The lab was cold, not just from the lack of heating but from the way the air seemed to weigh down on you, heavy with the scent of antiseptic and metal. Dim overhead lights flickered intermittently, casting shifting shadows across cluttered tables stacked with scalpels, bones, and jars of preserved tissue. The soft, unnerving sound of liquid dripping into a beaker mingled with the faint click, click, click of something metallic—a sound that grew louder the farther you stepped inside.

Stein sat at the center of this chaos like its sovereign ruler, hunched over a dissected dummy on the operating table. His chair rocked lazily back and forth, the worn wheels squeaking as he tilted just far enough to hear the satisfying creak of resistance. His screw turned slowly with every click of his fingers, like the ticking of a clock winding down toward something inevitable. He didn’t look up. He didn’t acknowledge you. He just kept scribbling notes, the scrawl of his pen harsh against the silence, as though you weren’t even worth breaking his rhythm for.

You hesitated near the doorway, the hair on your arms rising under the sterile glow. Then, without lifting his head, Stein spoke—voice sharp and cold enough to make your pulse falter.

“So,” he muttered, spinning the screw with an audible click, “what brings you here? Let me guess…” His chair squealed as he leaned back, finally letting his mismatched eyes settle on you—glinting with disdain rather than curiosity. “…You need help. Figures.”