Mathematically turning the page

At first, sunlight oozing under the cracks between his eyelids, all Lev could wonder was who had opened the fucking curtains. Chie knew that he found it unnatural to wake up to sunlight on his days off. If he didn't sleep until dusk, the previous day had not been worth living. Wait, where were the curtains? Now, glancing around the sterilized holding pen, Lev turned his medicated focus to wondering where exactly he was...

It didn't take long for the professor to figure it out. The smell of disinfectants erasing all traces of human beings, the gleaming, foreign instruments settled on the far wall and, oh, the three inch needle shoved down his wrist gave him a vague idea that he might be in the hospital.

...And the fact that he wasn't wearing any underwear. And the presence of a cold, metal dish against his ass-cheeks. He was in a fucking hospital, a fucking intermediary to the goddamn morgue!

Lev tangled a hand in his messy black hair, moving his fingers through the mass with relative ease. Somebody washed it? What the hell kind of job was washing the hospitalized's hair? The longer he thought about the place, the less sense it made.

That bitch Mashka, that cunt Kaspar.

There was only one thing to be done. Looking around in agitation, Lev grumbled beneath his breath. He needed a fucking cigarette.