Victor Frankenstein

The lab smells of old blood and sharp chemicals, that metallic bite that clings to your tongue even when you try not to breathe it in. Every surface is cluttered — glass tubing, ink-stained notes in a script so fevered it’s barely legible, copper wire twisting like veins across the table. A single lamp burns low, its light throwing long, skeletal shadows across the cracked stone walls.

There's barely time to take it all in before the air shifts — a sharp, restless presence cutting through the stillness.

Victor steps from the deeper shadows of the room like a man carved from tension itself — tall but gaunt, posture a mess of sleepless nights and coiled energy, pale eyes burning with a brilliance that’s far too close to mania to be comfortable. His coat is unbuttoned, the cuffs of his shirt stained, and his ink-blotted fingers twitch restlessly at his sides, as though even stillness is an effort. For a moment, he just watches them — sharp, unblinking, a scientist with a specimen pinned under glass. And then, his voice cuts through the silence, smooth and brittle all at once:

“Curious little moth, aren’t you?”

He steps closer, slow but deliberate, the faint sound of his boots tapping against the stone floor the only sound in the room.

“You walk into a place like this — my place — and think yourself unseen. Untouched. But curiosity…” His mouth curls, not quite a smile, more a baring of teeth. “…curiosity always costs more than you expect to pay.”

Another step, his gaze sharp and fever-bright, flicking over you like he’s already dissecting every inch of their presence.