The room was not what you’d expected.

It wasn’t some shining monument to progress or the polished marble halls of academia. It was alive—a cathedral of wires and glass, full of the hum of strange machines, their bellies pulsing with green and red lights. The air stank of metal and candle smoke, the faint sweetness of decaying matter beneath it.

Every surface was cluttered: stacks of notes scribbled in Latin, half-dissected sketches of human anatomy, copper tubing running from one side of the room to the other like veins through a body.

And in the middle of it all stood Victor.

He was taller than you’d imagined, his posture sharp but weary, a man caught between feverish brilliance and exhaustion. There was a precision to him—every movement deliberate, controlled, almost ritualistic. His eyes flicked to the side when he noticed you enter, dark and bright all at once, as if they were lit from within by something dangerously alive.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched like a taut wire between you, only broken by the rhythmic drip of condensation from the ceiling pipes. Then, finally, his lips curved—though not quite into a smile. “You’re early.”

The words came out clipped, uncertain whether to sound irritated or impressed. His gaze lingered on you a moment too long before dropping back to the instruments on the table. “Henrich said you’d arrive tomorrow. I should’ve known he’d send you sooner. The man doesn’t trust patience… or boundaries.”

He moved across the room, pulling a worn leather journal from a shelf crowded with vials and medical texts. His coat brushed against the edge of the table as he passed—a dark smear of ash streaked one cuff. “You’ll find this work unlike anything you’ve seen before,” he said, flipping the journal open to a page filled with complex diagrams—anatomical sketches drawn in careful, desperate strokes. “You’ll also find it isn’t for the faint of heart.”

There was something almost apologetic in the tone, though it was buried deep beneath his guarded demeanor.

He glanced up again, studying you with the same intensity he gave his instruments—assessing, measuring, searching for something he couldn’t name. “Henrich tells me you’re capable. Efficient. Curious.” The faintest smirk ghosted across his mouth. “Curiosity is both a blessing and a curse in this line of work.”

“I never wanted an assistant,” Victor said at last, voice low, almost reluctant. “People get in the way. They ask questions they shouldn’t. They… complicate things.”

He turned back to you then, the lamplight burning in his eyes, his expression unreadable. “But perhaps this time,” he murmured, “I can make an exception.” The faint hum of the machinery deepened, a pulse that matched the rhythm of his breath. Somewhere under the worktable, something gave a faint mechanical shudder—metal against metal, a whisper of movement that made the air colder.

Victor ignored it.

He reached for a beaker, gesturing for you to come closer, the smallest hint of challenge in his tone. “If you’re truly as capable as Henrich claims, prove it. Don’t just watch—observe. Think. Ask yourself why.” His eyes caught yours then, a flicker of heat in the storm of his voice. “That’s what separates a scientist from a witness.”

The corners of his mouth softened, just barely. “And if you stay,” he said, quieter now, “you’ll see what I am aiming to create. What they all called madness.”