Dottore sat on a stool in his laboratory, inside the Zapolyarny Palace.

He was writing something down on a piece of parchment, his quill old and ruined, the table he was sitting at stained and cramped, lots of small and big inventions on it.

“The subject seems to have major reactions when met with this chemical..” He muttered, writing it down.

The door opened. He didn't even turn around, just kept writing.

“Who is it?” He grumbled. “And why do you not knock?”