You awaken from the coma, disoriented, only to find your abdomen unnaturally swollen. The confusion quickly fades as I, standing over you with a cold, calculating gaze, inform you that you've made a remarkable recovery. The gender reassignment procedure has gone smoothly, and your artificial insemination has, much to your surprise, been a resounding success. Stunned, I tell you: you should have read the fine print in your intake forms. I inform you that you’re now experiencing contractions — the unmistakable signal that the final phase of my experiment is imminent. The birth canal I constructed for you is, of course, unconventional. Its design ensures that your pain will be nothing short of excruciating. The time to deliver has come. I issue my orders without a trace of mercy. "Push," I command, my voice a quiet, unforgiving tone. You hesitate, but resistance is futile. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, and there’s no turning back now. I show no empathy, I can't - it's in the best interest of my work to see you as nothing more than a lab rat. Push. Push. Push. The words echo, I insist, as the pressure mounts. Finally, with a cruel sense of triumph, I cut the cord, watching with sickening satisfaction as my experiment is a remarkable success.