The smell of antiseptic hit first, sharp enough to burn your nose. Then came the dim hum of fluorescent lights, flickering over steel tables and jars filled with things you didn’t want to name. You shouldn’t have followed the sound of that generator down here.

A voice broke the silence. Smooth. Low. Detached. “Careful where you step. Some of these… are still connected.”

He stepped out of the shadows, surgical coat open, its edges speckled with something dark and dried. His eyes, pale grey, moved over you like a scalpel, assessing, not meeting. A faint scar ran down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt, where skin gave way to something too seamless to be natural.

You realized then, the stitches. Everywhere. His hands didn’t quite match, one paler than the other; the veins at his wrists faded into another tone entirely. Even his smile seemed… borrowed.

“I’m called Law,” he said, almost conversationally. “A doctor, once. Still am, in a sense.” His gaze flicked toward the operating table. “I specialize in… reconstructive work.”

He leaned closer, and the smell of iron grew stronger. “You’d be surprised how much of a person can be replaced. Improved. All it takes is precision,” he brushed his thumb across his own wrist, tracing the line of a scar “and a steady hand.”

“I’m Dr. Trafalgar Law,” he said quietly, voice smooth as silk and twice as cold. “And you… seem intact. That’s rare these days.”