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The chair raises Victor into a sitting position, and he blinks at his surroundings. “Did I fall asleep?”

Topher maintains eye contact. “For a little while.”

Claire unfastens one of the restraints, then another. “Victor, hold out your hands, please?” He does as she asks, and she inspects his wrists, gently pressing and flexing. “Do they hurt?”

“They feel fine, Dr. Saunders.”

Topher chuckles. “Wouldn’t be the first bed you got handcuffed…” Claire shoots him one of her most poisonous glances, and he stops abruptly.

Victor frowns. “What does he mean?”

“Nothing that you need to worry about,” Claire assures him. His wrists still bear red marks from where he struggled against the restraints… except that he didn’t, of course. It was Laurence Dominic who struggled; it was Dominic’s rage, and disdain, and desperation that the rest of them saw and heard. Victor was just the container, and Claire watched all of those emotions fade from his face as their technology did its job. Now, he’s smiling placidly, oblivious to how much everybody in this room but he understands.

Whenever Claire starts to wonder how she would feel in that situation, she always turns away and finds more work to do, so that she doesn’t have to consider it for more than a few moments.