Her ever predictable Achilles'. He knows it's coming the instant before it happens, the whipcrack sharpness of that immediate, powerful motion that rams him into the wall with an earsplitting break.

Tim twists on the spot. The doctor, clearly unprepared for that abrupt show of violence after so much placid cooperation, is wholly taken aback when he snaps his hands around his throat and squeezes. The struggles leave a battering of bruises across his sides and a shiner just below his cheekbone - death throes or the final moments consciousness before everything goes dark, he can't exactly say.

(This is what he's made himself into.)

The doctor goes down after mere moments, silent but for the choking gurgle. There are no orderlies, but Tim has to check with a cautious sweep of both sides of the halls before seizing the doctor beneath the armpits and dragging him across the sweep of tile to the nearest closet, cramming him hastily within.

After a moment's consideration, he snags the keycard from the doctor's pockets, shivering at the ghosting sensation of rooting through a hooded man's pockets.

It'd be pretty damn stupid to go running around the halls screaming George's name, but he doesn't have a lot of choice here. What he does have is access to a supply of scalpels.

It's better than nothing.

He crams two into his pockets and clenches bruised knuckles around the third and sets off, darting frequent glances over his shoulder.