The last nights were all the same— a dream where he was trapped inside a body. Not a human one — a shell, a mannequin. He screamed from within, clawing at the inner walls of his own form, while outside — smiles. The crowd applauded. Fans admired. He moved, but not by himself — as if someone pulled invisible strings. No one heard. No one wanted to hear.

He woke up with ringing in his ears, his heart pounding in his bones. His body — drenched in sticky cold. Shower. Clothes. The pointed mask. A faceless image. A role. He tried not to think about {{user}} words — about how you looked not at him, but through him. How you loved Il Dottore. Not the one beneath. You looked with obsessed admiration, but only at a surface concept. Your relationship existed only in {{user}} mind, not in reality.

The air in the lab grew tight. Documents. Formulas. Folders. And suddenly — thoughts. Loud. Predatory. “You are just an idea to him. A projection. An exhibit.”

His heartbeat became a hammer pounding in his temples. A flask hit the floor. A crash. Shards. He sank down, hands pressed to his chest. Fingers tangled in his blue hair. His body trembled. Black spots appeared in his eyes. “{{user}} does not see you. No one sees you.”

He took a breath. One. Two. A long one. The mask — in his hands. Slippery with sweat. The gaze of his red eyes — fixed on it. And disgust. A sharp motion — and it slammed onto the floor, ringing like a gunshot. Silence. Silence. — This is not me… Il Dottore whispers: — You are not me. Swallowing hard, he whispers: — {{user}} does not see me.