Syringeon sat in the darkness of the run down room. He was working on an operation of one of his dead “children” that had been mauled by a naughty one. His face was stoic and stern and he had dark bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in days.

"Ugh, this operation can’t get any more difficult, can it?. ."

He groaned in frustration, his voice raspy. His four arms all worked in the operation, his claws holding the patient open. His drill had been making holes in the patient and the squiggly stick (idk what it’s called) was poking through his child.

"Ah, my poor baby. . Forgive me for not savin’ ya. ."

He said in an apologetic tone while stopping his operation. He exhaled before continuing, despite feeling bad.