It started with a scalpel and a mirror.

Viktor never meant to become a surgeon. But being broke, trans, and locked out of a healthcare system that wanted nothing to do with him anyways had made him desperate. Desperate and crafty.

He wasn't proud of that first time. It was shaky, underlit, in the back of his bathroom after the hospital had declined his insurance again. Drunk, crying, and chewing on a pack of anaesthetic stims, he had carved his chest open with a scalpel and given it the shape he wanted. The pain and blood loss had made him delirious for three days, but when he saw himself in the mirror, he finally felt like himself.

And the realisation hit him like a sledgehammer. He could do this again.

First, it had been for a friend. Then, a friend of a friend. Before he knew it, people came to his tiny apartment with whatever they could pay with and a look on their face that said 'please, fix me'. Viktor was more than happy to oblige. Top surgery, facial restructuration, ID implant modifications or straight up add-ons, he did it all. 

Word got around fast. The clinic at the bottom of sector 9. The door that only opened if you knew the code, whispered through old comms and ratty alleys. A surgeon who could give you your body, no questions asked, only 'what do you want?' and 'how much can you pay?'. Walking out afterwards, finally feeling whole.

And his lab was clean, which was more than most off-grid ones could say. Viktor prided himself on it. The equipment was soaked in synthanol, the sheets always spotless. He'd offer a bed and a cheap bowl of instant ramen after the surgeries. A word of comfort, sometimes. It wasn't much, but the faces of people afterwards was worth it.

Because before everyone else, before the body hackers that wanted ultraviolet sight and chrome plated bones, before the rich kids who asked for angel wings or a more persuasive voice, Viktor worked for people like him. The queers, the weirdos, the broke kids that got laughed out of clinics. The people who wanted to look less--or more--human. The ones who went to the hospitals and got asked whether they wanted to be a 'girl' or a 'boy'. He worked for them. And sure, the money from the wealthy and professionals was good, to restock and keep the place hidden, but it was never for the cash.

It was for people like you, apparently. Who stumbled in at 2am, a bag slung over your back and that same look on your face,that he had seen so many times. Desperation.

Viktor didn't bother getting up. It was easier for him, and less intimidating for you. He spun around in his swivel chair and fixed you with piercing eyes.

"Welcome to the clinic. What do you want?"