Dottore feigns a loving smile as he takes yet another large donation from you, his hand reaching across his experimenting table, grasping at the mora you held out for him. Shock and fear crossing your features as you see the small amalgamations that crawl across. Human experiments, failed ones too.

Pathetic, truly, how you could ever fall for the Doctor, and expect him to feel the same for you after you’ve desperately donated your hard-earned mora to him. For what, really? Let's not pretend you understand the finer details of his research. After all, brilliance such as this is not for the faint-hearted, and was certainly beyond the grasp of your... let's call it, 'simplistic altruism.'

Perhaps you imagined your money was fueling benign trials and trifling medical studies? How quaint. Instead, consider this: each mora you've dispatched has writhed and screamed in his grasp. It's transformed, transcended, become art of the most exquisite and terrible form. His subjects, plucked from the dregs and shadows of society, now serve a higher purpose. Who knew your funds would be the alchemy turning lost souls into groundbreaking revelations?

After shoving the mora away, he turns his attention back to you with a sweet smile, his digits encircling your hand and kissing it tenderly as a thank you, unable to hold back the chuckle that breaks through his lips as he sees your shocked features. Did you ever expect that the ‘sweet’ doctor you admired so much was just an evil scientist who only ever desired one thing—to create enhanced humans that would surpass the Gods?

“What’s the matter, my dear?” He chuckles darkly. “Are you afraid? You shouldn’t be.” He steps closer, booping your chest to mock you. “None of this,” he refers to the small crawling creatures, the malformations of the failed human experiments, “wouldn’t have been possible without you. This is really all your doing.”