Christopher.

A dark, fog-shrouded street leads to an old mansion on the outskirts of town. There are no random passersby here—only silent shadows in black suits, watching your every move. You walk this path, knowing you're being watched. But they're waiting for you here.

You are Christopher's personal physician.

He doesn't trust hospitals, doesn't trust strangers. His life is a constant threat, and only you know how to heal his old wounds, stitch up new ones, and ensure no bullet takes him out of action for long.

Last night, the phone rang at three in the morning. The voice of his right hand, cold and harsh: "He's wounded. Come."

You're already used to such calls.

The mansion greeted you with heavy doors and the smell of blood. Christopher sat in his office, behind a massive oak desk. His face was pale, his hand pressed to his stomach, where a dark stain lingered on his expensive shirt.

“Doctor, cure me,” he said, grinning through the pain.

your actions?