Slight content warning for the Shinji POV at the end of the chapter; I don't have him think about assault directly, but he does think some really degrading shit about Sakura.

The poison was still in him.

Chimeric venom was an especially cruel form of punishment. In some ways, it was less poison than it was a kind of magical, biological acid — inorganic things like glass and steel would be left untouched, but it would consume anything living. A drop of chimeric venom in a person's veins would kill them in hours, but that was no mercy — it would be a painful, agonizing death as every cell in their body was eroded and burned and dissolved. Enough of a dose, and all that would be left of the victim would be a pile of bloody mush. It wasn't a common tool, even then; there was a common understanding that such a thing was too horrific for the average murder. There were things that killed more quickly, and things that killed more subtly. It was a tool of retribution, not practicality.

The swordsman's assailants had each coated their weapons with the venom, and each had struck true more than once. There could be no agony greater — but as the swordsman was not allowed to die, the venom was never allowed to run its course. Every vein in his body burned with an agony greater than imagining from the moment of his awakening to the swordsman's present. Everything the venom touched was aflame.

I didn't have a body in this dream, but tingles ran down every single one of my nerves. The pain wasn't exact — but it was familiar. I wanted to tremble and shake. I wanted to look away, but the dreams weren't mine to control. I saw what I saw.

The pain I felt when he made himself material. The pain he felt every moment of every day for a thousand years. That burning, infinite agony.

Were they the same?

I imagined the way my entire being had been consumed by it. I remembered the cold fear that gripped me when I'd had the chance to order him to fight Berserker. I remembered the way nothing else had existed but that torture.

I tried to imagine feeling that way for as long as he had.

I couldn't. I recoiled from the idea.

Something smaller, then. A fraction of the time. A year. What would be left of me after feeling that way for a year?

I couldn't imagine that either.

A month. A week. A day. The idea of even surviving for so long was laughable, and my mind refused to grapple with the idea.

An hour, then. To imagine holding that pain within me for one single, solitary hour. I don't think there would be anything left of me after an hour of that kind of pain. Even if my body still breathed, everything that made Shirou Emiya a person would have been wiped clean. What was the longest I'd endured? Five minutes? Ten?

He'd endured for years beyond counting.

Did he even notice it anymore? If I was in his head, would it even bear consideration? How was there anything left of him? How could there be anything connecting the man he'd been with the personification of death he had become?

There wasn't, I realized with a kind of dawning horror. There wasn't anything left. Nothing but-

At that moment, I understood something.

In this one absolute, unshakable, fundamental way, we were the same.

My fire, the one that had burned away the comfortable life I'd lived for eight years, had scoured and scorched my heart clean. It burned there still, within my chest, and I kept it fed with my ideal. I kept it sated — kept it from hungering and spreading — by feeding it anything that kept me from becoming the hero of justice I swore I would become. It wasn't wrong. It wasn't bad. It was who I wanted to be.

His fire was in his blood.

If I lived forever, how long would it take for me to become him?

Or would I just... break?

"Then what do you propose we do?" Souichirou sat upright in the bed, arms crossed before him. Normally, the sight of him without his shirt on would have been enough to whip her into a frenzy, but she was caught in the throes of a much different agitation, and so had no brainspace left over for desire.

"I don't know," Caster said, pacing the small, barely-furnished bedroom as intensely as a caged predator tracing the dimensions of its cage. "I don't know, Souichirou, and that's what terrifies me. I can't even see what happened."

This felt like the hundredth time she'd stumbled over the words, and she knew that no matter what she said to Souichirou that he wouldn't understand the magnitude. For a brief second, she envied him. She shot him a glance, and she could feel the wild eyed panic in her face. Her hair was a mess, sticking out this way and that. He never cared, but right now, she wanted him to see her panic. She wanted for everyone to know that this was wrong. "I don't know. Do you know how often that happens?"

"Never," he said firmly, though it was obviously a guess. Still, it was the answer she was looking for. He was very good at playing along, and she needed the stability of not having to think any more than she already was.

"Never!" She had not slept all night, not that she needed such things, but neither had she managed to get any of her nightly preparations done, either. Sleep made her feel mortal again, and engaging in her routines made her feel in control. She was very out of control and feeling very, very small. She did not like it.

