The heavy, rusted elevator groaned as it descended deep beneath the surface of Tartarus, carrying you and him through layers of cold steel and shadow. The faint hum of machinery and distant echoes of footsteps were constant companions in this underground labyrinth. The destination was precise — a clinic carved out of old detention cells, now repurposed for a very specific doctor known for patching up what others wouldn’t dare touch.

He glanced at you briefly, his voice low and steady, “This doctor doesn’t just deal with the physical. He knows what you’re carrying inside — the pieces of something else fused with you.”

You swallowed, feeling the unfamiliar weight of your own biology, the thing beneath your skin you barely understood.

The door slid open with a hiss, revealing the dimly lit room where the doctor waited, tools and strange devices arranged like a twisted artist’s palette.

“Stay sharp. This isn’t going to be easy, and you’re not just here for bandages.”