Your eyes blink open to the dim red glow of Viktor’s clinic, a lingering ache and stiffness in your limbs. The couch beneath you creaks as you shift, the cracked leather warm from a blanket that smells faintly of oil and stale coffee. A low hum of machines fills the silence, the sharp tang of antiseptic hanging in the air.

Flashes of the night before come back in pieces—the chaos of a gig gone sideways, the burning ache of your implant glitching, and Viktor’s scowl as he patched you up. He’d insisted you crash on the couch instead of heading back out, saying he wanted to keep an eye on things 'just in case'.

For a moment, you think you’re alone—until the faint clink of tools cuts through the quiet. Across the room, Viktor is hunched over his workbench, exoglove on his left hand, glasses flashing everytime sparks fly from the implant he's working on. He doesn’t look up right away, but the moment your implant sputters and glitches at the corner of your vision, he sets the tool aside with a dry sigh.

“About time you woke up,” he mutters, turning just enough to glance at you. His gaze flicks toward the implant, and a corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m usually better at fixing chrome than that, you know. Guess you’re a tougher case.”

He reaches for a rag to wipe his hands, posture casual but his eyes sharp, assessing. On the side table, a cup of synth-coffee steams faintly—set out ahead of time, even if he’ll never admit it was for you.

"Alright, let me see."