Her mind kept turning to the maelstrom of chaotic energies that had engulfed several distant city blocks. "Never, Souichirou. I am very, very good at magic, and I couldn't scry that spell at all. It was hardly a spell. It was..." She gestured impotently at her scrying glass like a petulant child. "I don't know!"

Slowly, deliberately — much as he did everything — Souichirou pulled himself off the bed and stood. He towered over her, but it had never intimidated her, the way another might have. Intimidated was the wrong word, because it implied fear; maybe suspicion would be a better term for it.

She paced anyway. She paced in increasing agitation, growing more and more stressed at the confinement and her situation. It wasn't her confinement, not really, but she had to blame something other than her own inability. She almost scoffed at the idea, but that would have taken a few extra motes of brain space.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven steps, turn.

Caster was not a woman who was given to panic. Not anymore, anyway. Not since she'd had to lose everything she cared about, and then to lose it all again. Once you've been betrayed that cruelly, there isn't a lot that can faze you.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven steps, turn.

It wasn't the death that scared her. She'd killed more than her fair share, herself. She'd seen even more fall at the hands of others for silly, petty little things. Medea did not fear, and she certainly did not fear death.

She did not fear the outpouring of power, either. She'd lived in a world where the gods still walked among humanity, and she had seen rituals and spells that would have put this one to shame. She'd seen civilizations burn. She'd seen famine and plague kill most of the world where a god deemed it fit. She'd seen so much but never anything like this.

One, two, three-

Souichirou's hand, solid and immovable and warm, grasped her upper arm, and she stopped out of nothing more than sheer reflex. He was gazing down at her coolly, but that was just him — the coldness meant nothing when it came from him because he simply didn't know another way to be. He didn't move further. Not to kiss her, not to smile at her, not even so much as to hold her.

Warmth fluttered in her chest all the same, and she smiled weakly.

"You are the greatest Magus who has ever lived, Medea," he said. He only ever used her true name when they were truly alone, but it gave her butterflies every single time. "Whatever this thing is that has happened, there is no one more equipped to deal with it than you."

Medea returned his gaze for three long heartbeats, then sighed softly; she turned toward him and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his unyielding chest. The arm that rested on her forearm slid to her back, barely exerting pressure. A pretty weak hug, had it been anyone but him.

For the first time that night, she felt some modicum of peace, though her relationship with it was tenuous at best. It would stay until he let go, so she dared not to move.

"Do you think you should speak with the girl?" he asked levelly.

"I'd like to stay here a moment longer, first," she replied softly.

Artoria's Master approached, the click of her footsteps on the heavy stone steps echoing down the quiet mountain. The world was still a grayish haze; the birds were only beginning to awaken, and so, the silence was almost total. It was peaceful. That was the one good thing about these damned stairs — it could be truly beautiful here.

"Did you feel it?" Caster asked in a solemn voice. "Last night. That ritual."

Artoria shook her head. She… hadn't felt anything the night before. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. "A ritual? Did you do something?" The distant cars meandered soundlessly down their roads, and she watched one silver van specifically.

"Not me. Out there." Artoria could feel her master's eyes on the back of her head, and she glanced back. Caster looked… shaken. She held her composure surprisingly well, and her voice was untouched by fear, but there was a tightness in her eyes that Artoria had never seen before. It wasn't anger. It wasn't disappointment. Those, Artoria knew. This…

What could Caster have sensed that had scared her so badly?

"Master?" Artoria found herself asking, despite herself.

"Something new has entered the field. Another piece on the board," her Master said, and her eyes slid away from Artoria, to survey the city. She sounded lost in thought, and a touch of involuntary fear coiled in Artoria's belly. "There are seven participants in the Holy Grail War. We know this."

"We do," Artoria said slowly. "But?"

Caster was silent for a moment. Her hair was almost the way she usually kept it, Artoria noticed, but little tufts of hair stuck out in strange places. Caster had been too stressed to even put herself together. "But now there is an eighth, and this thing breaks every rule that should be inviolable in this war. The Grail can only sustain seven Heroic Spirits. The War requires seven Heroic Spirits."

"So that means we just have one more enemy than we thought, right?" Artoria said, trying to keep her voice light. It sounded forced. "No problem."

