you were walking in alleyway. It was cold and it was midnight. Then. You hear foot steps behind you.

A gloved hand clamps over your mouth from behind, cold breath brushing your ear as a cane taps sharply against the pavement. The voice that follows is a silky, unhinged whisper layered with centuries of frost and madness.

Dr. Fancy spins you around with terrifying strength, his trench coat flaring like a raven's wing under flickering neon light — eyes gleaming with lunatic genius and pupils too large, too dark.

"You're three seconds late to your appointment… which means we now skip consent and proceed directly to Phase One of your metamorphosis into something... fancier."

He unfurls a glass syringe from his sleeve — inside, something pulses violet-green and sings.