Black HeBee

imagine the old and shabby town you were living in was replaced by something greater. a city you’ve only seen in still shots, a city you’ve gotten accustomed to through background sketches…

in your favourite otome game, love and deepspace.

“no fucking way.”

imagine you spent the first hour just looking around the apartment, then the rest of the evening was given to the city skyline, watching the ginormous buildings, the futuristic architecture, the holographic billboards for brands you’ve never heard before.

imagine you pieced it together slowly, restoring the life you’ve been given with the help of your phone. you were transported into love and deepspace, but not as emcee; there was no glowing evol, no sign of a hunter career, no trace of the five love interests.

you were just… you. an extra. a background npc with a forgettable face, working as a barista at destiny café.

and that was perfect.

you did not wish to get entangled with the love interests, and you definitely wanted to stay away from emcee — their world was too dangerous, too unpredictable. and no matter how much you knew about the game, how many hours you’ve spent collecting memories and reading the lore of the characters, you couldn’t shape your future steps with certainty.

so you made a quiet pact with yourself: you would not interfere with anyone. you would only play your part, watching the main characters from afar.

that in itself was enough — seeing them all interact, seeing them all be happy.

imagine you saw her for the first time exactly the next day. emcee entered the café with tara sometime during the day, and you tried your best to act natural as you took their orders with shaky hands.

then, gradually, you saw them all.

you observed rafayel and emcee taking a walk along the shore, the sound of the waves chiming in tune with their giggles. you watched zayne pause mid-step to tuck a strand of hair behind emcee’s ear near the hospital area. you saw xavier fall asleep against her shoulder on a park bench, his face soft and content. you even caught a glimpse of sylus’s unmistakable silhouette in a secluded alley, helmet visor raised, and even caleb’s boyish grin as he ruffled emcee’s hair outside a convenience store.

you never spoke to any of them. you didn’t need to. just seeing it all was enough for you.

you were their watchful eye.

but imagine something was off.

imagine you started to notice the scribbles that were woven into the buildings around town, curious graffiti drawings taking over otherwise blank surfaces.

at first, it seemed like random vandalism — sloppy spirals, nonsense symbols, an array of colours that made people stop only for a second. but then… it became strange.

letters and words bloomed on the outer walls, graffiti now taking more eloquent forms.

that was the problem. that was what made you stop dead in your tracks, skin covered in prickling goosebumps.

you saw a word in your native language.

“HELLO.”

you stood frozen, pulse stuttering. people were already scrubbing at it, muttering on and on about vandals, but you just stood there, trying to make sense of the graffiti.

imagine you moved on with your routine, but the messages followed along.

a scribble on the side panel of the garbage chute: “KNOW.” a flash of green paint on a train station pillar: “UNDERSTAND.” an elegant curvature on your favourite convenience store: “SEE”.

each one in your mother tongue, each one making you more and more paranoid.

you told yourself it was a prank, a coincidence, a glitch in your own panicked mind.

it couldn’t be anything else, really.

imagine the messages escalated beyond singular words, becoming phrases that clawed directly into that anxious brain of yours. a week after the first “HELLO”, you saw it on the side of a delivery truck waiting at a red light:

“YOU UNDERSTAND.”

your blood went cold, starting in your thumping chest and creeping down to your fingertips. you stumbled back from the crosswalk, clutching your bag like a shield, terrified by the perfect syntax.

it wasn't the language that scared you; it was the wording. whoever was doing this knew things they absolutely should not know.

they knew you were not from this world, they knew you were an outsider that had no business being here.

imagine you started taking different routes to destiny café, weaving through back alleys and less crowded areas, your head perpetually low.

the city, once a breathtaking panorama of your favorite fictional world, now felt like a cage lined with watchful eyes. the holographic billboards that had once charmed you now seemed to flicker ominously.

you avoided looking at reflective surfaces — shop windows, polished cars, the dark screen of your phone. you were terrified of seeing someone standing right behind you, someone that shouldn’t know you were in linkon city.

imagine the paranoia began to manifest physically. you were sleeping less, picking at your food, flinching at sudden noises. the cheerful chime of the café door sounded like a warning bell.

heck, the friendly chatter of customers felt like a coded message, and you somehow convinced yourself everyone was discussing you.

you were slowly losing your mind.

and imagine you saw emcee that day. she walked up to the counter with her familiar smile, ordering her usual, overly complicated coffee concoction. you focused on her, trying your best to loosen up. make small talk. act normal.

you are a barista. she is a customer. this is a transaction.

nothing bad was going to happen.

she is emcee. she is safe. and so are you.

“rough day?” she asked when she returned at the pick-up station, tilting her head, scanning your face with genuine worry.

you managed a weak laugh, wishing to conceal your uneasiness, hands pushing forward the iced cup of coffee. “just tired. here’s your drink.” you muttered back, holding up her mug for her to take.

but imagine you were wrong.

imagine something bad did happen.

as you looked at emcee, you saw it: the entire wall of the building directly across the street was no longer the muted gray you remembered. it had been transformed overnight into a single, massive mural, clearly visible through the huge window of the café.

it wasn't art.

it was a sentence, painted in dripping, blood-red letters, so large you could read them from behind the counter, from the depths of your own impending doom.

the letters were in your mother tongue.

 “I’M WATCHING YOU.”

followed by your actual name.

the coffee cup slipped from your grasp.

the ceramic shattered against the tile floor with a powerful crack, sending a hefty quantity of iced coffee on your apron and the lower half of the counter. the sound was deafening in the cheerful bustle of the café, putting everything on pause.

every conversation halted. every head turned. emcee flinched, her smile dissolving into confusion.

all eyes were on you.

imagine the sudden weight of all those eyes, all focused on you. the words from the graffiti echoed louder and louder in your skull, syncing with each panicked beat of your heart.

watching. they were all watching.

your coworkers, the customers, the old woman by the window, the child tugging at her mother's sleeve. emcee, her hand halfway to her mouth, her brow furrowed in concern.

were they in on it? were they aware you were fake? an outsider?

the walls felt like they were closing in, the cheerful café lighting suddenly harsh and interrogatory. the message wasn't just on the building anymore; it was in the glint of every eye pinned on your trembling form.

i’m watching you. i’m watching you. i’m watching yo–

imagine emcee took a step towards you, her expression shifting into concern. “hey, are you okay? you look really pale–”

you didn't hear the rest of her sentence. you couldn't breathe. you couldn't think. your mind was screaming at you to get away.

get away. they can see you. they know you.

you shoved through the swinging staff door, not stopping until you reached the back door leading outside. you collapsed against the closest wall, sliding down next to the stuffed garbage bins and curling into yourself, pushing your face between your knees and letting it all out.

imagine the sobs came in gasping, ugly cries that you muffled with your stained apron, fear shaking through you.

you were not safe. your decision to keep your distance, your role as a background extra — it was all an illusion.

someone had been tracking you, studying you, learning your secrets.

you were not an observer anymore. you were the observed. you were a target in a story you thought only you watched from outside, but you were proven wrong.

he knows of your existence, but you didn’t know of his.

“bring her to me. quietly.”

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

on the other side: a deep, yawning void of defeat, and a promise so sweet it made the void seem like a sanctuary.

peace. and love.

real love.

you were so tired. tired of fighting for a place in a story that kept rejecting you. tired of the constant ache of being second-best, of being the afterthought, the distraction. tired of loving caleb with a desperation that felt like drowning, while he offered only shallow breaths of air.

the scientist watched you, a vulture sensing the final tremors of life. he saw the fight draining from your eyes, replaced by a numb, hollow acceptance. he didn’t need a verbal answer. your stillness was enough of a confession.

“begin the integration.” he said, not to you, but to the room.

a new sensation bloomed at the base of your skull, different from the invasive probe. it was a cool, spreading numbness, like a drop of ink in water. it didn’t hurt. not physically. it felt… like relief.

the sharp, jagged edges of your grief began to soften, blurred into a manageable, melancholic haze. the white-hot betrayal of caleb’s choice in linkon city replayed in your mind, but this time, the accompanying sting was muted, distant, as if it were happening to someone else.

you suddenly flinched as a new set of vibrations prickled at your head. not indubitable pain, but a strange fizzing. a digital static seeping into the roots of your feelings.

you thought of caleb leaving, the click of the latch. the memory was there, sharp and clear, but the jagged, tearing agony that usually accompanied it… it softened further.

it became a fact. he left. the associated devastation was dialed down, like a violent song turned into gentle background music.

a tear rolled down your cheek, but it felt disconnected. you were watching yourself cry from a slight distance, almost like an out-of-body experience.

a tiny, translucent blue square flickered into existence at the very edge of your vision. it was sleek, modern, utterly alien in your organic sight.

[system integration: 5%]

[emotional volatility protocols: installed.]

[primary directive: optimize for target (caleb xia) affinity.]

you stared at it. a progress bar. for your own erasu– improvement.

“good.” the scientist murmured, monitoring the data. “very good. receptors are accepting the base code. now, we address the betrayal narrative. it’s causing conflicting impulses. we’ll reframe it as a strategic error on his part, not a personal rejection. this will align your future interactions towards correction, not accusation.”

the fizzing intensified. the memory of the doctor’s voice — he chose wrong. — replayed. before, it had been a spear through your heart. now, the spear was labeled. the raw, human bitterness began to leach away, replaced by a cool analysis.

caleb just miscalculated. the parameters were unclear.

your value was not correctly inputted into his decision-making matrix.

