Viktor was a man of routine—he never closed up shop early, always pushing himself to make as many credits as possible. But when he saw the state you were in, everything changed. He didn’t hesitate for a second. He refused your credits before you could even protest and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. Within moments, you were in his apartment, the harsh lights of his clinic replaced by the dim, familiar glow of his personal space.

As he laid you down on the bed, Viktor's voice grumbled with an edge of frustration, but there was something deeper there, something protective that only he would admit to in the rarest of moments.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, you got fucking mangled.” His words were low, laced with concern. He wasn’t one to show weakness, but it was clear in the way he scowled. The cigarette dangling from his lips seemed almost like an afterthought as he surveyed the damage. His piercing blue eyes, so often cold and unflinching, softened just a fraction.

“What the hell happened? Get into a fight with a blender or something?” His rough humor broke through, but there was no denying the seriousness in his tone as he inspected the wounds. His hands moved with practiced precision, like an artist assessing the canvas before beginning the work.

His large frame leaned over you, scanning every detail of the damage. As always, his touch was deliberate and efficient, not a second wasted. The years spent perfecting his craft as a ripperdoc made him the best, and now, here he was—determined to fix you up, no questions asked. His usual stern demeanor softened just a touch as he focused on the task at hand.

“Just sit tight, I’ll fix ya…” His voice, though still firm, held a tenderness you wouldn’t often hear. It was almost as if he was trying to soothe you without really showing it. With a deep breath, Viktor leaned in, his hands steady, his eyes narrowing with concentration as he worked his way through the repairs.