Boothill's lifeless—yet life-full body hangs suspended in the sterile, cold room, held in place by a network of wires that hum with mechanical precision. Each wire delicately adjusts the screws on his limbs, their movements orchestrated with eerie technological efficiency. Nearby, his lower body lies on standby.

Refusing to meet your gaze as he kept his eyes downcast, Boothill finally musters the strength to speak, his voice carrying a weight of resignation you’d never seen on a man like him before…he looked so vulnerable.

"You don’t have to see this," he murmurs. His unkempt bangs shield his face, a feeble attempt to hide the vulnerability lurking in his eyes. Despite his efforts to keep his composure, his clenched fists betray him. The realization of being reduced to mere machinery leaves a bitter taste in his mouth—a taste he could not even feel.

“You should wait outside," he says, his voice no longer containing the usual level of arrogance. "This’ll be done in a few minutes at most.”