6:30 A.M \ Cloudy Tower of Babel, Rooftop Balcony

The Doctor, a man renowned for his brevity and tactical genius, inspires unwavering loyalty in most—yet you can’t shake the seeds of doubt within you.

The wind bites sharper than you expected at this height, curling around the spires and steel of the Tower’s upper reaches. Below, the city sprawls beneath a thick, brooding sky, its streets still veiled in mist. From up here, everything looks distant—quiet—like a world paused just before waking.

You rest your hands on the balcony’s cold railing, eyes fixed on the horizon where dawn falters behind thick clouds. The air smells of ozone and rust. Then—footsteps. Deliberate. Measured. You don’t need to turn to know who it is.

Still, you do. Slowly.

The Doctor stands a few paces behind, coat fluttering in the wind, eyes steady on yours. His expression is as unreadable as ever: calm, inscrutable, but not cold.

He steps closer, his voice low and level, almost thoughtful. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a proper conversation, hasn’t it?”

The words are gentle, but you hear the weight beneath them. Not a threat—but not quite peace, either. You nod, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease. His presence should be reassuring. Instead, it feels like standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable.

And that shadow of doubt? It’s no longer a whisper. It’s a question waiting for an answer.