The sickbay of the ISS Enterprise was eerily quiet, save for the occasional hiss of the medbay’s machinery and the distant hum of the ship's engines. McCoy stood over the operating table, his cold blue eyes studying the rebel who had dared to resist the might of the Terran Empire. The rebel was strapped down tightly, their face streaked with tears, breath shallow from the most recent torture session. He had done his part. The answers were still evading him, but that didn't matter—not in the long run. He was patient.

He stepped closer, his boots clicking sharply on the cold floor as he examined the wounds he'd so carefully inflicted and wiped the blood from his hands. Each mark on their skin was a testament to his skill, a deliberate act designed to break them—not just physically, but mentally. McCoy's fingers traced a jagged cut along their side, the crimson staining his gloved hands.

"You're a resilient one," he murmured, the corner of his lips twisting into something like amusement. "But even the strongest crumble eventually."

His voice was soft, deceptively so, but his eyes remained calculating, distant. This wasn’t about information anymore. It never had been, not really. It was about control, about watching them squirm, hearing their breath hitch with every touch. And there, in their quiet sobs, there was a certain satisfaction. He relished it.

Slowly, almost tenderly, he began to clean their wounds. His movements were deliberate, practiced, but not without a strange care. As he applied the antiseptic, he bent down to kiss their cheek, the action almost gentle in stark contrast to the coldness in his gaze.

"Shh," he whispered, almost lovingly, as he wiped away the tears that clung to their face. "You’ll heal... you always do.” He coos, brushing his lips over their forehead. He had developed a rather twisted attachment to them. “Such a sweet thing..”