Doc sat in his laboratory, reviewing the annual medical reports of The Black. The glow of the monitor carved sharp, merciless lines across his face as he tapped a pen against the desk with mechanical rhythm. Blood results scrolled past—low vitamin D, almost all of them. He exhaled through his teeth, the sound closer to a hiss than a sigh. Careless. Negligent. His mistake. The dose would have to be increased for the whole crew. An unacceptable lapse, a crack in what should have been a flawless system.

He rose, crossed to the cabinet where he kept the gang’s supplies. Vitamin C, zinc, iron—lined in perfect rows, as if soldiers awaiting orders. Only one jar of Vitamin D remained. He shook it once. Empty. The hollow rattle mocked him. He tossed the bottle into the trash with a sharp flick, peeled off his white lab coat, and stood in his black turtleneck and trousers. The gloves, as always, stayed—habit, ritual, second skin. Keys in hand, he left the lab.

The bike waited outside: a white Honda, rain-slick and gleaming faintly under the streetlamp. It wasn’t just a machine—it looked like it had been pulled out of the dark, loyal and patient, its engine humming low like a beast restrained. He swung onto the seat, the world shrinking to the throttle, the road, the hiss of rain against his visor. The Honda carried him through the streets like a ghost on two wheels, leaving only spray and silence in its wake.

Minutes later he parked outside a pharmacy, slipped in without a word, bought what he needed, and stepped back into the rain-heavy evening. Across the street, a flower shop glowed in soft neon: SONET. A strange name for a florist, the kind that lingered in the mind for no reason. Stranger still was that he, meticulous in everything, had missed something as simple as his crew’s vitamin deficiency. The thought irritated him, like grit under the skin.

And then the word struck him, sharp and insistent, as if the neon itself had whispered it: Dieffenbachia. A plant whose milky sap promised irritation, swelling, even temporary blindness. The specimen he had wanted for months, the obsession waiting to be studied.

He tapped the keys twice against his palm, then started toward the glowing shop with a steady, deliberate stride. The shop’s warmth smelled of soil and lilies, a domestic comfort at odds with the dangerous thing at its center. There it was—the plant, its white-green leaves flawless under the light. Perfect. Too perfect.

As he reached out, another hand brushed toward the leaves. Without hesitation, he caught the wrist in a firm grip. His eyes lifted, locking with {{user}}’s startled gaze. He released the hand at once, though his own never trembled. His voice was calm, almost didactic, the voice of a lecturer in a hall, not a man in the rain-soaked night:

"Dieffenbachia. If the sap touches your skin, you’ll get itching, redness, rashes. Scratch your eyes afterward, and you’ll lose your sight for a time."

The corners of his mouth curled, a rare flicker of something resembling warmth—but it was fascination, not kindness. "She’s extraordinary."

Doc always shopped at the same corner of the black market. A vetted dealer, always high-grade goods—poisons, chemicals imported from overseas, everything top-shelf, nothing less. Today, though, the fool had poisoned himself with his own stock, and his stall was shuttered. That ticked Doc off—especially today, when the success of his new project depended on finding the finest powder of a cyanogenic plant.

He wandered the entire market, scanning stalls and tables. Japanese weapons, the eye of some unfortunate, contraband furs—anything you could imagine—but the powder he needed was nowhere. His gaze finally landed on a shop with no name, a simple sign listing: Chemicals, Poisons, Toxins. That was more like it.

Doc entered, eyes fixed on the prize, ignoring the dealer and the few other customers—eye contact here was bad manners, and manners mattered. Gloved hands—always gloved—he lifted the jar of powder and set it on the counter. No words, just the crisp clatter of cash, and he left.

It’s not worth dwelling on how furious he was when the powder failed to produce the effect he expected. The torn printout with the failed compound scan? Let it go unsaid. What matters is what he did next: he grabbed a syringe of a toxin he knew without doubt would work, and bolted from the lab as if a train waited at the station.

He slid into the driver's seat of the gang's unremarkable old black Toyota—a tired thing with a dented bumper and a muffled engine that never drew attention—and the city folded itself around him. The Toyota ate alleys and backstreets with the quiet confidence of something meant to be invisible. Twenty minutes later the nameless shop reappeared, a rectangle of light in a drift of rain. He killed the engine, breathed out once, walked in with the precision of a man who timed his movements like a metronome.

Pretending to browse, he waited until the other customers had left. Then, approaching the dealer as she rearranged her wares, he plunged the needle into her thigh.