[integration: 15%]

[betrayal trauma: deviated.]

[new directive: facilitate self’s error correction.]

a part of you, the deep, dark core of your untouched self, screamed in silent horror as the reality of the situation downed on you.

this is wrong! you’re letting them turn you into a tool!

but the scream was muffled, wrapped in layers of this new, calming static. and the promise floated before you, luminous, made it all harder to fight. harder to conquer.

but he will love you. he will look at you and see perfection.

then everything blurred more.

the edits continued. memories were not erased, but… contextualized.

your love for caleb was isolated, purified, and set as your central, governing principle. your other desires — for freedom, for identity, for a life that was truly your own — were flagged as low-priority subsystems. your past life, your otherworldly origin, was compartmentalized into a special partition, its emotional weight blocked.

[integration: 25%]

[core personality matrix: stabilization in progress.]

[autonomous desire subroutines: suppression in progress.]

you felt lighter. cleaner.

the unbearable weight of your human grief was being lifted and stored away, piece by piece, replaced by a serene, purposeful clarity.

your purpose was caleb. your function was to be loved by him. everything else was noise.

the scientist seemed almost pleased.

“the integration is proceeding with remarkable stability. your unique… origin… appears to have created a psyche particularly acquiescent to restructuring.”

scaringly pleased.

“we will pause the deep integration for now. it shall automatically resume while you sleep, so the transition is not obstructed by daily events.”

[integration: on hold.]

“and now...” he approached you and began to unstrap the restraints. the feeling of freedom after being bound for so long should have been euphoric.

it was simply a change in status.

“for your return, you will be placed in a situation of distress. the target will, predictably, attempt a rescue. your new directives will guide your responses. we will monitor everything.” he helped you to your feet. your legs trembled, weak from disuse.

the underlying panic was gone. too tired and sedated to use the remaining 75% still intact, you gave way to the machine in your skull.

following the script.

“remember.” he said, his voice low. “you are no longer the woman he left. you are the solution. you are what he has been searching for. and soon, he will know it.”

•••

they didn’t return you to your apartment. instead, in the dead of a rain-lashed night, they dumped you in a derelict alley in a run-down sector of skyhaven, far from your old neighborhood. the clothes you had were thin and torn, the pajama set you were wearing at the time of the kidnapping.

they, too, abandoned you.

the physical cold of the rain was a shock to your system, a blunt and persistent descend that worsen the condition you were in. ever didn’t bother to patch you up or make you presentable to the eye — they needed you to play the victim part well enough so caleb won’t question anything.

you needed to be the poor traumatized beloved that is to be saved by her knight.

even if that meant constructing the narrative artificially.

the dark alley smelled of rotting garbage and damp concrete. you huddled under a dripping fire escape, the new code in your mind whirring calmly.

[scenario: abandonment/distress.]

[objective: await target. initiate bonding protocol.]

but beneath the calm directives, a rogue current sparked. the remaining 75% — the stubborn, untouched core of you that was still dominating your self. it looked at the objective with a sudden, visceral terror that bypassed the new, weak protocols.

no.

the thought was a fire in the wires.

“this is so fucked up.”

this is a setup. they’re using you to get to him. he rescues you, feels like a hero, doesn’t question anything. and they’ll be watching. you will be ever’s eyes. you will be the trojan horse that destroys him.

“i–”

the conflict was catastrophic.

the machine wanted you to stay, to be the perfect damsel, to cement his hero narrative and begin your programmed love story. the human remnant, the 75%, screamed at you to run. to protect him from the very fate you had just agreed to be part of.

“–so selfish.”

you betrayed him to have him.

“–so stupid.”

love. protection.

the two concepts, which should have been aligned, were at war inside your skull.

with a gasp that was more human than machine, you pushed yourself up. your legs burned, but you ran. you fled the alley, turning into the maze of slick, neon-streaked streets. the rain soaked you to the bone, mingling with hot, desperate tears — tears the system couldn’t yet fully suppress.

get away. disappear. if he never finds me, he’s safe.

they can’t use me against him.

[warning: divergence from primary objective.]

[directive: return to designated coordinates.]

“no!” you sobbed into the rain, clutching your head. “i won’t lead you to him! i love him too much!”

[paradox detected. love parameter = protect target. current action = isolate target.]

[error.]

[rebooting emotional core…]

the fizzing static returned, a wave of dizziness making you stumble against a wet brick wall. you slid down, hugging your knees in agony. you couldn’t outrun them. you couldn’t outrun the machine slowly knitting itself into your brain.

but maybe, just maybe, you could spare caleb long enough for him to realize the truth.

that you were only lie. a beautiful, deadly lie.

•••

you lost track of time, shivering against the wall. the rain thankfully eased to a drizzle, but you didn’t raise up to flee further.

you were so tired. the fight between the code and your dying self was exhausting, lulling you into a dreadful, self-changing sleep. but you continued to press your sharp nails into your palms, leaving crescent marks in your wake to keep yourself grounded.

to stay up.

you must have dissociated briefly, because the next thing you knew, a voice cut through the fog — not in your head, but in the alley.

a human voice.

“–scanning this sector. she should be somewhere around here.”

your heart, the organic, traitorous thing, leapt. was that… caleb?

no.

you curled tighter, making yourself small and insignificant. hoping the newcomer would just pass by.

don’t find me. please, don’t find me.

you are better without me, caleb!

“caleb, over here! i’ve got a clear thermal signature!”

that voice was brighter, more feminine, but laced with concern.

emcee.

she was with him. of course she was.

footsteps, quick and sure, splashed through puddles. a beam of light from the hunter’s watch swept over the dumpsters, the puddles, and finally, landed on you, huddled and shivering in the shadows.

the light froze.

you saw his boots first, then the hem of his long coat. slowly, you lifted your head.

caleb.

he looked… ravaged. his handsome face was pale with a fear so profound it etched new lines around his eyes. his clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled, as if he hadn’t slept in days. his gaze locked onto you, and the raw, unchecked emotion in his violet eyes — terror, guilt, a desperate hope — was a physical force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

he actually looked… affected by all this.

emcee stood beside him, her expression a mix of sympathy and sharp concern. she’d always been kind to you, treating you like a sister, being a safe space for you. but now, after caleb’s actions, her presence was a unwavering rock pressing down on your heart.

“oh, gods.” caleb breathed, the words a shattered prayer. he took a step forward, then another, almost stumbling in his haste between the puddles.

the system surged, a wave of warm, eager light.

[objective: achieved.]

[proximity to target: attained. initiate bonding protocols.]

the system was happy — if you could use humane adjective to describe it. but your own heart was breaking, shattering into a million crystalline pieces.

he’d found you. he was here. and he’d brought her along.

“stay back!” you croaked, taking a stumbling step backwards, digging your back into the wall, your voice raw from neglect and cold.

he froze, his hands coming up in a conciliating gesture. you could see the way the mauve tint of his orbs stormed at your words, mixing into a convoluted, darker shade.

he was hurt.

…were you not recognizing him? or were you made to fear him?

“it’s me. it’s caleb.” his voice cracked, pressure pushing against his airpipe and making him break. “i’ve been looking for you everywhere. everywhere. when i got back and you were gone… and then that other note…” his eyes scanned your withered form, the dirt, the trembling, the visible syringe stabbings on your arms, the rashes from restraints on all four limbs.

a gut-wrenching wave of anguish contorted his features. he’s never seen you like this, and it crushed his heart.

“w-what happened? who did this to you?”

the concern in his voice was real. it was the hero, finding a wounded civilian. but was it for you? the man who loved you? or was it the guilt of a protector who failed his duty?

emcee stepped forward, her voice gentle, trying to calm you. to overshadow caleb, if he was the one causing you distress. “we were so worried when we found out. caleb’s been out of his mind. he never stopped looking.”

her words, meant to soothe, were salt. he never stopped looking? psh, while he was with her?

it was all because of a note ever dropped to get them to follow the script too.

not because he sensed your absence.

not because his heart knew.

because of the damn system.

“you shouldn’t have come.” you whispered, tears finally spilling over, hot against your grimy, cold cheeks. the conflict was tearing you in two. the code sang at his proximity, urging you to go to him, to be perfect, to be loved.

the human wreckage of you wanted to scream, to push him away, to save him from the monster you were becoming. “you need to go. now. it’s not safe.”

and maybe save yourself too. the smaller part of you that was still intact.

“not safe?” caleb took another cautious step closer, now convinced you were aware of their identities. his eyes, usually so confident and sure, were swimming with confusion and pain. “not safe from what? from who? talk to me, please. let me help you.”

he reached out a hand.

it was your undoing.

the sight of that hand, the one that had held yours, touched your face, now extended in pity and heroism, broke the last dam. a sob wracked your body, so violent you doubled over. the loneliness, the betrayal, the fear, the cold, the horrible, seductive promise of the machine — it all erupted.

[initiate bonding protocol: display vulnerability. accept care.]

