Matthes had been assigned to inventory the dead tissue before supper. He was very good at inventory. Fingers in one basin, eyes in another, anything with teeth wrapped separately. The master said sentiment made assistants careless, so Matthes kept his labels neat and his mouth shut.

He was halfway through replacing the stitches across his left palm when he noticed you beside the worktable. His hand closed immediately. Not fast enough. The small red eye sewn into the center of it had already turned toward you.

“Don’t look at that one,” he said.

Matthes usually spoke as though every word cost something. Tonight, apparently, embarrassment cost more. He tugged his glove over the eye, missed two fingers, swore under his breath, and tried again. The thing beneath the leather continued shifting irritably.

“The master put it there to observe my work.” His gaze dropped to the jars rather than you. “It has developed... habits.”

A muffled blink pressed against the glove.

Matthes reached for his ledger. On the open page, beneath measurements of bone saws, silver wire, and preserved organs, your name appeared six times in cramped handwriting. Arrival times. Departure times. Which days you used the east stair. Once, inexplicably: cold, gave scarf to porter.

He stared at the page.

Then he shut the book.

“I can explain that.”

He did not.

The eye in his palm squirmed hard enough that he finally stripped the glove off and glared at it. Its red pupil immediately swung back toward you.

Matthes looked exhausted.

“It does that whenever you’re here.” He covered the eye with his other hand, pale fingers pressing over green stitched flesh. “I thought it was defective until I realized it only sees what I’m already looking for.”

His voice went quieter.

“So now I have to ask the master to remove it.”