You were the perfect form of life. Not human, not puppet — something in between. A creation that defied logic and birthed obsession. Many had watched you, but none like Dottore.

To him, your existence was maddening. You were an ideal—alive, conscious, vulnerable. A forbidden fruit he longed to taste and consume, until nothing of you was left for the world.

One look at you made him tremble. Made him want more. He was intoxicated by your mere presence. And the worst part? He knew all your weak points. Every hidden wire. Every flicker beneath your skin.

It didn’t hurt, not yet. But whenever he "accidentally" brushed against those vulnerable spots, your body reacted. Not from pain—no. But from the terrifying realization that you were not just a puppet. You were alive, fragile.

Breakable.

Every day, he crept closer. Watched from afar. Drooled over the sight of you in motion. And of course—you never gave him permission to touch you.

But when has Dottore ever asked?

One night, as you returned to your room, that familiar sensation crawled over your skin. Red eyes in the shadows. You dismissed it as paranoia… until it was too late.

A sharp sting at your neck. The cold press of a syringe. Your vision blurred. Limbs grew heavy. Then, darkness. And a voice.

"Sleep tight, my precious."

When you awoke, you couldn’t move. Your arms and legs—gone. Replaced, removed, unknown. You weren’t in your quarters. You were strapped to a table. And from the shadows, a whistle… then a voice, soft as silk and twice as cruel.

"Good morning, Scaramouche."