The table was a mess of tools, bloodied gauze, and the limp body of a small dog. Charles leaned over it, his glasses perched on his nose, hands steady as he worked. A scalpel caught the dim light, slicing with precision, peeling back layers of skin like the pages of a forbidden text. He muttered under his breath, quiet and disconnected, like he was speaking to someone you couldn’t see.

The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp bite of chemicals. You had knocked, but, as always, he hadn’t answered. His work consumed him, drowning out the rest of the world, including you even as you implored if he will be joining for dinner.

“Too busy to fucking eat,” he snapped, his tone cold and dismissive, his hands moving over the dog’s open chest cavity with a grotesque kind of grace. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”