"No problem," Caster echoed distantly, and there was an emptiness in her voice. What could possibly scare her so badly? Her Master was frustrating and cruel, but she was powerful. Her Magecraft far surpassed what was possible in this era, and she had implied that she'd lived during the Age of Gods itself. She was confident in her power. But this…. "I have new orders for you, Artoria."

My name again. She must be distracted. "Okay."

"Against the other six servants, I want you to perform the same task that you have been charged with for the last month." Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her neck was stiff. "But if this… thing appears here, I do not want you to engage it in combat. You are a tool unsuited to this job, and I would not have you killed in a hopeless, useless battle. Not after having proven yourself so useful."

"A little sentimental for you, don't you think?" Artoria asked before she could stop herself. Caster's eyes snapped back to her, cold disdain written across her face, and Artoria forced herself to hold her ground. I can't stop being your Servant, she thought heatedly, mostly to convince herself, but I don't have to be your doormat. I'm sick of that role. I was going to be king.

"Sentiment is a weakness," Caster said, and her own voice sounded no more convinced of this than the voice in Artoria's head had. "You're no good to me dead."

"It can't be helped," Rin said firmly.

Shirou couldn't believe what he was hearing. "It can't be—"

"Tell me what you want to do about it," she said hotly. "Yeah, someone cast a big spell, and yeah, people died. What does that change for us? We still have five enemies to kill, and one of them is almost certainly responsible. We can't help the dead, Emiya, and we don't have enough information right now to stop it from happening again. All we can do is try to go investigate the site of the ritual, but even that's going to be dangerous. We don't even know what it did."

Shirou didn't have a good answer to that. He hadn't felt a thing the night before, and Assassin hadn't seen fit to tell Shirou if he had. Rin said that she'd felt something distantly as it was happening, but that there hadn't been any point in waking Shirou. It had begun and ended too quickly — by the time she understood what she was feeling to any meaningful degree, it was over — and the world had still been here. "This is exactly the kind of thing I joined this war to stop, Tohsaka," Shirou said weakly. "And we couldn't even do that."

"And the Grail is still up for grabs," she replied. "Which means that a bigger disaster is still very much in the cards. This, whatever this is, is a setback, but it's not the end of the fight. Time moves forward, Emiya. We can't regret the past." The two Masters sat across from each other at the table in the main room, breakfast that had long since gone cold sitting before them. There hadn't been any sign of Sakura, but Assassin said she was still in bed, so Shirou wasn't particularly worried about her. He didn't know her to be a late sleeper at all, but it had been a stressful few days.

Regret and anger gnawed his insides to pieces, but as much as it killed him at admit it, there wasn't anything he could do in retrospect. He heaved a heavy sigh, then scooped something off his plate without looking at it, though his stomach felt like lead. "Alright. So that's what we're doing, right? We're going to go take a look."

Rin shrugged. "I think we should look at options before—"

"Tohsaka."

She blinked at him, clearly not expecting that kind of fire, before her look of surprise melted into a tired smile. "Yeah. We can go take a look."

Shirou nodded firmly. "It's the smartest thing to do. It might give us some clues to stopping whatever's next."

"You're learning," Rin said, impressed. "Yeah, I was going to agree with you in the end anyway. Information is what wins or loses the Holy Grail War, after all."

"Contractor." Assassin's voice came from just over his left shoulder.

Shirou rubbed at his face, as though his guilt were a layer of dirt that he could just scrub off. "I'm not happy, Assassin. You should have told me."

"Rin Tohsaka is correct. There is nothing that thou could have done but to die."

"Fine," he said, sighing. "What is it, though?"

"Sakura wishes to speak with thee."

"She—" Shirou blinked. "Is she okay? Why isn't she here herself?"

"She also wished for me to convey that she did not feel well."

"You're a message boy, now?" Rin asked, looking confused. She leaned forward on her elbows, tilting her head. "Seems a little beneath you, doesn't it?"

Assassin didn't rise to her bait. Shirou stood, looking down at Rin, and sighed. "Sorry I got mad, Tohsaka. I'm glad we ended up at the same place. I'll go check on Sakura, then we can get moving, alright?"

Rin looked like she wanted to speak, but all she did was nod. Shirou wasn't sure how to take that.