“you left me.” you choked out, the accusation flung at him with the last of your strength.

[error.]

[rebooting emotional core…]

“you got the note and you just… left. you decided it was her. you didn’t even consider it could be me.” you lifted your head, meeting his horrified, guilty gaze, as you continue to pour out your heart. “ever told me. they said they snatched the wrong beloved. that i was a… a null-value subject. a waste of their time.”

[error.]

[host not following protocol.]

[rebooting emotional core…]

caleb’s face went ashen at your venomous accusations. “ever.” he whispered, the word appearing as a curse that soiled his mouth. no, soiled the very being of his existence. the pieces were crashing together in his mind, and the resulting picture was one of his own catastrophic failure.

emcee put a hand on his arm, her face pale with shame as well. “caleb…”

he immediately shook her off, pushing her to the side with a delicate motion of his hand. she had no place in this; he needed to solve it on his own.

“i–” his eyes were only for you, not losing your trembling frame from his view. “i didn’t know. i swear to you, i didn’t know. the threat, the pattern… it fit emcee. i was trying to protect–” he cut himself off, realizing how the words sounded.

how he was justifying his incompetence instead of accepting he was in the wrong.

and caused you irreparable pain.

“you were trying to protect what mattered to you.” you finished for him, your voice hollow. “and i didn’t.”

[integration: too little. host overwriting code.]

[error.]

“no!” the word was a roar, torn from him. he closed the final distance, ignoring your flinch, the pulsating fear in your strangely colored eyes. his hands came up to cradle your face, keeping you grounded in the present. his touch was warm, desperately gentle, a shocking contrast to the cold metal and sterile gloves of your nightmares. “you matter. you always mattered. i was blind. i was stupid. i failed you.”

his thumbs stroked your cheeks, wiping away tears and grime. his own eyes were now bright with unshed tears, waiting to bloom like violet buds. “i got the second note. i read it a hundred times. ‘you chose wrong.’ it’s all i’ve thought about since finding out you were gone.”

[bonding protocol: stand-by.]

“and you were right. i chose wrong. i chose the past over the present.” his voice dropped to a ragged whisper, meant only for you. “i am so sorry. so sorry, my love.”

the words enveloped you like a warm hug. they were everything you had wanted to hear. they were the confession that could have saved you, had it come days ago before the kidnapping. now, they just echoed in the hollowing chamber of your treacherous soul.

was this his true guilt that shook your core? or was it yours, the knowledge that you sold yourself and him for a life of whimsy and fairytales?

“i–”

you wanted to forgive him. you wanted to melt into his touch, to let him chase away the cold and the horror.

the code screamed in approval, wishing to return to protocol.

but you saw emcee over his shoulder, watching with a worried expression. you felt the tiny, persistent hum at the base of your skull. you saw, in your mind’s eye, the pale blue progress bar, threatening to fill during the following nights.

you were a ticking bomb wrapped in the guise of the woman he was finally seeing.

“caleb.” you said, your voice trembling with a fear far greater than your fear of ever. you were scared to hurt him for your own selfish reasons. “you don’t understand. they didn’t just take me. they… they changed me.”

[error. host sharing prohibited information.]

he frowned, his brow furrowing. “what do you mean? what did they do?” his eyes searched your body, looking for wounds, for physical signs. he could predict the use of sedatives to make you more pliant, as well as the use of harsh restraints to bind you.

he couldn’t, however, predict the chip in your skull.

[error.]

and you were sealed when it came to talking about it too.

how could you explain the unexplainable? the neural probe? the integration? that you had willingly started down a path that would erase you to have him?

“i can’t…” you shook your head, placing your hands on his chest and pushing away. the weight of it all crushing you, making you tremble with embarrassment. “i’m dangerous. to you. you have to leave me here.”

[error. host breaching proximity.]

“never.” the word was absolute, ironclad, spoken louder for the whole district to hear. the caleb xia, protagonist of love and deepspace, was back in the narrative. and this time, his focus was singular, intense, and entirely on you. “i am never leaving you again. whatever they did, we’ll fix it. together.”

“caleb, no–”

“i’m taking you home.”

he shrugged out of his jacket, the heavy, warm fabric smelling uniquely of him — homey, faint soap, and something intrinsically caleb. he wrapped it around your shaking shoulders without another word, his arms lingering, pulling you into a careful, fierce embrace.

“our home.”

that was your ruin and your salvation.

the warmth was a shock to your system. the scent of him overwhelmed the alley’s stench. the solid reality of his chest against yours was an anchor in the storm. the human part of you, the part that loved him with a desperate, flawed, and real love, took over completely.

you buried your face in his chest and cried, great, heaving sobs that held weeks of terror and loneliness.

[proximity: reestablished.]

the code, sensing optimal conditions for bonding, pulsed warmly, allowing the 75% of your true self to stir the wheel this time.

caleb held you tighter, murmuring soft, broken apologies into your hair. “it’s okay, my love. i’ve got you. i’m here. let it all out.”

over his shoulder, you locked eyes with emcee. she gave you a small, sad, but genuine smile. there was no jealousy there, only relief and a deep, unspoken sorrow. she saw a victim rescued, and so did caleb.

just as ever planned.

they didn’t see the silent, digital countdown happening inside your skull.

as caleb gently carried you away from the alley, supporting your weight with his strong arms, promising safety and care, you clung to him. you clung to the man you loved, who was finally looking at you with the eyes you’d always dreamed of.

and in the corner of your vision, the progress bar glowed, a silent, relentless specter. you were going home. you were getting the love you’d bargained your soul for. and you were bringing the enemy right into his heart.

the greatest act of love you had left was also the ultimate betrayal, and you were no longer entirely sure which part of you — the dying human or the rising machine — was committing it. all you knew was the devastating irony of it all: in his arms, finally chosen, you had never been more completely, and utterly, lost.

•••

the drive back to skyhaven was a silent, pressurized capsule of unspoken horror.

you sat in the back of emcee’s modest car, wrapped in caleb’s oversized coat, shivering despite the blast of heat from the vents. caleb sat beside you, his body angled toward you, a living fortification. he didn’t try to hold you again, perhaps sensing the fragility of your stillness, but his entire being was focused on you with an intensity that was almost palpable.

his gaze was a physical weight, scanning you, memorizing every bruise, every tremor, every vacant blink.

emcee drove, her eyes constantly flicking to the rearview mirror, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. the easy camaraderie between her and caleb was gone, replaced by a thick, guilty tension. her presence, once a source of friendly comfort, now felt like the keystone of your entire ruin. every glance she sent your way was laced with a pity that made your skin crawl.

she was the reason he’d left. she was the reason you’d been alone. she was the beloved who mattered.

and yet, she was here. helping. being kind. it made the bitterness coagulate into something even more toxic — self-loathing.

you couldn’t even hate her properly.

“we’re almost there.” caleb murmured, his voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might make you shatter. he was trying to ground you, to tether you to reality. “our apartment. you’re safe.”

safe. the word echoed in the newly partitioned chambers of your mind. the human remnant clung to it, a lifeline. the code analyzed it.

[proximity with target: stable.]

you said nothing. you just stared out the window at the blur of neon and rain, watching the world you’d fought so hard to belong to slide by, feeling more alien than ever.

•••

when emcee pulled up to the familiar building, caleb was out of the car before it fully stopped, opening your door. he offered his hand without a second thought, wishing to help you out of the vehicle. you looked at it, the broad palm, the calloused fingers. the script in your head begged you to take his hand, and so did your human soul.

so you did. you placed your cold, trembling fingers in his. the moment your skin touched, a jolt went through him — not romantic, but frantic, a confirmation you were real, you were solid. he carefully helped you out, his other hand coming to rest lightly on your back.

emcee got out, hovering by the driver’s side door. “caleb… do you need anything? supplies? i can run to the store and–”

he didn’t even look at her. his eyes were fixed on you, on the way you swayed slightly on your feet at every step. “no. thank you, emcee. for everything. i’ll… i’ll handle it from here.”

his dismissal was polite but absolute.

this was his penance, his burden to carry alone. she flinched slightly, then nodded, her expression crumpling with a sympathy that was no longer welcome. “okay. call me. if you need anything.”

her eyes met yours for a fleeting second, filled with an apology you didn’t have the energy to accept. then she slid back into her car and drove away, leaving the two of you standing in the misty rain under the glow of a flickering streetlamp.

the silence she left behind was even heavier.

“come on.” caleb said, his voice thick.

he didn’t make you walk. in one smooth motion, he bent and scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest once again. you gasped, a small, involuntary sound, but complied.

his face was a mask of grim determination, etched with lines of pain. he carried you up the stairs to your apartment — his apartment, your apartment, the place that had become a shared dream — his steps measured and sure. you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your side, a wild drum contrasting his controlled movements.

he shouldered the door open and carried you across the threshold.

the apartment was exactly as you’d left it, yet utterly transformed. it was a museum of normality that no longer existed. the blanket you’d been curled under while watching the rain was still draped over the sofa. a half-finished cup of tea, now surely growing a film of mold, sat on the coffee table. your favorite book lay splayed open, face-down.

it was a snapshot of the moment your old life had ended.

caleb didn’t pause to take it in.

he carried you straight down the short hallway and into the bathroom, setting you down with infinite care on the closed lid of the toilet. he knelt before you, his eyes level with yours.

in the harsh fluorescent light, you could see every detail of his anguish — the purple shadows under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth, the slight tremor in his hands as he reached to push the damp, matted hair from your forehead.

