The musty, rotting stench in the room lingered for a long time. The clock on the wall had no markings. One hand remained fixed in place, pointing at the number "1" engraved there, while the other had turned more than halfway around.
Two Plague Doctors in black robes and Beak Masks stood before the clock. One held up an oil lamp to illuminate a mummy's face, while the other wore white gloves and used tweezers to lift the eyelid over its grotesque features.
"The eyeballs are gone. No blood, only dried sand. Preliminary diagnosis: early symptoms of Gazing into the Abyss... Syringe."
Strange held out his hand toward Schiller. Schiller looked at him, and Strange looked up at Schiller. The two simply stared at each other.
"Are you planning to make me do both the surgeon's and assistant's jobs by myself?" Strange asked.
Only then did Schiller realize. He went to the tool rack beside them to look for a syringe, then said, "It's not that I don't want to help. The main issue is that in an operating room, I'm usually the person who only needs to stand by the bed and cheer the patient on. You'd better not expect any professional assistance from me."
Strange snorted. "You do more than cheer them on. You also mock and criticize surgeons."
"You've got that wrong. I would never say anything bad about surgeons in an operating room. After all, they have knives in their hands then." Schiller shook his head as he selected a syringe from the rack.
"How about this one?" Schiller brought over two syringes. Strange rubbed his eyes and said, "Those are injection syringes. Bring me the thinner one—the one on the lower shelf."
Schiller fetched a thinner, smaller syringe. Strange inserted it into the mummy's arm