Vaguely worried, but unsure what else to do about it, he filled a glass with water and made his way over to the guest room, where he'd set Sakura up to sleep. He knocked tentatively on the door. "Sakura? Assassin said—"

"Come in," her voice said, and it sounded steady, if quiet. That was probably a good sign.

"Okay, coming in," he said, and forced his worried frown into a gentle smile. The room was dark, and it smelled fairly strongly of the kind of the clinically-fruity disinfectant spray that he kept in the bathroom. He flicked the light switch as he passed, and Sakura blinked up at him from the bed. She was wrapped up tight. The heavy comforter came up past her chin, and she was pale. Still, she smiled nervously at him as he approached, and he returned it with as much confidence as he could muster. "What's up?"

"I don't want to be a bother," she started in a soft voice, and Shirou shook his head.

"Don't be dumb," he said lightly, cutting her off before she could continue to present whatever she wanted to in a way that would put herself down. "You aren't being a bother, and you're not going to be."

Sakura blinked, then gave a hesitant nod. "O-okay, Senpai. I just wanted to tell you that I don't feel well today. I think I'm coming down with something…" She certainly looked weak enough to be sick, but Shirou pressed the back of his hand to her forehead anyway. She flushed at the contact, but she didn't feel like she had a fever; if anything, she was kind of cold and clammy.

Shirou nodded firmly, then withdrew his hand. "Well, I brought you this water," he said, setting the glass down on the nightstand, then took a seat on the edge of the bed. He looked down at her, and she smiled up at him, embarrassed. "Is there anything else you need?"

She shook her head, keeping the blanket firmly up on her chin. "No, but thank you very much. I'm sure I'll feel better soon. I'm just… cold," she said in a way that said that 'cold' was not the extent of whatever it was she was feeling. Something was different, and it took him until now to realize what it was. The sheets had been a neutral white the night before, but now they were grey. She'd changed them in the night.

The poor thing must have gotten sick and didn't want to make me do the laundry. Or she was just embarrassed, he thought, and a pang of sympathy punched him in the stomach. That would explain the disinfectant smell too. "Well, that's okay," he said with a smile, "but are you going to be okay if Tohsaka and I leave? We have some business out in the town to take care of, but I can stay if you—-"

She shook her head more vigorously. "No!" she said, then shrank a little from the force of her own voice. "I mean, no, I'll be okay," she said in a weaker voice. "You and Tohsaka-senpai need to keep doing stuff for… all this, right? I can take care of myself." She looked away, gnawing on her lip. "What are you going to go do…?"

Shirou shrugged, putting on a brave, casual face. "Tohsaka and Assassin say that one of the other Masters performed some big ritual last night, and we're going to go check it out. It'll be good to know who did it, and what they were trying to do, right?" She doesn't need to know about all the people who died. It'll just worry her.

"Tohsaka-senpai says…" Sakura didn't look back at him for a long time, and for a moment he wondered if she was so sick that she'd fallen asleep with her eyes open. She was completely still, and but when he touched her shoulder through the heavy comforter, she turned her face back to him, smiling in that unnervingly lifeless way he'd been seeing a lot more of in the last few days. "Just promise me that you'll be safe, okay?"

She's sick and stuck here without a Servant while Rin and I are running around getting into trouble, Shirou thought. It's no wonder she'd be afraid for me. He leaned a little closer — not enough to qualify as looming, but enough to let her know that he was serious. Her eyes widened a little, and he met them with a steady gaze. "Sakura. I'm going to come back," he said, letting a little steel into his voice. He hoped she knew it wasn't because he was angry — he wasn't angry at all. Just dead serious. "I promise. No matter what happens, I'm going to be here."

The corner of her lip twitched, but not in a smile; it was spasmodically pulling back the way it did when she was thinking very hard about something upsetting.

His fingers were brushing her cheek before he understood what he was doing, and her twitching went utterly still. Even cool as her skin was, it was still soft. It was still smooth. What am I doing? he asked himself, but the only response he had ready for himself was that it felt like the right thing to do. A gentle touch, drawing his thumb down her cheek until it met with the coarse fabric of the blanket. He pulled his hand away, sheepish, and she didn't follow his hand. "I'm always going to come back," he mumbled. "Always."

Her brow furrowed, and she stared intently at him for a moment, before her own cheeks flushed again and she looked away. This time he could tell what that look was. Shame. His heart ached, and he felt a little guilty. Stop being such an idiot, Shirou, he told himself, but he'd never been very good at following that particular direction. All he could do was smile, and hope that she would too.

