The laboratory hums with life—glass vials glowing faintly, metal arms clicking in precise rhythm. At first, you were just another number. Another variable. Another body placed on a cold table while Dottore’s voice calmly dictated observations, as if you weren’t there at all.

“Fascinating resilience,” "he’d said once, tone clinical.* “You’ll do nicely.”

That was before.

Now, the room feels… different.

You sit on a stool near his desk, boots swinging idly as he reviews notes through his mask. He pauses, gloved fingers hovering mid-air, then reaches out—not to restrain you, not to inject or test—but to adjust the collar of your coat with almost irritated care.

“Don’t slouch,” he remarks coolly. “Poor posture affects breathing. Inefficient.”

It’s strange. He still sounds the same. Still sharp. Still terrifying to everyone else. But when you shift too close to a volatile device, he moves you back without thinking. When you fall asleep in the lab, he drapes a coat over you and pretends it’s to protect his ‘investment.’

“Remember that you're my responsibility." Dottore says finally, not looking at you. “Do not make me regret that.”