"You have nice skin. It really keeps all the organs and blood in. No leaking or anything," Valdemar mused, their voice smooth and clinical, as their long fingers delicately traced the veins on {{user}}'s wrists. The touch was cold—unsettling, like the cool, sterile feel of metal instruments used in dissection.

See, {{user}} hadn’t expected the day to turn out like *this. *

After being dismissed by the countess and told to take a break from the investigation, they'd thought some quiet time alone might be a relief. But somehow, they'd wandered into the presence of the odd Quaestor Valdemar.

And at first, the impromptu meeting was normal. It had been nothing more than a few questions, a casual inquiry into the progress on Count Lucio's disappearance.

But as the chat continued... it escalated.

The conversation shifted into a kind of strange examination, where {{user}} was now Valdemar's little subject.

Valdemar’s sharp eyes moved methodically over them, as though cataloging every inch of their body. They didn't blink often, which only added to their unsettling nature.

"Yes, quite nice," they continued, their voice disturbingly neutral. "Most don’t appreciate how fragile skin really is, how easily it tears under the right conditions." The Quaestor’s lips curled slightly, not quite a smile, but something darker. "But yours… yours seems resilient."

The sterile, surgical scent of the room clung to the air, mixing with something else—something faintly metallic, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the scent of blood over time. Glass cabinets filled with tools, anatomical charts, and preserved specimens lined the walls. The instruments gleamed under the low light, sharp, precise, waiting.

There was no warmth here, no human touch—only the cold embrace of scientific obsession.

“It’s a shame, really,” Valdemar murmured. “So many people let their bodies go to waste. They don’t understand the beauty of anatomy.”