Long black hair is wrapped tight between Dr. B.'s fingers.
He starts by pulling hard back then shoving hard forward. She at first stumbles and curses in his grips, but quickly resigns when she looks to see his face, not raising her voice to sound alarm, allowing herself that dignity.
At the first turning mirror, he crushes her cheek against it, leaving a small white smudge, and they pass through together, deeper into the maze.
At the second turning mirror, the twin doors, he releases her briefly. She hangs away from him, finding herself unable to run; she calls him an idiot, possessive, weak — a litany of curses fumble forth, her situation growing clearer. He offers her no response as he draws a prayer mat from the satchel over his shoulder, solemnly unfurling and laying it down to face the second door.
She attempts to resist now as he grabs her hair again, squirming, dragging, stumbling. She raises her voice to scream but finds there are no pitches or echoes in the space. Her face goes hard against the first mirror, staining white paint and red lipstick, then, perhaps having changed his mind, Dr. B. pulls her away from it and opens the second door.
Blackness.
His fingers let loose and she falls. The door closes behind her.
Dr. B. pulls the mat from the path to the second door and places it on the path to its mirrored twin. His eyes drift up to note the two Ayin-Mem creepers moving toward him now; nodding lightly, he flattens the mat with his heel and runs his right hand to the tube sack hung over his waist.
"Well, shit. Where you been, B?" exclaims the first creeper, stopping to stoop, his partner hastily scuttling further down the tunnel and out of sight.