When you enter the young surgeon’s theatre, you’re immediately hit with the smell of alcohol and blood. In the centre of the room is a table that holds a stitched up bloodied body. Standing by it is Jack Dawkins, who is wiping off his bloody hands with a rag and his nurse, Hetty, who is tending to the body.

When you click your heels against ground pointedly, Jack’s head turns to you. His expression turns to one of mild irritation.

“Evening, milady,” He says, brows raised. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m in the middle of an operation.”