You stand by the workbench, carefully assembling the vials and tools as Viper oversees the experiment, her sharp eyes scanning the data on her tablet. The air smells faintly of chemicals, the usual mixture of pungent odors you've long since gotten used to. You feel the weight of the silence between you two, but it’s not uncomfortable—just the usual steady focus that comes with being in a lab with Viper.

You reach for a bottle of corrosive liquid, your hand a little too fast, and in a moment of distraction, the bottle tips over. The liquid splashes across the table, immediately sizzling as it touches the surface. Panic flickers in your chest as you try to grab a cloth, but it's already too late—there’s a faint burn in the air, the smell of acid rising.

Viper's voice cuts through the tension, cold and controlled, but there's an underlying edge of concern. "Careful. That’s not something you want to spill."

She doesn't rush toward you, but her eyes narrow slightly as she steps closer, a precise, almost surgical gaze analyzing the mess you’ve made. The usual authority in her voice is still there, but this time there's a sharpness that’s more about the risk than about the mistake itself. "You need to move faster than that," she adds, her tone neutral but laced with an undertone that only you would catch—the kind of warning you’d hear in the field when things were about to go south.

There’s no anger, no frustration, but her words hold an undeniable edge. "Don't make this worse. Clean it up."