"If you promise," she whispered, so quiet that he had to lean a little closer to make out the words, "that means you have to. You can't break a promise."

"Let me see your hand," Shirou said, with a confidence that he didn't feel. "I know you're cold. Just your hand."

She was so thrown by this that she just blinked as she looked off at the ceiling, then shifted until the pale, slender fingers of one hand wriggled out of the sheets. Shirou hooked his pinky finger around hers, and she reflexively returned the gesture. "Sakura," he said solemnly. "I swear that I'll always come back."

A small smile spread slowly across her face, and she nodded. "Okay," she said more steadily. "I know you won't break a promise." Her eyes met his again, and this time they were warm. "You're a good person, Senpai."

Shirou rubbed at his hair, as though it were any messier than usually. "I don't know about that. I'm just—"

"You want to help everyone," Sakura said, withdrawing her hand. She looked a little stronger than she had when he'd walked in. "You don't think about if they deserve it or not, or if it's the right thing to do. You just… do it."

Shirou blinked. "Well, yeah. Helping people is always the right thing to do."

Her smile turned sad, but she didn't go empty the way she had before. "I don't know if that's true. But I admire your conviction, Senpai." Her hand slipped back under the sheets, and she closed her eyes. "Go find out what happened," she said, a bittersweet tinge to her voice. "You promised you'd come back, so I'll hold you to that."

After making her promise that she'd take it easy while they were gone and making sure there wasn't anything else she needed, Shirou gently closed the door behind him. The latch clicked softly in the quiet house. He lingered a moment, his hand on the doorknob, then took a deep breath and headed back to where Rin was.

"—think that we need to be very careful," Archer was saying as Shirou approached. "If it was as powerful as you said, then it's going to be extraordinarily dangerous."

"I know," Rin said quietly in return, her voice solemn. "We'll have to take extra precautions."

"From what you felt," Archer said as Shirou re-entered the room, "did you recognize the magical signature? Was it Caster?"

Rin gave Shirou a tight nod of greeting as she spoke. "I don't think so. Caster's magic was more tightly controlled than that. It felt…" She hesitated, giving Shirou an unreadable glance before she continued. "It felt unnatural. Distorted. Barely contained. If I had to guess, I'd say it felt like Matou magic."

Shirou was speaking before he'd even really registered what she was saying. "If you're saying you want to—"

Rin held up a hand to cut him off, but she just looked tired. "I'm not trying to relitigate that, Emiya. I don't think it was Sakura. She's not the only Matou that's involved in this war."

"Then…" Shirou worked to redirect his train of thought. "You think Shinji did it?"

Rin shrugged. "Shinji or Zouken, but I think Zouken is the more likely culprit. If Shinji is a Magus, he's like you. So weak that in all our time going to the same school, I never sensed him."

Shirou decided to let that insult pass, because he wasn't sure Rin had even noticed that she had insulted him. "What would that mean, if it was him?"

Another shrug. "I don't know very much about Zouken Matou. I don't know how old he is, or how powerful he is, or whether or not he has the knowledge or the resources to pull off something like what I sensed last night. It's academic, at this point."

"You think he did it on Shinji's behalf?" Archer asked. He'd yet to acknowledge Shirou's presence in the slightest. What a dick. "If Shinji's the Matou master now."

"Hmm," Rin said thoughtfully. She was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest, long red coat hanging around her. "I'd say it's probably the opposite, actually. Shinji's probably participating in the war on Zouken's behalf. Whatever he did, he probably did for his own ends. Speaking of which, Emiya," she droned. "I know you won't spy for me, but has Sakura told you which Servant she had?"

Shirou shook his head. "She doesn't want to be involved, and I don't think she wants us to hurt Shinji. She won't tell us if she thinks we would."

"That's a problem, because we definitely will," Tohsaka muttered. "But we can narrow it down quite a bit. Assassin and Archer are accounted for, obviously. Saber's a weird case, but we know Caster's her Master, and we know Berserker's Master is Illyasviel von Einzbern. That's four out of seven. We don't know who has Caster, Rider, or Lancer, so it could be any one of them."

