[fibrillatory]

The Test, Chapter 2

Jack woke up feeling the weight of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, though his body floated effortlessly. He slowly opened his eyes, discovering he was submerged in a glass tank filled with warm, bubbling liquid. The sensation of weightlessness was strange, as if the liquid embraced and held him at the same time.

He tried to move his arms but felt a slight resistance from the electrodes attached to his chest, connected to a machine projecting his heartbeat onto a screen on the other side of the tank. His heart appeared as a digital graph, each beat seeming deeper than the last. A mask was fitted to his face, supplying oxygen, but the air flowing through it had a familiar smell. That same gas, the one he had inhaled before, trapped him in a mix of euphoria and panic.

Suddenly, Dr. Ruiz’s voice echoed from outside the tank, cold and calculating.

"I see you’re awake, Jack," he said, adjusting some controls. "You've been selected for a series of very important tests. We’ll be testing the limits of your heart. The first one was a success, but that was only the beginning."

Jack tried to move more, but his muscles felt weak, as if they wouldn’t fully respond. His breathing quickened, anxiety rising within him again.

"The next test," Ruiz continued, his tone clinical and detached, "will involve something more extreme. We’re going to cool the liquid in which you’re submerged while you continue inhaling the gas. I need you to endure for as long as you can."

Jack felt a chill run down his spine. The liquid, which had been warm and comforting until now, began to cool slowly. At first, it was a barely noticeable change, but within minutes, the difference became clear. The cold seeped into his skin, reached his muscles, causing them to tense involuntarily.

His heart, which had been beating steadily, began to falter. The heart rate projected on the screen started to fluctuate. At first, it was just a slight acceleration, but as the liquid continued to chill, his heartbeat grew erratic.

The green gas kept flowing through the mask, and Jack felt his mind starting to fog again. His senses were disoriented, but his heart, caught between the external cold and the euphoria induced by the gas, fought to survive. Each breath he took fueled a strange sensation, as if he were trapped in a thick fog where time was distorted.

The cold was now unbearable. His limbs began to numb, and his heartbeat quickened, frantic, searching for warmth where there was none. The graph on the screen showed a frenetic pattern, jumping from one irregular rhythm to another.

Ruiz, watching with a faint smile, spoke once more.

"The human heart is extraordinary, don’t you think?" he said as Jack gasped for air, each breath heavier than the last. "But I need to see how much it can take before it collapses."

The cold kept intensifying. The liquid around Jack was no longer just uncomfortable; it was a frozen pain enveloping every cell in his body. His chest felt like it was about to explode, his heart pounding against the resistance of the cold that froze him from within.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his chest. One beat, then another, and another, stronger. Jack's heart fought, but with each beat, the pain grew. His hands clenched, his fingers curling in a futile attempt to grasp something. His vision began to darken, and the sound of his own heartbeat mixed with a buzzing in his ears.

Outside, on the screen, the graphs showed the decline: his heart rate was on the verge of collapse.

"Just a little more, Jack," murmured Ruiz, eyes fixed on the data. "Just a little more…"

Jack, on the brink of unconsciousness, felt his heart give a final, violent jolt. The cold had consumed him completely. And before darkness engulfed him, the last word he heard was from the doctor, distant and devoid of emotion:

"Interesting…"