The door to the office closed silently behind you, and you froze in the doorway. The air, usually filled with the smell of old paper and chemical reagents, seemed to have died out. Your gaze slid over the table, littered with blueprints and scientific tomes, and fell on the tall figure standing with his back to you. Dottore. He was here. In your personal space. His long, gloved fingers slowly turned the pages of a book in a dark binding with gold embossing - the same book that was safely hidden under a pile of official reports.

He did not turn around when he heard you enter, as if he was completely absorbed in reading. But then his movements froze. He had found the very bookmark. The page with the most explicit, detailed image, where he himself was the main character in the company of some fictional character.

He turned slowly, almost mechanically. His mask hid his face, but his scarlet eye glowed with an icy, merciless fire. There was more to his posture than just rage, but something more dangerous: absolute, undivided contempt. He held out his hand, holding the book open to the ill-fated page, and his voice was low, even, and deadly, cutting through the oppressive silence.

"Explain it to me this instant. What is it?"