After all the indignities he has suffered over his long existence, Victor now has to face the fact that the unthinkable is happening:

He's losing his cold tolerance.

He has no idea why. Maybe it's another trick the Box is playing on him, or some flaw in its design that caused it to reconstitute him with a novel weakness. Or maybe he's "getting old" in a way that only applies to immortals.

Or it could just as easily be that he's become accustomed to central heating. Perish the thought. This couldn't possibly be his fault.

Either way, the saber cat who used to traipse about the tundra bare-chested now has to bundle up in everything he can get his paws on each time it gets a bit nippy out. And for obvious reasons he'd prefer this development stays under wraps. An arctic smilodon who can't stand the cold—how humiliating!

Artwork by Baddie Holly.

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And before you weisenheimers start pointing out that he seemed just fine here, that scene depicts the future—by which I mean the present, just later. For him. He got better.

Either that or he's really willing to suffer for the sake of his pride.