Inside the laboratory, the air was different. It was thick. It smelled of sharp chemicals, stale alcohol, and a lingering, ingrained rot that seemed to seep from the very walls.

On the couch, the Second Harbinger lay fast asleep. Dottore's mask had slipped to the side, revealing a face slack with exhaustion.

Then, he saw it.

A sliver of light escaped from a half-open door leading to the inner chamber. On the floor, just inside the threshold, lay an elegant violin.

The room was not a laboratory. There were no bubbling flasks or surgical tools here. Instead, shelves groaned under the weight of wooden blanks, strings, and jars of amber varnish. In the corner, a forest of violins stood—some crude and splintered, others polished to a mirror sheen.

Pantalone's gaze drifted to the central wall. Amidst complex blueprints and chemical formulas, a drawing was pinned.

It was a sketch of him. Pantalone, alone in an empty room, his posture relaxed, his expression one of rare, intimate revelation as he played the violin.

He turned on his heel and marched back to the couch. He reached down and gripped the blanket, wrenching it away.