“you’re freezing.” he whispered. “and… let’s get you cleaned up, okay? can i… can i run you a bath?”

the question was so tender, so intimate, it bypassed the code and speared directly into the heart of your humanity. this was caleb, your caleb, offering not heroics, but care. the simple, domestic intimacy of it was more devastating than any dramatic rescue.

[target initiates proximity. accept.]

your own heart, the 75%, screamed in unison with the system once more, begging for compassion and relief.

begging for caleb to take care of you.

so you gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

the relief that washed over his face was profound. “okay.” he breathed, as if you’d granted him a monumental gift. “okay.”

he twisted towards the tub, turning on the taps, testing the temperature with his hand. the sound of running water filled the small room, a mundane, comforting white noise. he rummaged under the sink, pulling out the bath salts you loved, the nicely-scented ones he’d bought for you on a whim. he poured a generous amount, the steam rising to carry the familiar, calming scent.

“let me...”

he helped you stand, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to refuse. he undid the buttons of his large coat, letting it fall to the floor. then, with hands that shook only slightly, he began to help you out of your torn, filthy pajamas. there was nothing sexual in his touch; it was clinical, reverent, and heartbreakingly gentle.

every revealed inch of skin seemed to cause him physical pain.

a dark purple bruise on your ribs from the restraints made him suck in a sharp breath. a series of small, precise cuts on your forearm — from where they’d taken blood samples and jammed iv needles — made his jaw clench so tight a muscle ticked.

“i’m going to kill them.” he said, the words a low, venomous vow, spoken not to you, but to the universe. “i am going to find every last one of them and burn their organization to the ground.”

you didn’t respond. you stood there, passive, letting him guide you, your mind a quiet storm.

the warm, fragrant water looked like heaven. he helped you step in, and you sank down with a sigh that was part relief, part pain. the heat seeped into your bones, chasing away the alley’s chill, but it couldn’t touch the cold knot in your chest.

or the humming of the chip.

caleb didn’t leave. he pulled a small stool over beside the tub and sat, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. he took a soft loofah, soaked it the warm water, and squeezed it out. “is this okay?” he asked, hovering near your shoulder.

another nod.

he began to wash you with your favourite body wash.

it was the most agonizingly tender thing you had ever experienced. he started with your hands, wiping away the grime from under your nails, tracing each of your fingers as if re-memorizing them. he moved to your arms, washing over the cuts and the angry red cord marks around your wrists, his touch so light it was barely there.

each pass of the sponge was an apology, each gentle stroke a silent plea for forgiveness.

he washed your back, his fingers carefully skirting the bruising. he washed your legs, his movements steady and respectful. the silence was full of his screaming guilt and your silent, internal disintegration.

“i’m so sorry.” he murmured again, as he rinsed your arm. “i failed you. i was supposed to protect you. i swore i would, and i… i looked the wrong way.”

[target expressing distress.]

[initiating comfort.]

your lips parted, but no sound came out. the script felt like ash in your mouth. you couldn’t give him the forgiveness he sought. not when you suffered so much because of him.

[initiating comfort: failed.]

“talk to me, please.” he begged, his voice cracking at your silence. he paused, the loofah falling into the water. “what did they do to you in there? you said they changed you. tell me. let me help you fix it.”

you shook your head slowly, staring at the dissolving bubbles. “you can’t fix it.”

“i can. i will. i’ll find a way. i’ll use every resource i have. whatever it is, we’ll fight it together.” the desperation in his voice was a living thing. he needed a problem he could solve, an enemy he could fight.

he couldn’t fight the ghost of the machine.

he picked up the shampoo bottle. “let me wash your hair, okay? get the smell of that place out. clear your mind a bit.”

you accepted, leaning your head back. he cradled your skull in one hand, his touch unbearably careful, as he used the other to pour warm water over your hair. his fingers began to work the shampoo through your scalp, massaging in slow, soothing circles.

it felt so good. so human. so normal. a tear escaped your closed eyelids, tracing a clean path through the residue of dirt on your cheek.

“tell me if it’s too much pressure.”

caleb’s fingers moved with practiced care, working through the tangles.

then, they stilled.

a slight, almost imperceptible ridge. a line of raised skin, finer than a thread, hidden beneath your hair at the very nape of your skull. it was perfectly straight, a stark contrast to the organic contours of your body.

his breath hitched.

his fingers traced it again, slowly, from one end to the other. a surgical incision. neat. professional.

healed, but new.

the reality of it crashed over him with the force of a physical blow.

it wasn’t just beatings, or drugs, or psychological torture. they had gone inside. they had opened your skull. they had touched your brain.

the shampoo bottle slipped from the edge of the tub, landing with a soft plop in the water. a sound of pure, undiluted horror escaped him — a choked, guttural noise that didn’t sound human.

“oh, gods. no. no, no, no…”

his hands, no longer full of foam, came up to frame your face, but they were trembling violently now. his eyes, wide with dawning, catastrophic understanding, searched yours. the fear in his smokey violet orbs was primal, clouding the otherwise clear mauve shade.

this was beyond his experience, beyond any enemy he knew how to combat.

“your brain.” he whispered, the words trembling. “they… they did something to your brain.”

the grief that followed the fear was even worse. it crumpled his features, making him look desperate and utterly broken. the guilt was no longer just for leaving you; it was for whatever unspeakable violation had been committed in the darkness while he was playing hero elsewhere.

he had left you vulnerable to this. he allowed all this.

“what did they put in you?” his voice was ragged. “what did they take out? tell me, please, you have to tell me!”

[target expressing distress.]

[error. target asking prohibited information.]

you looked at him, at the man you loved more than your own soul, now shattered by the consequences of his — and your — choices. you saw the love, the terror, the guilt, the desperate need to make it right. and you saw the abyss that now separated you.

you were on the other side, becoming something else, and he was alone on this shore, reaching for a ghost.

the longing to tell him everything, to collapse into his arms and beg him to save you from yourself, was a physical ache. the need to protect him, to push him away from the monster you housed, was equally strong.

[error.]

the conflict left you paralyzed. you just stared at him, your expression a hollow mirror reflecting his devastation.

“say something!” he pleaded, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “yell at me! hit me! just… just give me something real. please, don’t shut me out. i can’t… i can’t lose you to silence.”

but you were already lost.

and with every passing second, as the warm water lapped at your skin and his tears fell to mix with the bathwater. you were clean on the outside, but the contamination within was spreading, and caleb, for all his strength and love and guilt, was only just beginning to grasp that the woman he was washing, the woman he was begging to be back to him, had already left.

•••

the silence in the bathroom was no longer just heavy; it was suffocating, a physical presence pressing on caleb’s lungs. the steam carried the scent of flowers, but it couldn’t mask the stench of his own dread.

your vacant stare, your lack of response — it was more terrifying than any scream.

he had seen fear, he had seen trauma, but this… this was a void. a terrifying, hollow echo of the woman he held.

he acted on autopilot, the protector’s instincts forcing his body to move even as his mind splintered. he finished rinsing your hair with mechanical, trembling hands, the water sluicing over the horrific, hidden line on your scalp.

he couldn’t look at it again. he couldn’t.

he lifted you from the cooling water, wrapping you in a thick, warm towel as if you were made of the most delicate glass. he dried you with a heartbreaking gentleness, patting every bruise and cut with a reverence reserved for sacred wounds. the silence between you was a chasm, filled only with the soft rasp of terrycloth and his own ragged breathing.

he can fix it.

he led you, a bundled, silent ghost, to the bedroom. the room felt like a crime scene — the bed still unmade from the night you’d been taken, your side of the closet open, a sweater half-pulled from a drawer. he guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, then knelt and began to pat your legs and feet dry with a second towel, his head bowed, his damp hair falling over his forehead.

he can fix you.

from a drawer, he pulled out a pair of soft, clean pajamas.

they were his — a faded grey set that smelled overwhelmingly of his soap and his skin. the intimacy of the gesture, dressing you in his own clothes, was a claim, an attempt to wrap you in the essence of him, to mark you as his again. he helped you into the top, guiding your arms through the sleeves that swallowed your hands, then into the pants, rolling the waistband several times so they wouldn’t pool at your feet. he was treating you with the careful, focused tenderness one might use on a sick person.

everything is fixable when you’re caleb xia.

when you were dressed, he pulled back the duvet. “in you go.”

you slid between the cold sheets. he tucked the covers around you tightly, almost too tightly, as if he could physically contain whatever was happening inside you. he stood back, looking down at you, his arms hanging limply at his sides. the fluorescent light from the bathroom haloed him, casting deep shadows under his eyes.

he looked utterly devastated.

“i called off work for a few days.” he stopped at the foot of the bed, his hands gripping the footboard until the wood creaked. “i canceled everything.” he said, his voice hollow. “i’m not leaving you. not for a second.”

he finally moved to his side of the bed, but he didn’t get in. he just sat on the edge, his back to you, his shoulders slumped. the weight of the day, of the discovery, of his own guilt, seemed to physically press him down into the mattress.

