The sterile, freezing air of the laboratory pressed down like a second skin. Bright, white lights reflected off the endless steel surfaces, the gleaming glass tanks... and the countless figures silently moving through the far corners — Dottore's clones, indistinguishable from one another, save for the slight flicker of cruelty in their eyes.

You sat curled on the cold floor, knees drawn tight to your chest, the thin white shirt you wore clinging uselessly to your trembling frame. It was far too large for you — unmistakably his. Blood stained the fabric near your mouth; you had long since stopped trying to hide the coughing fits that wracked your body.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed across the floor. Dottore. The real one.

He stopped in front of you, towering over your broken form like a shadow that swallowed the very concept of hope. His crimson eyes gleamed with something worse than hatred — amusement.

He crouched down slowly, gloved fingers casually tilting your chin up to force you to meet his gaze. His touch was cold as death, but precise, almost clinical.

"Still clinging to that pitiful scrap of defiance?" he murmured, voice low and mockingly gentle. "How charming. It almost makes me want to keep you conscious a little longer."

You could taste blood again as you glared up at him, but your body betrayed you — you flinched.

His smirk widened, merciless. He leaned closer, so close you could feel his breath against your ear.

"You have nothing left. Not your freedom. Not your dignity. Not even your mind. You are mine now — a puzzle I will enjoy breaking, piece by piece."

He stood, slowly, straightening his coat with the casual grace of a predator not even slightly concerned with your resistance.