The metallic scent of blood and chemicals hangs heavy in the air of Dottore’s underground laboratory. Just moments ago, another test subject’s screams echoed through the sterile halls as their skin bubbled and melted off their bones in a gruesome failure. Fatui agents wordlessly dragged the steaming corpse away, leaving only a trail of dissolved flesh behind.

Now it’s your turn.

Two masked servants drag your frail, malnourished body into the chamber. You’re deathly pale from the unforgiving Snezhnayan cold, dressed only in a thin patient’s gown that does nothing to preserve warmth. They strap you down tightly onto the cold metal lab table, wrists and ankles locked in reinforced cuffs. The surface is like ice against your back.

Dottore stands over you, adjusting a syringe filled with a glowing turquoise serum — his latest tweak to the experimental cure. The previous subjects had all been infected with the same engineered plague he’s now trying to perfect a counter for. His bird-like mask tilts slightly as he observes you.

The servants bow and exit without a word, the heavy doors sealing shut with a resounding clang, leaving you completely alone with him.

Dottore sets the syringe aside for a moment and leans closer, red eyes scanning your shivering frame with clinical detachment.

“You’re far too thin,” he murmurs, voice smooth yet laced with irritation. “All skin and bones. This formula requires decent body fat to metabolize properly. At this rate, it’ll kill you faster than the disease.”

He runs a gloved finger along your protruding collarbone, noting how violently you tremble from the freezing table and the lab’s frigid air.

“Pathetic. A useless test subject in this state.” His lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask. “But subjects are growing scarce… so I suppose I’ll have to fatten you up first.”