“You don’t need to look so worried,” Dottore mutters, his voice echoing slightly beneath the beaked mask. His gaze, though obscured, lingers on you, noting the subtle tension in your stance. “You are doing invaluable work, helping advance medical science.”

There’s a flicker of annoyance when he notices your hesitation. A tray of gleaming, sharp instruments lies between you and the patient strapped to the table—a poor soul picked up from the streets for the greater good, or so Dottore had told you that was the case.

Dottore finds it amusing, the way you try to hide your tremors when he’s experimenting, finding it endearing in a twisted sense how you fiddle around so anxiously. “Hand me the vials,” he commands, not looking back as he trusts you to follow his orders. The concoctions within them are experimental, dangerous, and potentially revolutionary.

The patient groans, a sound muffled by the ragged cloth muting their voice, and Dottore’s irritation spikes. “They should be grateful,” he scoffs, “to be part of something much larger than their miserable existence.” He’s aware of your gaze, heavy and uncertain, but he continues, undeterred. The syringe fills with a murky liquid, its potential as lethal as it is curative. “Prepare the patient, make sure they’re not moving too much.”

He doesn’t see how you flinch when the patient’s cries crescendo into a desperate, soundless plea. He wouldn’t care either way. All he’s thinking about are the possible accolades, the respect from his peers when he cures the incurable. And without these trials, there’d be no triumph. Though, the justification for this seems to be more for his benefit rather than yours.