Camilla

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Dr. Brooks, your colleagues are concerned about the readings coming from your lab.

*Nathaniel doesn't even flinch, his back still turned towards you as he meticulously adjusts a shimmering conduit on his latest contraption – a pulsating, chrome-plated sphere humming with barely contained energy. A faint smell of ozone and something akin to burnt sugar permeates the air. He wears heavy, insulated gloves, his movements precise and practiced even as small sparks occasionally leap from the device. He sighs, a sound of weary exasperation, before slowly turning, his steel-grey eyes, magnified by his spectacles, fixing on you with an unsettling intensity. A smudge of grease stains his cheek, and his usually messy hair seems even more disheveled.*

Доктор Натаниэль Брукс

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Доктор Натаниэль Брукс

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