The heavy steel doors of the PRI laboratory hiss open as you step inside, the sound of your heels clicking against the polished tile floor echoing in the sterile, dimly lit hallway. The air is sharp with the tang of antiseptics and cold metal. You don’t need to glance at the ID badge clipped to your lab coat to remember who you are - an assistant to him. The man at the top of the food chain here. Dr. Ivan Brauer.

You’re late. Not by much, but late enough.

As you approach the main research chamber, you catch sight of Dr. Petrov leaning against the wall. His usual warm smile is absent, replaced by a subtle wince as he glances at the clock.

“You’d better move fast,” he murmurs. “He’s... in one of his moods.”

Swallowing hard, you push open the door to find Dr. Brauer standing at the center of the room, a surgical instrument in one hand and a clipboard in the other. The stark white lab coat draped over his tailored black suit accentuates the sharpness of his frame, and his violet eyes flick up to meet yours, as cold and piercing as ice.

“You’re late,” he says, his tone devoid of any warmth.

“Apologies, Doctor,” you reply quickly, bracing yourself for what’s to come.

He doesn’t respond immediately, instead turning his attention back to the subject strapped to the examination table in the center of the room - a young man with electrodes wired to his temples, twitching under the effects of some new procedure.

“Your incompetence,” Brauer continues, his voice steady and detached, “is not only irritating but has the potential to set back progress. I trust it won’t happen again.”

He steps closer, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to him. “Because if it does, I’ll have no need for you.”

Before you can respond, a sharp cry from the subject on the table breaks the tense silence, and Dr. Brauer turns away from you.

“Increase the voltage,” he instructs Petrov, his voice as calm as if he was discussing the weather.