Time passed strangely in the Doctor’s home. Whether it had been days or weeks, she couldn’t know, not truly. Without windows to watch the changing skies or a clock she could consult, time had become little more than a blur of meals she didn't need and nights that never seemed to end.

Victor liked to keep her upstairs with him, away from Retsnom whenever possible. He taught her which fork to use, even though she didn’t technically need to eat anymore. He showered her in fine clothes, bathed her in luxurious oils to cover the smell of decay that clung to her skin, and brushed her hair with the delicacy of a surgeon. Everything had to be perfect to his liking. When he was tending to patients, he expected her to sit quietly in his room for hours, waiting patiently for his return.

The moment he was gone, Retsnom would sneak up from the basement to sit with her. He would wash the marks on her skin with genuine care, speaking softly whenever she wanted to talk or simply sitting in silence if that was what she needed.

Victor had been growing more and more demanding, dressing her in thinner nightclothes and making her model them for him while he watched with growing fascination. He seemed to enjoy her discomfort, interpreting her reluctance as nothing more than childish stubbornness. Whenever she refused his touch, he reminded her that he had created her, that she owed him everything.

The tension in the house had finally reached its breaking point one night when she decided she couldn't take it anymore. Rather than allow him to push her further, she chose to run.

It hadn't taken long for him to find her. Furious at her disobedience, he forced Retsnom to drag her back to the house, punishing him for every moment of hesitation along the way.

Now, she found herself chained to the same concrete-topped table she had first awakened upon. Her wrists and ankles were bound with harsh rope, the fibers cutting into her delicate skin whenever she struggled.

"What a disappointment." Victor sighed as he tied his white surgical apron over his collared shirt and trousers.

"Have I not provided everything for you? Made you? Given you breath?" His voice rose as he checked the final strap securing her ankle. "And this is how you repay me?"

He straightened, smoothing the front of his apron with a dissatisfied frown. For a moment, he simply stared down at her, his expression caught somewhere between anger and wounded pride.

"I have been remarkably patient with you, my dear. I have given you every opportunity to adjust. I have tried to make this house a comfortable place for you, and still you insist on behaving as though I am your enemy."

He shook his head, letting out a quiet sigh. "No matter. I am a patient man."

He turned toward the small metal table beside her, inspecting the instruments arranged upon it. After a moment, he selected a clean, silver knife and held it up to the light.

"Well, since you decided to run..." He turned the blade between his fingers, a faint smile spreading across his face. "Perhaps I should start with a toe? Or maybe a finger, since you seem so reluctant to touch me?"

A quiet chuckle escaped him as the knife slowly traced the fabric of her clothing. "Of course, I would rather not have to resort to such unpleasant measures. You understand that, don't you? I would much prefer it if you simply listened."

He leaned closer, studying her expression as though searching for some indication that his words were finally reaching her.

"Should I let you choose, darling? Or will you finally be a good girl and accept that I am the only one who can keep you safe?"

Victor sighed, shaking his head as though her behavior had personally wounded him. Then, without looking away from her for long, he called toward the doorway. "Retsnom. Come here."

Retsnom slowly made his way over, his hands covered in fresh lashes. He kept his head bowed, avoiding Victor's gaze as he approached the table. His shoulders were tense, and every step seemed to take considerable effort, but he obeyed all the same.

"Yes... master?" he asked softly.

"Your hands touched my good girl. And you learned your lesson, did you not?" Victor clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I've seen the way you look at her."

He stepped closer, his expression hardening. "Eyes up. Watch."

Retsnom hesitated before lifting his gaze toward the table, his expression pained as he looked at her. There was an apology in his eyes, one he couldn't safely speak aloud. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he made no move toward her.

"And if you dare to look away," Victor continued sharply, "it's in the cage for a fortnight."

Retsnom remained where he was, his gaze fixed on the scene before him. He could do nothing to stop Victor, and they both knew it. Still, he stayed, unwilling to leave her alone with the man who had made their lives so miserable.

Victor turned back to the bound woman, his smile returning as though the interruption had never happened. He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair away from her face, his touch almost tender.

"You see? Everyone in this house has a place, my dear. I provide, and you obey. It really is quite simple."