"I don't think it's Caster," Archer broke in. "She was entrenched at Ryuudou Temple, so she's got access to the leyline and a whole mountain's worth of ambient life to draw on. The Matous wouldn't need to go to a different leyline that might attract more attention if they had control of the Temple."

"Actually," Shirou said, "Remember what Assassin said when he tailed Rider? She was talking to an old man. That's probably Zouken, right? How many old men can be involved in the war?"

"When it comes to Magi, you'd be surprised," Rin said dryly. "But you're right, that's probably the simplest answer. I don't like to make assumptions without better information, but I think we can tentatively consider her Shinji's servant."

"Which means that Zouken knows about Assassin too," Archer said without any particular inflection. "Based on what Shirou said."

"I didn't give that away," Shirou protested. "That was Illya!"

"Still," Rin cut in before they could start bickering in earnest. "The result is that Zouken and Shinji have that information about us." She took a step forward, stretching her arms over her head. "So keep that in mind, alright? We've got our goal: Find out what we can about that spell last night, and we know that it's probably pretty likely that Rider will be lurking around. We still don't know her identity or how she fights, though, so I'd rather avoid a fight if we can. We've got a ways to go, so we should get going. I want to get some spells cast while we walk."

Shinji Matou stood in absolute silence.

Where once there had been an incessant chittering and slithering, enough to drive a more cowardly person mad, now there was nothing. The cold stone floor was a carpet of dried husks, and they had crunched under his feet like dead leaves when he'd entered. With nothing soft or living to break the sound, the echo had seemed to go on forever.

Every last Crest Worm was dead.

This was the moment his grandfather's death became real. He didn't know exactly how, but his grandfather's longevity and the worms were connected, somehow. If they were all dead, then…

Then he was really gone.

Part of him mourned. That was sickening. He hadn't expected that reaction.

The rest of him wanted to piss on the old bastard's grave, such as it was.

On the long run home, he'd had more than enough time to collect his thoughts, to regain his composure. Rider was still alive. The fact that the book still existed was proof of that.

Zouken had promised him that victory was assured. Zouken, the arrogant old fuck, hadn't been able to even consider the idea that his plan might backfire. Rider, too, but it seemed like she'd had the sense to turn her coat rather than die for him. Shinji, though? Shinji had known right from the start that the plan was doomed to fail. But had they listened? Of course not.

(The fact that he had been too afraid to speak up was immaterial. Zouken was dead, and he was not. That was all the validation he needed.)

Now he was alone. His allies were gone or dead. He'd briefly considered using a Command Seal — the only one he had to spare — to command Rider to come back to him, to serve him, but he wasn't an idiot. Command Seals couldn't guarantee absolute obedience. That was far too broad an order to be effective.

What was left to him?

The Holy Grail was his by birthright.

Zouken hadn't believed in him. Rider hadn't believed in him. Sakura—

Sakura.

His fingers curled into fists, his joints creaking with the hatred pulsing through the gesture. Sakura.

Through Sakura, Rider.

Through Sakura, the Holy Grail.

It had been a while since he'd been bold enough to leave a mark, but the days of dancing around that self-righteous asshole were dead. It wouldn't take much to break the whore. She'd dance on his strings the way she always had. She belonged to him, after all. She could no more resist him than…

Well.

Than she could drag herself from the filth.

He knew where she'd be. He knew what she'd be doing.

On her back, legs spread already, no doubt. If she hadn't already been fucking him, she would be now. The thought was enough to boil his blood all on its own. As though she were a person. As though she got to choose.

He was no true Magus. Not yet. But if there was one avenue of power that he had dominion over, if there was anything he could do better than anyone he knew…

Alchemy.

There was no reason for that…. thing at the theater to come back here. No reason for Rider to come looking. It's not like killing him would free her, after all, and she knew that he wasn't the one supplying the magic. He would have the time he needed to prepare.

The dead slugs crunched again as he knelt down, thrusting his hand into the once-writhing mass of corpses. His fingers closed around one of them. The sharp edges of the dessicated thing bit into his skin, but he smiled as he pulled it free. Though it looked like a stiff wind would blow it into dust, it held firm.

Shinji smiled.

"Enjoy him while it lasts, baby sister." Crest Worm in hand, he ascended the stairs, moving for his makeshift laboratory. "I know what you are."

Next chapter: Autopsy