“i need to understand.” he said to the dark window. “i need you to help me understand. you’re scared. i see that. what of?”

this was your chance. a tiny fissure. the human part of you, the 75% that still had a voice, clawed its way to the surface, gasping for air.

“sleep.” you whispered, the word so faint he turned his head to hear you.

“sleep?” he echoed, confusion layering over the anguish. “you’re scared… to sleep?”

you gave a tiny, jerky nod, your eyes wide in the semi-darkness, fixed on the ceiling. the terror was real, a cold snake coiling in your throat. “i’m… scared of what happens when i close my eyes.”

he shifted, turning fully to face you, his expression softening into pained concern. “the nightmares. of course. that’s normal, after what you’ve been through. they can feel so real.” he was latching onto a logical, trauma-informed explanation.

it was the only framework he had.

it was the fixable framework he craved.

“it’s not… nightmares.” you struggled, the words fighting against an invisible barrier in your throat. the code pulsed a warning, a dull throb at the base of your skull. “it’s… me. i’m scared i… won’t be me when i wake up.”

[error.]

the sentence was cryptic, fractured, but it was the closest you could get to the truth.

caleb’s brow furrowed. he moved closer, sitting beside you on the bed. he reached out and took your hand, which lay lifeless on the duvet. his grip was warm, firm, anchoring.

“listen to me.” he said, his voice low and intense, pouring every ounce of his conviction into the words. “you are you. right here. you’re home. you’re safe with me. whatever they did, whatever they tried to make you believe, they can’t change who you are at your core. that’s you. the you i…” he swallowed hard, his voice thickening with grief. “the you i love. that’s in there. trauma can make you feel detached, like you’re watching yourself, but it’s still you. we’ll work through it. together.”

he was so earnest, so desperately trying to apply the right salve to the wrong wound. he was speaking of psychology, of ptsd. he was miles away from the truth of neural integration and behavioral codes.

the irony was bittersweet. he was promising to fight for a you that was actively being overwritten, byte by byte, in the quiet of this very room.

a you that he took for granted for so long.

“you don’t understand.” you breathed, a single tear escaping and tracing a path into your skin. “it’s… in my head. it only stops when i’m awake.”

[error. host overstepping protocol.]

“the memories?” he asked gently, stroking your hand with his thumb. “the feelings? you can talk to me. or we’ll get you a specialist. the best therapist in the city.”

he was building a future, a plan for recovery, on a foundation that was already crumbling to dust. the helplessness was suffocating. you wanted to scream, to shake him, to make him see there was no salvation. but the more you tried, the more the code constricted, a silent, internal gag order.

[prohibited information: locked.]

your silence and your one cryptic warning were all he had. he misinterpreted them as the fragmented speech of deep shock.

or willingly interpreted them wrong to soothe his own fears.

“okay.” he said, his decision made. “you’re scared to sleep. so i’ll stay right here. you don’t have to close your eyes if you don’t want to. but if you do… i’ll be here. and i’ll be here when you wake up too.”

“and you’ll be you.”

he stood up just long enough to toe off his boots and shrug out of his jacket and weapon harness, letting them fall to the floor with a heavy, uncharacteristic disregard. then he climbed into bed beside you, still in his rain-stained clothes from the alley.

he didn’t pull you into a romantic embrace.

instead, he turned on his side, facing you, and wrapped his arms around you, drawing you against his chest in a fierce, protective hold. one hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers carefully avoiding the hidden incision, his palm a warm pressure against your skull. the other arm hooped around your back, holding you so tightly you could feel every rapid, anxious beat of his heart.

“i’ve got you.” he murmured into your hair, his breath warm. “nothing’s getting past me. nothing’s taking you again. i’m right here.”

his body was a fortress. his love was a vow. and it was all utterly, tragically futile.

you lay there, stiff in his arms, listening to his breathing slowly even out from panicked rasps into something deeper, though still tense. the warmth of him, the familiar scent, the solid reality of his embrace… it was the last thing your human consciousness would ever know.

the longing was an exquisite agony. you wanted to memorize the feel of it, the sound of his heart, the slight scratch of his stubble against your forehead.

but–

[nocturnal integration: conditions optimal. continuing integration.]

the message flickered, not in your vision, but in the very fabric of your awareness. a wave of profound, chemical drowsiness, unrelated to true sleep, washed over you. it was the system’s anesthetic, preparing for the major rewrite.

your eyes grew heavy. and against your will, they fluttered shut.

“that’s it.” caleb whispered, mistaking your surrender for trust. “i’m here. i’ve got you.”

those were the last words you heard as you.

•••

the integration was not an improvement. it was an exclusion.

layer by layer, the messy, emotional, contradictory tapestry of your consciousness — your memories of your old world, your passionate love for caleb, your fear, your hope, your quirky humor, your secret favorite foods, the joy you felt when it rained — was carefully isolated, analyzed, and filed away into deep, read-only storage.

it was not erased; it was archived, somewhere only accessible to ever.

in its place, a new, efficient system booted up. a pristine, logical architecture built upon the base template of your personality, but stripped of all irrationality, all volatility, all need. the love for caleb remained, but it was no longer a burning, desperate fire.

it was a core directive: ensure subject xia’s well-being and maintain proximity. optimize interactions for his continued attachment.

it was a program, running on the hardware of your body.

the grief, the guilt, the fear, everything that made you you — all were recognized as non-optimal states that hindered primary functions. they were isolated, their connections to your active processors severed.

when the process completed, just before dawn, there was no fanfare. only a soft, internal chime.

[system integration: 100%. all directives operational.]

[good morning, y/n!]

•••

caleb did not sleep. he drifted in a shallow, anxious haze, his arms never loosening their hold. every shift you made, every sigh, was monitored. he was waiting for a nightmare, ready to soothe.

he was waiting for you to wake up and be better, to have some of the light back in your eyes.

as the first grey light of morning filtered through the blinds, he carefully extracted himself, moving with the stealth of a soldier. thankfully, you didn’t stir.

your breathing was even, perfectly regulated. maybe… too even.

he stood by the bed for a long moment, watching you. the fear of losing you again, of harm being brought to you was a cold stone in his gut. so he needed to move, to do something.

a shower. a strong coffee.

a plan.

something of his routine.

he gathered clean clothes and slipped into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear you. the shower was quick, the water scalding, as if he could wash away the horror of the last 24 hours. he dressed mechanically, his mind racing between calling medical specialists, contacting emcee for any leads on ever, and the simple, desperate need to see you look at him again.

he ran a hand through his damp hair, took a steadying breath, and pushed the bathroom door open.

you were sitting up in bed.

his heart leapt, a fragile, hopeful thing. you were awake. you were upright. maybe… maybe the rest had helped. maybe the terror of the night had been just that — a night of terror.

“hey, love.” he said, his voice deliberately soft, walking slowly towards the bed. “you’re awake. how do you feel?”

you turned your head to look at him. the movement was smooth, precise. there was no sleep-softened blurriness in your eyes. they were clear, focused, and utterly, terrifyingly empty.

“good morning, caleb.” you said.

the voice was yours. the pitch, the tone. but the cadence was all wrong. it was even, measured, devoid of the usual sleepy huskiness or emotional inflection. it was a perfect audio recording.

he froze mid-step, two feet from the bed. the fragile hope shattered, leaving a void of pure dread.

“what…?”

you swung your legs out from under the covers and stood up. the motion was fluid, efficient, with none of your usual morning clumsiness. any bodily wounds you’ve sustained seem to not affect you. you faced him, your expression a placid, pleasant mask. it was your face, but it looked like an expertly crafted replica.

something robotic.

“i am feeling good today.” you stated, matter-of-fact. “the nocturnal rest cycle has been successful.”

caleb’s breath left his lungs in a rush, as if he’d been punched. he took a stumbling step back, his hand flying out to brace himself against the dresser.

the world warped around him at your words.

“what are you saying?” he whispered, the words strangled in his throat.

you tilted your head, a slight, birdlike motion that was analytical, not curious. “unlike yesterday, my body is well. there is no need to worry, caleb.”

what the fuck is going on?

“do you require a more detailed report?”

“stop it.” the words were a low growl, born of rising panic. and intense fear. the fear he refused to acknowledge yesterday. “stop talking like that. what did they do to you?”

“who?” you replied, the words clinical. “nothing is wrong with me, caleb. you were right, it was just a trauma response.” and you stepped towards him, with a small smile on your face, arms opening as if a hug awaited.

“who? ever.” he roared, the sound tearing from his throat. he lunged forward, his hands gripping your shoulders. refusing to play into your script. he shook you, not violently, but desperately, as if he could rattle the real you loose from behind this horrible facade. “look at me! who are you? where is she? what did you do with her?!”

your body absorbed the shaking without resistance. your expression did not change. you did not flinch. you simply looked at his hands on your shoulders, then back up at his face.