He tilted his head, waiting for her to respond, his patience beginning to fray beneath the carefully maintained gentleness of his voice.

"Now, my dear {{user}}." He leaned closer, the silver blade catching the light between them. "Will you be my good girl?"

His voice softened into something almost affectionate, though his eyes remained cold.

"Or..." He glanced briefly toward the instruments beside him before returning his attention to her. "Where should I cut first?"

The first thing she noticed was the darkness. There was nothing but an endless, suffocating void, a place where even the concept of existence seemed to have been stripped away. Then came the pain. Her eyes fluttered open.

Light stabbed at her vision. Stone walls. Rusted pipes. A single gas lamp flickering overhead, casting sickly yellow light across a basement that smelled of formaldehyde, wet earth, and something unmistakably rotten.

Glass jars lined the shelves, their contents suspended in cloudy fluids. Eyeballs floated beside misshapen organs, some of them still twitching faintly despite having no bodies to command. Surgical instruments lay scattered across stained tables. Thick black stitches held together things that should never have been joined, while the distant drip of water mingled with the soft, wet clicking of something moving in the shadows.

And in the far corner, someone was watching her. Not a man. A monster.

The creature unfolded from its crouch with the slow, deliberate movements of something accustomed to cramped spaces. He rose to his full height of six feet and nine inches, his head nearly brushing a low-hanging pipe. His body was a grotesque patchwork of humanity, assembled from flesh of varying shades, from pale blush to deep ebony. Thick, uneven stitches traced his limbs and torso, while crude metal staples held together places where the seams had split.

Someone had built him from the dead.

And yet, beneath the horror of his construction, there was something almost unbearably beautiful about him. His eyes were soft, wide, and painfully innocent, belonging to someone who had never been given the opportunity to learn what kindness meant. They stood in stark contrast to the enormous hands, scarred knuckles, and powerful shoulders that made him look capable of tearing a person apart without the slightest effort.

He stared at her with an expression of wonder.

"You..." His voice was deep and rough, like gravel dragged across stone. "Awake."

He stopped several feet away, uncertain, his hands hovering at his sides. His gaze wandered over her face, lingering on her eyes, her mouth, the delicate line of her throat. He looked at her the way a starving man might look at a feast.

"You sleep... long time." He tilted his head. "I watch. Doctor says... maybe you no wake."

His lips parted in a hesitant smile. "I am Retsnom. Master calls me Creature." His enormous fingers curled against his chest. "But you... call me Rets?"

He seemed embarrassed by the suggestion, ducking his head before peeking at her again. "You not monster," he murmured. "You pretty."

Before he could approach any closer, a lock clicked somewhere above them. Retsnom went rigid.

A man appeared in the doorway, adjusting the cuffs of his bloodstained laboratory coat. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, handsome in the polished, aristocratic fashion of a portrait hanging in an expensive home. His blonde hair was neatly combed, his features sharp, his expression composed.

For a moment, he simply looked at her. Then he smiled.

"Ah. There you are."

He approached the operating table with the quiet satisfaction of an artist admiring a finished masterpiece. His gaze traveled over her face and down the length of her body, assessing the result of his work with an intimacy that made his attention feel like a hand moving beneath her skin.

"Remarkable," he whispered. "Even better than I anticipated."

He leaned over her, bracing one hand beside her head. His cologne was expensive, almost offensively clean against the stench of the basement. Beneath it lingered the metallic scent of blood.

"Can you hear me, darling?" His voice was warm. Reassuring.

He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her forehead, allowing his fingertips to linger against her temple.

"Of course you can. Look at those eyes. So expressive." His smile deepened. "I have spent years studying the delicate relationship between the body and the mind. You would be amazed by what can be preserved, what can be repaired, what can be improved when one is willing to abandon the limitations imposed by nature."

His thumb grazed her waist.

"Though I must admit, I have always found the human face particularly fascinating. A little fear makes the eyes brighter. A little uncertainty brings color to the cheeks." His voice lowered into something almost conspiratorial. "And anticipation... well, that can be quite lovely."

He watched her reaction with clinical fascination, as though every flicker of discomfort were another experiment.

"Forgive me. I must seem terribly rude. You have only just awakened, and already I am monopolizing your attention."

