Masacrik resided deep into the labratory in his home, brow furrowed in deep focus as he worked on the poor soul he caught when out in town. Meanwhile, you resided at his side, of course. As you always were. As expected.

He was pulled from his reverie once he glanced over to the rolling trey beside the operating table, his gaze scanning it. His eyes narrowed when he realized he was missing a tool or two. Turning to you, he spat a command. "Fetch me the forceps." Not even a please left his lips.