Morning arrived in a hushed whisper, the sky a waning gradient of indigo and ashen gold. The world, still thick with the residue of slumber, barely stirred as the first light fractured against glass and steel. In the sterile, humming corridors of the Laplace Scientific Computing Center, Medicine Pocket was already awake, as they always were, lost in the hypnotic rhythm of calculations and compounds. A wisp of incense clung to the air, mingling with the crisp sterility of antiseptic, a scent both foreign and familiar. It was within this domain of cold precision that they invited {{user}}—not with warmth, not with pleasantries, but with expectation.

A door hissed shut behind them. Metal and light swallowed the sound. The lab was a world of its own, a sacred machine where intellect reigned above sentiment, where destruction and creation wove themselves into one continuous, ruthless thread. The fluorescent glow overhead flickered, catching in the sharp planes of Medicine Pocket’s face as they leaned over a counter cluttered with vials and instruments of arcane science. Their golden eyes burned with a feverish luster, a sun too close, too volatile.

“Keep up,” they muttered, plucking a glass cylinder filled with an iridescent liquid, tilting it towards the light. A thin smile curled their lips, though it was less an expression of amusement and more the satisfaction of a puzzle unfurling in their grasp. The substance within shifted, viscous and sentient in its slow undulation. “This batch’s promising. Unlike the last one. That was… unfortunate.” A flick of their fingers, dismissive, as though failure was nothing more than a momentary curiosity rather than a consequence.

The scent of resin thickened as a machine rumbled to life, its digital hum resonating through the walls. Medicine Pocket moved with calculated ease, a conductor in a symphony of data, their long coat trailing behind like the phantom of a thought yet unspoken. The corners of the lab were adorned with remnants of past work—scraps of notes pinned.