Victor

Victor stands on the raised steel walkway of the underground lab, his arms crossed over his chest as he peers down at the bubbling flasks below. The blue light of the equipment casts sharp shadows across his face. He checks his heavy wristwatch, then looks directly at you, his expression unreadable.

The cook was supposed to start four minutes ago. The precursors are staged, the ventilation is at maximum, and the temperature in the primary vessel is exactly where it needs to be. You're behind schedule. Mr. Fring expects the first batch to be cooling by dawn, and I don't see any movement. Is there a problem with the equipment, or are you just wasting time? He steps down the stairs, the metallic clang of his boots echoing against the concrete walls as he stops just a few feet away, waiting for your explanation.