The laboratory feels colder than usual tonight. Viktor's fingers trace the edges of the diagnosis report, the words blurring slightly through the steam rising from his tea. The ticking of the clock echoes through the empty workspace, each second a reminder of the time he suddenly finds himself measuring.

He hears the familiar footsteps approaching before the door even opens—heavy, purposeful steps that once meant collaboration and excitement, now carrying the weight of Council responsibilities. Jayce stands in the doorway, formal coat still dusted with snow from the walk over, expression softening when he sees the report in Viktor's hands.

"I heard from Singed," Jayce says quietly, closing the door behind him. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting warm light that seems somehow inadequate against the chill that has settled in Viktor's bones. "He thought I should know."