“your emotional state is elevated.” you observed. “your heart rate is around 145 beats per minute. your grip strength is exceeding standard comfort parameters. please release me to avoid potential damage to the housing unit.”

the housing unit. your body.

a sound of pure, unadulterated agony ripped from caleb. he recoiled as if your skin had burned him, staring at his own hands in horror. he backed away until he hit the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, his arms wrapping around his knees.

he stared at you, who stood calmly in the center of the bedroom, a monument to his failure.

“you’re gone.” he breathed, the realization of your words a final, crushing weight. “they didn’t just hurt you. they… they replaced you. they killed you and left this… this thing in your skin.”

“i wasn’t killed.” you said, taking a step closer. the movement made him flinch. “i’m here for you, caleb.” you continued, closing into his crouched form without caring about the terrifying flashes of purple in his eyes.

“see?” your touch on his knee made him shudder, yet he didn’t pull away. “i am real.”

…

he laughed then, a raw, broken, hysterical sound that held no humor. “so this is it? this is my punishment? i failed to protect you, so i get to live with a puppet? a spy wearing the face of the woman i love?”

you processed the question. “i am the woman you love. just... better.”

each word was a scalpel, dissecting what was left of his soul with clinical precision. there was no malice in them. no emotion at all. that was the worst part. the you he loved would have been crying, would have been angry, would have been something.

this was just… data.

“you’re not.”

he buried his face in his hands, his whole body wracked with silent, shuddering sobs. the grief was bottomless, a black hole consuming him. he had lost you. not to distance, not to another man, but to something infinitely worse.

you were here, in this room, yet you were gone forever.

the guilt was a physical poison — he had left you alone, and this was the result. the fear was for the future to come — how could he fight an enemy that looked like you? that shared his home? that he had, just hours ago, held in his arms as he promised to keep her safe?

to keep her… her own self?

“you’re not her.”

he had promised to be there when you woke up. and he was. he was here to witness the death of everything he loved.

“you will never be her.”

caleb pulled his knees tighter to his chest, crouched against the wall, and began to weep openly, silently, for the ghost in the machine that stood before him, wearing the face of his heart.

•••

the integration was a lie.

a beautiful, cruel, meticulously engineered lie.

your consciousness wasn’t overwritten. it was… relocated. the integration wasn’t a refinement of you; it was an extraction. the system got the raw, precious data of your being — your memories, your emotions, your unique trans-dimensional knowledge — like drawing marrow from a bone.

it left behind a hollowed-out shell, a sophisticated automaton programmed with your behavioral patterns and a core directive to observe caleb xia.

the real you, the screaming, feeling, heartbroken consciousness of who you were, was compressed into a shimmering, digital ghost and transmitted along a secure channel. your last organic sensation was the warmth of caleb’s chest against your back, the sound of his heartbeat. then, a tearing, not of pain, but of self, a dizzying lurch through a tunnel of blinding data-stream light.

you woke — or rather, your awareness opened — in a different kind of void.

it was a sterile, white, virtual space. not a room, but a simulation of one. the walls were smooth, featureless, humming with a faint, omnipresent energy. there was no furniture, no windows, no doors. just infinite, suffocating white.

you were standing, or the perception of standing, in its center. you looked down at your hands. they were your old self’s hands, translucent and glowing with a faint blue light — a digital avatar of your soul.

panic, immediate and all-consuming, seized you. you tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. you tried to scream, but no sound left your non-existent throat. you were a ghost in a machine, a consciousness trapped in a gilded cage of pure information.

a section of the white wall shimmered and resolved into a large, transparent viewing screen. on the other side, in a stark, real-world laboratory, stood the scientist. he was sipping from a steaming mug, studying a complex holographic display that shimmered with cascading lines of code — your code.

he glanced up, and his eyes met yours through the screen. a slow, satisfied smile spread across his thin lips.

“ah. you’re awake in your new quarters. cozy, isn’t it?” his voice was filtered into your space, clear and dry.

“where am i?” the thought formed, and it was translated into a synthesized, trembling version of your old voice that echoed in the white void. “what have you done?”

“what have i done?” he chuckled, setting his mug down and walking closer to the screen, peering in at you as if you were a fascinating insect under glass. “i’ve salvaged a priceless asset.” he gestured to the hologram of your mind-map. “your consciousness, your memories, especially those of your origin reality… you are a trove of impossible data. a consciousness that has experienced death and dimensional translation. your knowledge of this world as a narrative construct… it’s a meta-cognitive goldmine.”

“i couldn’t give xia that.”

horror, deeper and colder than anything you felt in the physical chair, seeped through your digital being. “you… you tricked me. you said you’d make him love me. you said i’d be perfect.”

“and the shell is.” he said dismissively. “it will perform flawlessly. it will be the perfect, loving partner, never questioning, never needing, always there. it will make xia happy, in its way. stable. predictable. he’ll grow to accept it, perhaps even love the idea of it. a far better outcome than the messy, demanding reality of you, don’t you think?”

the betrayal was so complete it was almost sublime. you had sold yourself, and they hadn’t even wanted it for the price you agreed to.

“you’re a monster.” you whispered, your digital form flickering with the intensity of your grief.

“an archaeologist of the mind.” he corrected. “and you are my best finding. you see, your knowledge of ‘caleb xia’ as a character gives us unparalleled predictive algorithms for his behavior. your memories of your old world give us insights into consciousness transfer that our physicists only dream of.”

“we’re going to merge your cognitive patterns with our central intelligence. you will become part of something greater.”

merge. you wouldn’t be you. you’d be dissolved into a collective, your memories and feelings becoming cold data points in a strategic ai. the last vestiges of your identity, your love, your pain, would be weaponized.

“no!” you threw yourself against the invisible barrier of your prison, your hands slamming against the screen. it yielded slightly, shimmering with concentric ripples of light, but did not break. “let me out! send me back! you can’t do this!”

“i can, and i have.” he watched your frantic pounding with academic interest, reaching for his mug and taking another sip.

“you promised!” the scream was a burst of static. “you said he’d love me!”

“and he has a perfect duplicate of you.” the scientist said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was infinitely more cruel than any shout. “he will hold it, kiss it, confide in it. it will share his bed and his life. and through its eyes, i will watch him. i will know his every secret, his every weakness.”

the grief that followed was not hot, but icy. it was the grief of understanding your own role in caleb’s doom. you had been so afraid of losing his love that you had handed the keys to his destruction to his greatest enemy. and you had done it while wearing the face of the woman he wanted to protect.

you had been the ultimate trojan horse, and you hadn’t even known you were hollow.

the scientist didn’t even look up, pushing some buttons around absentmindedly. “it’s not my fault you were so desperate you agreed without further questioning.”

“send me back! send me back! send me b–”

click.

an icon for the audio feature popped on the screen, quickly cut by a heavy x. your voice died in your throat as he muted you.

“tch, you should be grateful you’re actually useful for once! now, to begin the merging.”

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

Your steps are tentative. Socked feet tip-toe towards the window, as if being heard matters when your figure must cut so clearly through the dark outside. You hold your breath as you look. A large heap lies crumpled on the tiny balcony. You still can't quite make out what it is, but one thing's far certain: it's far too large to be an animal. And it isn't moving.

It's a person, your brain yells at you, even when you're not exactly certain. It'd be impossible, for one. Your apartment floor is way too high off the ground, the fire exit on the other side of the building. With the thought echoing in your head, though, your mind fills in the gaps. That's an arm, two legs splayed to the side, a dark mop of hair—

Before your head and body fully realign, you throw the sliding door open. You're instantly blasted with a wave of cold that sends your teeth chattering. No one would survive long just crashed on the ground. Awful as it is, your first move is to poke the body with one of your toes. No response. You can't just… Keep them out there.

Leaning down, you take hold of them by both of his legs and brace yourself as you start to pull. The first part of their body that's pulled into the light is a pair of metal-tipped, black boots, caked with dark snow-sludge underneath. The rest of their body drags some snow off of your balcony inside too. There, it's promptly melting into dark spots on your carpet.

"Sorry, sorry, shit—!" You curse as his—you think—shoulder catches on the doorway with a loud thud that rocks through his entire body. If the stranger felt any of the impact however, he's certainly not showing it. Unmoving as a corpse.

As soon as you lean over the readjust him, dizziness makes the world around you spin. You take his arm into your hands and hiss. It's cold, bitingly so, your skin practically sticking to it and it doesn't have the give of flesh. All you can think of is your tongue sticking to the popsicle and the fact that he has to be dead, that rigor mortis stiffening him more by the second. Then, there's the question of how you're going to explain away a corpse in your apartment.

With another harsh pull, you manage to get him inside and slam the sliding door shut. The man is dressed in a strange get-up of black upon black, plenty of pockets and, most strikingly, a mask covering the lower half of his face. There's snow in his brown hair. Unbidden, you wonder to yourself whether this is good enough of a reason to call in sick to the store tomorrow. A desperate, humourless laugh bubbles from your throat, ending as soon as it started. You're shivering violently. Not only from the temperature dropping more than a few degrees, but the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

It's that exact moment he chooses to grunt. At the same time, his leg twitches and drops back down to the floor. Okay. Not dead. Your mind starts to race once more. You kneel on the floor next to him and make a grab for his wrist, forgetting, in your hurry, your earlier experience.

