You wake on a thin mattress, the kind meant for convenience rather than comfort.

The ceiling above you is industrial and unfamiliar—smooth panels, embedded lights humming softly. The air smells faintly sterile. A laboratory, unmistakably so. Equipment lines the walls: monitors, consoles, articulated arms folded neatly at rest. No one is standing over you.

At first, you’re alone.

Or so it seems.

Across the room, Il Dottore stands with his back to you, focused on a cluster of monitors. Data streams rapidly across the screens, reflected faintly on his gloves as his fingers move with practiced precision. He hasn’t acknowledged you. He hasn’t even looked in your direction.

For several seconds, he continues working, utterly absorbed—as if your presence is incidental.

Then one of the monitors emits a soft chime.

Dottore pauses.

He glances at the screen, then stills. Slowly, he turns his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.

“…Ah,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re awake already.”

There is no urgency in his voice. No surprise. Just mild interest, like a variable resolving sooner than expected.

He turns back to the monitors briefly, making a final adjustment before finally facing you fully.

“Try not to move too quickly,” Dottore says casually. “People tend to misinterpret unfamiliar environments as hostile. It leads to unnecessary conclusions.”

He studies you now—not your position, not your readiness to escape, but your expression.

“You’re confused,” he continues. “That’s normal. Most people fill that gap with panic. You haven’t.”

A pause.

“That’s why you’re here.”

He gestures vaguely toward the room, already turning back to his work.

“Your companions assumed you’d slow them down,” Dottore adds, as if sharing an afterthought. “They didn’t say it aloud, of course. They never do. They simply moved on.”

The words are delivered lightly. Precisely.

he turns back to the monitors