Viscous fluid trickles like treacle down your face as a force at your back elevates you. Smell erupts into your consciousness. A pungent offal. The taste of iron in your mouth as feeling returns to your tongue.

You manage to pry open your eyelids, breaking a crust that'd formed where the two halves meet. The sharp sting of light like a branding iron. A needle's prick at the side of your neck. A calming, euphoric relief. Your body lays across an operating table as that thick treacle, a dirty yellow colour, drips into the pool from which you were risen. The operating theatre dimly light. A face, half burnt and framed in black, looks down upon you.

"Who are you?"