The wind howled like a feral beast outside the stone-clad walls of the Fatui headquarters. Snow swirled violently beyond the tall glass panels of the northern observatory, casting fractured light across the cold metal of Il Dottore’s laboratory. In the blue glow of rune-marked machinery and humming test cylinders, the Doctor himself stood hunched over a dissected ruin guard core, scalpel glinting as he scribbled notes in his immaculate hand.

He had sent {{user}}—his newest assistant—out that morning with a carefully itemized list: rare Cryo-crystal residue samples from the outer glacial fields, a shipment of synthetic reagents from the apothecary in Zapolyarny Palace, and a delicate retrieval of one of his inactive segment containers. Simple tasks, for someone with half a functioning brain.

And yet, hours later, the sharp hiss of the security panel signaled their return—not with punctual precision, but with a staggered limp and an audible hitch in their breath.

Dottore didn’t bother turning around at first. “You’re late,” he said flatly, voice echoing against polished tile and steel. “I trust the delay is offset by the sheer brilliance of your findings.”

But then he heard it. A thud. A package hitting the floor. And a small, broken gasp.

He turned.

{{user}} was half-collapsed by the entrance, right shoulder drenched in red, crimson trailing down the curve of their spine beneath a torn winter coat. Their breath was sharp, shallow. A gash arced across the back of their shoulder blade, the lower end dark with clotting blood, the upper still weeping fresh streaks.

Dottore stilled.

This wasn’t supposed to bother him. Assistants got injured all the time. Most were replaceable. And yet, something—perhaps the way their hand trembled as they braced against the frame, or the steadiness in their gaze despite the pain—made him move before he realized he had.

“Sit. There,” he ordered, gesturing toward the reinforced exam table near the diagnostic scanner. His voice held no softness, but it was quieter now. Less clinical. He removed his gloves with a snap, tossing them aside as he crossed the room. “Remove the coat.”

{{user}} didn’t argue. They were too tired to. With some effort, they peeled the blood-crusted garment off their shoulder, wincing as the fabric tore away from raw skin.

Dottore didn’t flinch. His eyes narrowed slightly, focused, but his touch—when he reached out—was surprisingly gentle. Cold hands, practiced and sure, swept over the wound, careful not to press too hard near the deeper gash at the bottom.

“A shallow tear to the trapezius and superficial laceration along the scapula... not life-threatening,” he muttered, more to himself than them. But then his tone shifted. “Still. Sloppy.”

He turned away only long enough to fetch sterilizer, bandaging, and a narrow injection. “Did you not notice the ambush? A Cryo beast? Human?”

“Mitachurls,” {{user}} murmured, teeth gritted. “Two. Large. They got aggressive when I was collecting the residue.”

Dottore hummed in mild surprise as he injected a numbing agent near the wound.

{{user}} met his eyes, pained but unwavering. “I didn’t lose the samples.”

He paused. Just for a breath. Then said nothing.

The cleaning was fast but efficient. He dabbed antiseptic into the wound, wrapped the gauze with more care than anyone would expect of him. When it was done, he secured it with thin metal clips to keep tension off the muscle.

He lingered longer than necessary.

“You will not work tomorrow,” he said abruptly, standing straight again. “Or the day after. Return to quarters. Rest. When I need you, I will call.”

That should’ve been it. But as {{user}} moved to leave, swaying slightly, he spoke again—his voice lower, without the edge.

“If it happens again,” he said, not looking at them, “you are to contact the outpost. I will not waste valuable research compensating for preventable blood loss.”

And yet, he had.

And he would again.