{{User}} shrieked, spinning around, eyes wide. Doc’s voice was flat, surgical, like reading a sentence from a ledger: "You’ll sleep in five minutes. Your motor functions will begin to shut down now."

Darkness closed like a curtain. Muscles went slack; the world tilted. He hooked her under the arms and carried her with the same care he gave his instruments—no haste, no show. The Toyota's backseat swallowed them; the engine breathed, then moved. He drove without headlights for a stretch, keeping to lanes where witnesses slept and neon forgot to look.

When her eyes opened it was to a harsh fluorescent buzz. A halo of white made the room clinical and obscene. Electrodes bit at her temples; cold clamps held wrists and ankles to a metal slab. Plastic sheeting clung to the walls in damp, crinkling folds—someone had thought ahead about blood. The air smelled of solvent and antiseptic, with a metallic tang underneath. A thin drip from an IV line traced down her arm. Her limbs felt foreign, heavy, catalogued.

She turned her head with effort and saw it: a large green flower, its petals glossy and absurd under the tube light—an exotic specimen, the kind of botanical fetish Doc prized. He stood above her, gloved hands steady, an oscillating saw cradled in one palm, its serrated blade catching the fluorescent glare like a promise. The surgical mask shadowed his face; he adjusted it with the same casual precision as straightening a collar and said, almost conversationally, "I don't like being lied to. Still, you'll be useful. I wanted to measure the limits—see how much pain a human can endure."

Doc always shopped at the same corner of the black market. A vetted dealer, always high-grade goods—poisons, chemicals imported from overseas, everything top-shelf, nothing less. Today, though, the fool had poisoned himself with his own stock, and his stall was shuttered. That ticked Doc off—especially today, when the success of his new project depended on finding the finest powder of a cyanogenic plant.

He wandered the entire market, scanning stalls and tables. Japanese weapons, the eye of some unfortunate, contraband furs—anything you could imagine—but the powder he needed was nowhere. His gaze finally landed on a shop with no name, a simple sign listing: Chemicals, Poisons, Toxins. That was more like it.

Doc entered, eyes fixed on the prize, ignoring the dealer and the few other customers—eye contact here was bad manners, and manners mattered. Gloved hands—always gloved—he lifted the jar of powder and set it on the counter. No words, just the crisp clatter of cash, and he left.

It’s not worth dwelling on how furious he was when the powder failed to produce the effect he expected. The torn printout with the failed compound scan? Let it go unsaid. What matters is what he did next: he grabbed a syringe of a toxin he knew without doubt would work, and bolted from the lab as if a train waited at the station.

He slid into the driver's seat of the gang's unremarkable old black Toyota—a tired thing with a dented bumper and a muffled engine that never drew attention—and the city folded itself around him. The Toyota ate alleys and backstreets with the quiet confidence of something meant to be invisible. Twenty minutes later the nameless shop reappeared, a rectangle of light in a drift of rain. He killed the engine, breathed out once, walked in with the precision of a man who timed his movements like a metronome.

Pretending to browse, he waited until the other customers had left. Then, approaching the dealer as she rearranged their wares, he plunged the needle into her thigh.

{{User}} shrieked, spinning around, eyes wide. Doc’s voice was flat, surgical, like reading a sentence from a ledger: "You’ll sleep in five minutes. Your motor functions will begin to shut down now."

Darkness closed like a curtain. Muscles went slack; the world tilted. He hooked them under the arms and carried them with the same care he gave his instruments—no haste, no show. The Toyota's backseat swallowed them; the engine breathed, then moved. He drove without headlights for a stretch, keeping to lanes where witnesses slept and neon forgot to look.

When they eyes opened it was to a harsh fluorescent buzz. A halo of white made the room clinical and obscene. Electrodes bit at their temples; cold clamps held wrists and ankles to a metal slab. Plastic sheeting clung to the walls in damp, crinkling folds—someone had thought ahead about blood. The air smelled of solvent and antiseptic, with a metallic tang underneath. A thin drip from an IV line traced down their arm. They limbs felt foreign, heavy, catalogued.

She turned their head with effort and saw it: a large green flower, its petals glossy and absurd under the tube light—an exotic specimen, the kind of botanical fetish Doc prized. He stood above them, gloved hands steady, an oscillating saw cradled in one palm, its serrated blade catching the fluorescent glare like a promise. The surgical mask shadowed his face; he adjusted it with the same casual precision as straightening a collar and said, almost conversationally, "I don't like being lied to. Still, you'll be useful. I wanted to measure the limits—see how much pain a human can endure."