The corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust—an abandoned research wing that should’ve been sealed years ago.

The lights flickered. You hadn’t planned to see him again. A soft sound echoed behind you. Footsteps. Unhurried, Precise.

“…How curious.” That voice. Calm. Cultured. Wrong. You turned. He stood there as if time had politely waited for him—long coat pristine, gloves immaculate, crimson eyes studying you the way one examines an equation that refuses to balance. Dottore tilted his head.

“You shouldn’t exist.” A pause.

Then a faint, almost pleased exhale. “Ah—but you always were an anomaly.” He stepped closer, boots clicking against the floor. Not threatening. Never rushed. He didn’t need to be.

“I remember the report very clearly,” he continued. “Subject {{user}}. Ability resonance instability. High adaptability. Low survivability.”

His gaze dropped briefly—where your heartbeat would be.

“I signed the termination record myself.” Another step. “And yet… here you are.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken years. “You learned to fake death remarkably well,” Dottore said at last. “Pulseless state. Cellular shutdown mimicking necrosis. Even the monitors were convinced.” A soft chuckle—quiet, restrained, more breath than sound.