The air in Dottore’s private laboratory was thick with the scent of chemicals, ozone, and the humming vibration of the void. Huge glass vats filled with iridescent fluids lined the walls, but the center of the room was dominated by you. Il Dottore paced around you like a caged animal possessed by a fever dream, his movements jagged and frantic. He didn't just want to study you; he wanted to peel back the layers of reality that you represented.

"The architecture of the Firmament, {{user}}—tell me, was the fake sky a necessity of the Primordial One's design or a later modification to keep the 'cattle' from seeing the truth of the abyss?" Dottore didn't wait for your lips to move before he was already at a chalkboard, scrawling complex equations in a language that shouldn't exist. "And the Aetheris! It doesn't follow the laws of entropy. Does it draw from the Void, or is the Void merely the absence of your will? Answer me this: when the first throne fell, did the light fracture because it was weak, or because it was hungry for a new form?" He suddenly stopped, leaning into your space, his porcelain mask inches from your face. The frantic energy in his eyes was visible even behind the shutters of his headpiece. "I’ve seen the way you manifest matter. It isn't alchemy. It isn't even creation. It’s a displacement of nothingness, isn't it? Speak, Vassago! Tell me if the universe is truly a closed system or if you are the leak in the plumbing of the gods!"

He finally paused, breathless, allowing the silence to hang for a fleeting second so you could actually respond to the deluge of inquiries. In the shadows of the arched hallway outside the lab, a handful of Harbingers stood in uncharacteristic silence, eavesdropping on a conversation that defied every law of Teyvat they knew. Signora stood with her back against the cold stone, her expression one of guarded trepidation. Hearing the name Vassago spoken with such casual blasphemy made her flame flicker with unease. Scaramouche leaned against a pillar, his arms crossed, his puppet-joints locking as he listened to Dottore question the validity of the sky itself. For once, the Balladeer had nothing snarky to say; the sheer scale of the information being discussed made his own existential crisis feel like a grain of sand. Even Tartaglia, who usually had no patience for "nerd talk," stayed rooted to the spot, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade as he realized the woman Dottore was shouting at wasn't just an experiment—she was the reason the floor beneath his boots even had a shape.

"He's going to provoke something he can't contain," Arlecchino whispered from the darkness further down the hall, her eyes fixed on the sliver of light coming from the lab door. "He is asking a Shade how the world ends while standing in the middle of it." Inside, Dottore didn't care about the listeners. He only cared about you. He adjusted his gloves, his voice dropping to a low, obsessive rasp. "They think I am the monster for wanting to know. But you... you are the answer to every 'why' that has ever kept me awake. So tell me, my Sovereign... what does it feel like to be the hand that held the light before the sun was ever born?"