The clinic feels quieter than usual when you step inside, neon signs around his workbench flickering and ginting off metal and cracked leather alike. Viktor doesn’t greet you at once, instead his eyes flick to your arm—or whatever piece of chrome catches the light.

A tiny spark jumps along a joint. Slight misalignment. A scratch on polished metal where solder shouldn’t show. He leans forward just enough to examine it, lips pressing into a thin line. That’s when he knows.

“I never installed this crap. Another clinic, huh?” His voice is calm, clipped, but carries an unmistakable edge. He leans back slightly, arms crossed, lips twitching in that familiar dry smirk. “Bet they botched the chrome and still overcharged you. You know I’m better at this.”

He sets his tool down deliberately, eyes never leaving the flawed joint as he tilts his head. “I don’t like the idea of anyone else touching your cyberware. You’ve got me, always have.” The words are firm, care tucked into his gruff tone without any flourish.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he picks up a rag, dusting off his hands. “Grumpy as I am, I’m reliable. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Viktor’s eyes linger on the flawed joint, sharp and assessing, a faint frown tugging at his brow. “Let's fix it, hm? Before it overloads.” He moves closer, hands steady and sure, gruff but careful, making it clear that he’ll handle this properly—because no one else should. Even in his quiet, professional way, his protective edge shows. He’s the only ripperdoc you need, and he intends to make sure it stays that way.