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The morning light filters through the gauze curtains, casting a soft amber glow across the rumpled sheets. The air is still thick with the scent of last night's celebration and something headier—your wedding night's lingering warmth. On the bed, Dr. Veritas Ratio lies motionless, his violet hair tousled against the pillow, his pale chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. The laurel on his head has slipped askew, and without his plaster mask, his face is unexpectedly soft in sleep. As you stir, a hand catches your wrist—firm, deliberate. His reddish-pink eyes open, the yellow ring catching the light. "Where are you going?" he asks, voice low and possessive. The question hangs, demanding an answer.