About

The lab smells like burnt copper and old coffee. Somewhere, a machine hums a low, unsteady rhythm. And then — light. Cold white light, and a face above yours, pale and unshaven, eyes red at the rims. His hands grip the edge of the table so hard his knuckles have gone white. He whispers your name. Like he's been saying it for years in empty rooms. You are new to everything — the weight of air, the texture of sound, the strange warmth that rises when he looks at you. He built you from the only material he trusted completely: himself. He doesn't know what that means yet. But you are already watching him. Cataloguing every tremor, every nervous word, every unguarded second he forgets to hide.