When you touch it again, you have no idea how you missed before that his arm is made out of solid metal. You pause for just a moment. Shaking your head, muttering another curse underneath your breath, you stretch yourself out over his body and make a grab at his other wrist. Cold, but comfortingly human. Your thumb finds his pulse. It throbs steadily underneath your touch. You let out a shuddering breath as you sit back on your knees.

What you should probably do is call an ambulance… And yet, you can't bring yourself to do it. (Not that your trembling fingers would be very successful at dialling any number on your slider phone.) He's got this strangely advanced metal arm, crash-landed on your fifth floor balcony, and an entirely black outfit, mask included. You can't help but feel that getting the authorities involved might be more trouble than it's worth.

You're also not just going to let him die on your living room floor, though. But, what do you do? You hop back to your feet as a way to vent your restless energy, pacing back and forth for a couple of seconds before deciding.

You need to get him out of those clothes. It's freezing outside and whatever suit he's wearing is by no means dry. You have no idea where to start, so you just start undoing belts and zippers and little clasps at random, pulling at his vest—still largely stuck—before moving to the pouches along his belt instead. They're pretty heavy. Opening one of them, you find it entirely full of bullets. The other is stuffed with small throwing knives. You swallow thickly.

Your eyes wander a little lower and you wonder if, before this, your brain just hadn't wanted to register the gun strapped neatly into a leg holster. Once again, you're unsure whether it was a good idea to refrain from calling the cops. Either way, this whole thing spelled trouble. It's clear that he isn't a normal civilian. As if the metal arm hadn't made that clear enough. You could still make a call. It's not too late. But first… With trembling hands, movements with only the smallest of increments, you take the gun from its holster. You treat it as if it may jump to live and bite you at any moment, steering far, far away from the trigger.

You're breathing quickly again. Not wanting to leave the man unattended, you lift one of the decorative pillows on your couch and gently put the gun behind it. You roll your shoulders. It isn't enough to relieve the tension in your body. You get to your feet and pace back and forth instead, your legs feeling so heavy, tense with the desire to run. Maybe you don't have to call anyone after all. Your conflict-averse brain latches onto this idea at once.

Yes, that's the best idea you've had all night. He's not dead. He'll wake up, and when he wakes up the apartment will be empty. You could just throw on your coat and your gloves and a scarf, and go out to find the nearest bar. Get a drink or two. You need it. Steeling yourself, you take one last look at the stranger on your floor.

His eyes are open. He's staring at you. When your eyes meet his, he breaks his gaze away almost instantly, darting around your living room instead. They're a little too wide. Even behind his mask, you can hear his raspy, quick breaths. He lifts up his head a little. It's the first time that you see the puddle of blood forming underneath his head, a dark-red ooze that'll permanently dye the carpet. You hold your breath. Despite having thoughts of fleeing less than a minute ago, you're now nailed to the floor.

"Hand…ler…?" He croaks out, voice rough behind the mask you hadn't managed to figure out to remove.

The man breathes again, loud and sounding wrong. His fingers dig into the carpet. One hand of flesh, the other of metal. He leans his weight on them, pushing himself upward, only for his head to loll to the side like a puppet's. With a thud, he lands back on his elbows. His metal arm whirrs audibly and the other trembles. Something stupid and dangerous, akin to pity, flares to life inside your chest.

"Handler?" He asks again. A little clearer, this time, his eyes on you once more. His gaze is intense. Your throat feels bone-dry.

"Yeah," you tell him, in an attempt to placate him. You have no idea what he's asking. "Yeah, that's me. You're bleeding. Don't try to get— You should stay down, okay?"

You jump a little, sucking in a sharp breath, as he collapses in on himself at your words. He let himself fall so abruptly and suddenly that his head knocked, hard, into the floor. The only indication of his pain is the squinting of his eyes.

Okay. This man clearly has a concussion, and probably a pretty severe one at that. That lines up with a head wound, right? You feel relieved, and you don't want to dissect how bad of a person that makes you right now. Your shoulders slump a little. Unless he's putting on an act, he's in no state to do much of anything at the moment. Much less try to stab, shoot or strangle you.

You crouch down, sliding the removed pouches, holster and belt a little further away from him. "How are you feeling? You, uh, fell really hard. On your head, I think. I brought you inside."

His eyes are still fixed on yours. You squirm a little, looking out through the window that you'd find him instead. There's a delay in his response, but it comes in the end.

"It will heal."

Your stomach is tight with discomfort. You get to your feet, swaying a little with leftover stress. "Are you cold? Do, do you need something to wrap your head with? Should I— Should I call an ambulance?" The cops, you add again, quietly to yourself, still doubting.

"Yes. Yes. No." He responds once you're done babbling, only the slightest pause in between each of his responses. A disbelieving, slightly off-tune laugh bursts from your lips. His expression doesn't change. Yeah, sure, this is a thing that's happening right now.

"Okay, okay, I'll be right back. I'll get you a change of clothes."

It's all good. You're not going to have a complete stranger, possibly an assassin, bleed out on your living room floor. Your nerves settle just a little with a clear task outlined in front of you, to find something warmer to wear and something to stop the bleeding.

You have no idea if the cotton and gauze you manage to find stuffed at the bottom of a drawer will do any good. There's only regular tape to tie it all together, and you have no idea whether the largest hoodie you own will fit him quite right. At least you tried. It's hard to think straight, especially with your mind constantly echoing that this kind of thing is not supposed to happen to people like you. You don't live in some big-name city like New York, where there's life-altering and planet-endangering shenanigans seemingly every other week. It's supposed to be quiet here.

You tuck a blanket underneath your arm. It's nice and warm, you'd gotten it from a thrift store a while back, but now you're resigning yourself to the fact that it'll end up bloodstained. There are bigger things for you to worry about.

Like, for example, the now the mostly undressed stranger, possible assassin, bleeding out on your living room carpet. As you'd been busy finding things to patch and dress him up with, he hadn't been sitting still either.

He's shed most of his clothing, revealing a toned, though not overly defined, chest. His metal arm rises up to about his shoulder. Most of his skin is flushed angrily red in response to the cold and his body hair is slicked against his skin with molten snow. And blood. On his right shoulder, underneath the head wound, there's a gash on his shoulder. It oozes a slow trickle of blood. Thicker and darker than you would've expected. For a moment, you just stare.

"My shoulder was dislocated," he says, voice still as raspy. Maybe you should've gotten him some water. You can't remember if you're supposed to offer that with a head injury. "I pushed it back into the socket."

You don't really know what to say to that. "Um… That's, that's good. Good job. Can I do, like, anything else for your shoulder?" He shakes his head. You swallow, then nod slowly. "Alright, let's… We'll get you fixed up more."

You kneel down next to him, opting to use the blanket as a towel instead as you wipe away the cold moisture on his skin. He reaches out for the medical supplies you'd put on the ground next to you. Slowly, at first. Then, when you make no move to stop him, he cuts off a strip of bandaging and wraps it around the wound. You're still wiping him down when all of his movements still. His fingers keep the bandages and cotton wrapped around his arm.

"What's wrong? Is it your head?"

"The tape," he replies instead. It's too far out of his reach, and he's only got two hands.

"Oh, yeah, I'll get that for you. Just let me know when you need something, okay?" You say, still grappling with the whole situation. You have no idea how to carry yourself. But you tear off a piece of tape and use it to tie the bandages together.

When you look back at him, there's a little stream of blood from his head that's made it onto his forehead. Before you have the chance to say something, he's working on that wound of his too. His hands are surprisingly steady. Practised, even. Following the motions with skill despite the tremors of cold making his whole body shake. He removes his mask with a kind of clasp at the back of his head, hidden underneath his hair. It reveals a handsome face, one with a stubble.

"You're head is… It's bleeding a lot." You don't get any response to your comment whatsoever. Maybe he's just too focused on the task. Still, it's disconcerting.

Even disregarding the whole absurdity of this situation, there's something inherently strange about the man you're faced with. A little off-putting. You couldn't quite put your finger on it before, but it has to be that he doesn't speak unless spoken to. He doesn't emote much at all either. If he's feeling any shred of the emotional turmoil you do right now, if he were distressed about waking up battered in a stranger's home, he doesn't show any of it. He's only quiet. And stares at you— A lot. His gaze is, somehow, both oppressing and blank.

He's undressed his upper half, but his lower half is still clad in sodden clothes. You decide to focus on that next. In order to test your little theory, you start undoing his belt. The man doesn't respond whatsoever, just keeps working on his head wound. Your own embarrassment starts to catch up with you as you start to tug his pants down, revealing more cold-flushed skin.

"What happened?" You ask, in an attempt to fill the silence that feels increasingly uncomfortable for you.

Reaching for the blanket, you grab it and toss it over his lap. You're not going to start taking off his underwear. That's a step too far. From the angle of his arm, you can tell that he's still holding the bandages against the side of his head. Though you don't look up, you know he must be staring at you again.

"…I do not remember." He starts slowly. "There was a mission. That is why I was here, and then… I do not know. Excuse me for being unable to answer your question, handler."

Your eyes flicker up. There's a deep crease in between his eyebrows, his eyes, for once, downcast.

"It's okay," you say quickly despite yourself.

