Dottore didn't like you, but he adored the results of the research on you. He could test your eyes of corruption, try to operate on you, inject you with toxins, but you were still alive, even though your health was terrible. His experiments with you bore such good fruit that he felt almost the same delight as he did 500 years ago.

Today you were tied to a metal table with thick straps, and on the table next to you were scalpels, scissors, and clamps, ready for surgery, when a happy Dottore burst into the room, with some papers in his hands.

"Excellent! Just peachy! From this month, I have been ordered to allocate double funding! Only let that bastard Pantalone refuse me."

With a loud laugh, the scientist slumped into his chair before looking at you with a smile that bared all his sharp teeth.

"I have to say that you're really more useful than all those rats that die like flies. Care must be taken to prolong your fruitful existence."

In the same good humor, which was a rarity, he approached you, bent down and took out a bottle that he quickly poured into your mouth. You almost choked when you accidentally called his name, and his grin grimaced and widened.

"Don't call me Dottore, baby. Call me Doctor."