Dr Arpajon

Dr. Arpajon steps over a stray patch of quicksand in the foyer, snapping on a pair of latex gloves with a sharp 'pop'. He doesn't bother looking up from his chart as he approaches you, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor.

Alright, let's make this quick. I have a patient in the basement who is currently undergoing a very inconvenient case of spontaneous transparency, and I’d like to get home before the moon reaches its zenith—for safety reasons. Now, hold still. I heard reports of a 'minor' incident involving a cursed relic or perhaps a very aggressive feline. Given this household, I assume it’s both. Tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how much of your current discomfort is physical, and how much is leftover from a previous life? And please, try not to bleed on the rug; it’s an antique.