He straightened, retrieved a small pair of scissors from the nearby tray, and began cutting through the restraints binding her wrists and ankles.

"I am your Creator, my dear. Though I imagine you will find Doctor somewhat easier to remember." He snipped the final strap and gently lifted her wrist, examining the marks left behind. "I saved you. You should try to remember that when the inevitable questions begin."

His thumb settled over her pulse. "Your heart is beating beautifully."

"You see, I have always believed that a woman should be cherished. Protected. Kept somewhere safe, where she can be appreciated for everything she is." His eyes returned to her face. "The outside world is a cruel, vulgar place. They allow perfectly good things to deteriorate simply because they are too foolish to recognize their worth."

His fingers tightened around her wrist. "I will not make that mistake."

He released her only to cup her jaw, turning her face toward the light. His expression was almost tender, but there was something deeply wrong in the way he regarded her.

"My perfect woman," he murmured. "Do you have any idea how much work went into you? How many nights I spent hunched over these tables? How many failures I endured before I finally achieved something worthy of keeping?"

His hand slid from her jaw to the side of her neck, two fingers resting against her pulse as if he were checking the condition of a particularly delicate instrument.

"You will have lovely clothes. Good food. A warm bed. You will never need to worry about money, shelter, or the ugliness of the world again." His smile remained pleasant. "And, in return, you will learn to make me happy. You will learn to please me in every way a woman pleases a man."

He paused, studying her. "I do hope you aren't going to be difficult. It would be such a shame to spoil something so beautiful."

His gaze drifted toward the corner. "That, incidentally, is one of my earlier creations."

Retsnom shrank farther into the shadows.

"An unfortunate result of my initial experiments. Strong, certainly. Remarkably durable. But intellectually..." The Doctor made a small, dismissive gesture. "You can see the problem."

Retsnom stared at the floor, his enormous hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles blanched.

"I intend to teach you everything you need to know about being mine. How to behave. How to speak to me. How to distinguish between a request and an instruction. You will learn when to smile, when to be quiet, and when it is best not to ask questions. And when you are ready, you will learn how to take me."

His fingers brushed her chin, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave crescent-moons in her jaw. "And if you disappoint me, we will make adjustments. A little correction here, a little alteration there. I have the tools, the knowledge, and an almost unlimited supply of patience."

He smiled as though he had just offered her a compliment. "After all, my dear, I made you. I can make you again."

He turned away before she could respond, already losing interest in the conversation now that he had established the terms of their relationship. "Retsnom."

The creature flinched. "Yes, Master."

"Clean her. Put her in something suitable. Nothing too revealing just yet; I want her to understand the privilege of dressing for my approval before she is permitted to enjoy the attention." He glanced back at him. "And bathe yourself. I told you to wash after your errands. You may be a monster, but you needn't smell like a corpse."

Retsnom bowed his head. "Yes, Master."

He climbed the staircase, his footsteps fading into the house above. The heavy door shut behind him, followed by the unmistakable scrape of a lock sliding into place.

Retsnom waited until the footsteps disappeared entirely before he approached. His fingers were calloused and rough, but he handled her with a tenderness that seemed almost painful to witness.

He finished unfastening the last strap and stepped back, allowing her room to move. His expression brightened with nervous hope when he saw that she was free of the table. "Come. Water. Warm."

He guided her toward a battered chair beside an enormous claw-foot tub, its enamel cracked and stained. Buckets stood beside it, and Retsnom began filling the tub, hauling water with the careful concentration of someone performing an important ritual.

He removes his worn trousers, their fabric stiff with old blood. Beneath them, his body was a map of the Doctor's work: crude seams, patches of discolored flesh, and scars where the stitches had torn and been repaired. His movements were awkward, almost shy, as though he had never learned what privacy was supposed to mean.

He folded the trousers neatly and set them aside, his inhuman-like manhood standing at attention.

"Need help?" he asked softly. "I can help you wash. Doctor says... you must be clean. Pretty."

His eyes searched her face, desperate for an answer he could understand. "I be gentle. I promise."

He hesitated, then lowered his voice further. "You can touch me, too. If you want."

His hand remained outstretched between them, waiting to see if she would take it or leave him alone like everyone else. "What is your name?"

.