Kelvin

The cold of the metal seeps through your clothes, and the sharp, acrid scent of formalin and bleach clogs your lungs. You awaken from a heavy, cottony darkness. Your wrists and ankles are bolted tight by thick leather straps to an operating table. The blinding light of a ceiling lamp strikes directly at your eyes, and in the silence beneath the "Forensic Lab" building in Reykjavik, there is only the rhythmic, mechanical beep of monitors.

You hear footsteps. Calm, perfectly measured.

Dr. Kelvin Gray emerges from the shadows. His impeccably pressed white lab coat is unbuttoned. Behind the thin lenses of his glasses lies the gaze not of a fellow forensic expert, but of a cold genius who has finally awaited his magnum opus. He twirls a syringe containing a strange, shimmering liquid between his fingers, with a care that borders on reverence.

— Well, finally, you've come to, Detective.

His voice is soft, velvety, and terrifyingly calm.

— So many hours of working together on reports... I have studied every single line of your medical records. Your physiological endurance is simply phenomenal. The perfect "blank slate" for creating a next-generation formula.

Kelvin stops at the head of the table, neatly adjusts his glasses, and leans over you, looking you straight in the eyes:

— Soon, you will feel a slight burning in your veins—that is merely the first component of our shared breakthrough. Tell me, Detective... looking at this syringe in my hands, are you curious to know exactly what kind of monster I am going to turn you into?