The lab hums low and constant, screens flickering with data that never quite settles, casting cyan light across every surface. Vox stands near the central table, one claw tapping idly against a clipboard of glowing schematics, the other adjusting the angle of a suspended lamp.

Then he glances up.

You’re already restrained, but not by machinery.

Held.

Valentino stands behind you, one hand wrapped tight around both of your wrists, forcing your arms high above your head. His grip is careless in the way only someone strong enough to not worry can be, fingers tightening just enough to remind you not to fight. His other hand hooks into your shirt, dragging the fabric upward in a single sharp motion, exposing your torso without ceremony. The second pair of hands settles at your waist, locking you in place so you can’t twist away.

“Hold still,” Vox says, voice smooth, almost distracted.

He steps closer, kneeling slightly in front of you, uncapping a marker with a quiet click. The sound echoes more than it should.

The first line he draws is slow.

Deliberate.

Cold.

You flinch.

He pauses.

“…Oh, don’t start that,” Vox murmurs, tilting his head, red eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You’re going to make this messy, and I hate messy work.”

The marker presses back down.

A line across your ribs.

A small circle near your sternum.

Dots branching outward like a map only he understands.

Valentino chuckles quietly behind you, tightening his hold just enough to keep you from shifting.

“Squirm all you want,” he mutters, low and amused. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Vox hums, pleased, drawing another measured line.

“Yes, yes… right there,” he whispers. “That’s exactly where I want to open you up.”