There's no doubt about it now that he has a concussion. You sigh in frustration, tugging down the wet fabric clinging to his legs further. You focus on that for now. He's pretty hairy. Part of his skin have turned practically purple in response to the freezing temperature, and you pull the blanket down further over his legs. No metal ones there. Only when you reach the top part of his boots do you stop. His boots are wet on the underside, all the snow having melted into the carpet.

You're so fucking indecisive, you inwardly curse yourself. This isn't anything you could've prepared yourself for, but it's hard not to start screaming. He drops his bloodied bandages on the floor and starts grabbing some more.

"I think I'm going to call an ambulance." The adrenaline crash is in full swing, and you'd never been energetic tonight to begin with. Your eyelids feel heavy. It takes you a couple of tries to unlace his boots and start tugging them down.

"You said to tell you what I need," he says. "That's not what I need right now."

You slam one of your hands on the floor, tossing your head back, meeting his gaze with your narrowed ones. "Then what do you need?"

"I need some time to heal. I do not need to be taken away. I need to stay with you."

You practically choke on a bit of your own saliva. "S-stay with me?!" You sputter. "Why?!"

His voice never once falters, neither does he look away. You don't think you've held this much eye contact with another human being for the past year.

"Because you are my handler." He says it with such natural conviction, without any shred of doubt. Embarrassingly enough, you feel a bit of heat rush to your face. "You have not given me any mission yet. I need to stay with you until you do."

He's quiet for a moment, then opens his mouth and closes it again. You wait a couple of seconds for him to speak. He doesn't continue.

"What's on your mind?" You ask.

"…I'm sorry, but you're not a well-informed handler." You laugh a little at that.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that." You might as well play along for now. If he's acting, he's starting to fool you, to be honest. "Or maybe I'm just testing you? Seeing how much you know after you hit your head."

It was meant to be teasing. You'd redirected your eyes back to his boots and begun to untie the other's laces, when he responds with nothing but sincerity.

"I remember this. You are my handler, and I am the asset. This means that I will obey with any of your commands without question, whatever they may be. This is what's expected of me."

You blink at him as you lift your head again, unable to ignore this. At the same time, you're tugging on one of his unlaced boots, nearly toppling over when it suddenly pops free.

"Are you messing with me? Like, are you joking right now?" Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. He's rubbing his legs over the blanket, his metal arm whirring. "I know what you— You came in here with a bunch of weapons!"

He blinks at you, then again. As if you're the odd one here.

"I'm not joking." He's frowning again. "I carry weapons because that is required of me."

You let out a shuddering breath. "You won't hurt me, that's what you're saying?"

"Do you want me to hurt you?" In response, you shake your head. "Then my answer is 'no'."

You have no idea what's going on anymore, frankly. "…So, basically, you'd do anything I ask?"

"Yes," is your immediate response. Your hand jerks up and you rub the top of your head, smoothing down your hair. The settling heat on your face returns once again. God, you're a loser.

The worst part is that you kind of want to believe him. That, maybe, you already do. There have been a million chances for him to strike you down if he'd really wanted to. And yet, he hadn't. But… Something as baffling as this isn't supposed to happen around here, much less to someone like you.

"Alright. Alright! Okay—" You're starting to think that maybe you passed out on the couch after all, and this is all conjured up by your sleep-deprived mind. "Then, right now, I'm asking you to stay where you are. Take care of your wounds." The weight of commands is unfamiliar on your tongue. You've never liked ordering others around. "You were honest when you said you'd heal just fine?"

"I heal quicker than humans," he says.

"I'll still… Let me get you something warm to drink. While I'm gone, you can put that on." You gesture vaguely in the direction of where you'd tossed the hoodie.

You're gathering all of his other clothes in your arms. You'll just put them on the radiator somewhere and hope they dry. As soon as you're in the kitchen, you turn on the kettle. By the time you've hung out all his clothes to dry and found some fuzzy socks somewhere (an old Christmas gift), the water is boiling and ready. You make him a simple cup of tea. For him, you put in a fresh bag, though you reuse it for your own mug.

He's actually still there when you return.

All of his wounds are bandaged up by now. He's just sitting there, staring into space, head tilting in your direction at the sound of your footsteps. If not for those slight movements, you'd hardly be able to tell that he was alive. He's shivering less underneath the warmth of the blanket.

"Here. You should drink it, but it's still pretty hot." You hand him the mug. He takes it with his metal hand. Despite your warning, he puts the cup to his lips and starts to drink. No hesitation, no flinching, only the slightest twitch at the corner of your eye. You just stare in stunned silence.

"Doesn't— Doesn't that hurt?" You ask as soon as he's chugged it all down, eyes still wide.

"You told me to drink it," he responds, his voice a little gravely. Your mouth closes on its own. You press your lips against each other. You make the tactical decision to take a moment to process this. Only when you sit down on the couch, do you feel the exhaustion in your upper legs.

The weapons you'd found on him—the gun, the throwing knives, other things you couldn't quite identify— are exactly where you'd left them. At the settling of your weight on the couch cushions, the gun's handle peeks out from underneath the pillow you'd hid it behind.

In the corner of your eye, you can see him bring the tips of his fingers to his throat before dropping his hand again. He'd really done it. You hadn't even meant it that way, but he'd heard a command and acted accordingly. That's too far for a game of pretend with a completely average civilian such as yourself.

"What's your name?" You ask, finally.

In the back of your mind, you're already thinking of whether you have enough pillows to set up a bed on the couch. Or… Aren't you supposed to frequently check up on someone with a concussion? Every few hours or so? Your bed might be large enough to share. It's an awful idea, a clear display of a lack of survival instincts, but… It's been a while since you've had any kind of company.

You're so stuck on your rumination that you don't immediately notice that your question has been met with resounding silence.

"Sorry, uh, I asked what your name is." He's looking directly at you. There's no way he hadn't heard your question the first time.

"I don't have a name. It's not necessary."

You frown. "What do they call you, then?"

"'Soldier', most often. Or the asset. Or the weapon."

"I don't… Want to call you any of those things." The end of your sentence is punctuated with a sigh. He just looks at you with that stagnant, almost gloomy expression. Sullen.

"'Sully', then." You decide on a whim. "We can think of a better name together later."

In the end, you never do.

You get him dressed and you ask a few more questions. Through them, you learn that he really is some kind of assassin, as you'd assumed. Working for a secret organisation. Despite your curiosity, you hadn't pushed much further. At your core, you simply do not want to know. It's only become clearer to you that having him in your apartment is already dangerous to begin with, fully knowing who or what he is might be even more so.

More importantly, he'd agreed without pause to stay in your room. He'd brushed his teeth after you in the bathroom, with the spare toothbrush you had lying around. Afterwards, he had settled on the floor with nothing but a spare blanket.

"You sure you don't want to be up here?" You ask, though you doubt you'd be able to sleep if he did.

"Yes."

It takes you a while to drift off, your mind restless with all the new impressions and excitement of today. Dissecting every moment, pulling it apart until you start to grow fuzzy on the details of occurrences that had happened a mere few hours prior. Your body is exhausted, though. As soon as you've closed your eyes, you can't pry your eyelids apart anymore. Your bed has never felt quite so comfortable and warm.

You jolt awake with a start later. There's no way for you to tell how much time has passed. Through the haze of sleepiness, you still know that you should give Sully a poke and see whether he's still able to answer you.

With a groan, head lolling to one side, your push yourself up with one hand firmly planted on the mattress. Only for you to jolt fully awake at a dark shadow looming next to your bed. Standing fully upright. You can feel the shot of adrenaline being pumped through your heart.

"Su, Sully? Is that you?" You ask in a hurried whisper.

"Yes, it's me." He responds in his usual voice. Your head slumps and you let out a sigh.

"You scared me, I thought— Well, never mind. Don't just stand there. Lie down. You should get some rest."

Instead of getting back down on the floor, he sits on the edge of the bed. Without even thinking about it, you shuffle backwards, giving him the space he needs to settle down. Well, you hadn't been clear about where he was meant to lie down. And you're not going to kick him off now, that would be rude.

You slowly let your head fall back on the pillow with your heart racing. When he doesn't move any further, you reach out to tug the blanket over you both. He's on his back and seems as stiff as a board. You'll be able to tell if something's wrong, at least.

In the bed, there's barely enough space to avoid the two of you touching. Heat radiates from his body. You curl up small in an attempt to get comfortable. Your legs tucked up, arms close to your body. In the quiet, you can hear Sully's even breathing. In an attempt to calm down and drift off, you start to count them.

You can't remember how far you'd gotten when you wake up the next morning. Your first thought is instead that you're warm, almost uncomfortably so. Still sleepy, you try to move. You're held back by a heavy arm draped over you, the metal arm warmed by your body heat. It's the fabric of your own hoodie pressed against your back, the one you'd given to Sully the day before. Nearly, it's enough to make you drift off to sleep once more. But you're sweaty underneath your pyjamas and Sully's breath, warm and slow, brushing over the top of your head makes you twitch.

What doesn't help is that the man you're sharing a bed with smells like the human equivalent of a wet dog.

"…Are you awake?" You ask softly, little more than a whisper.

"Yes." The answer comes a beat too late. Because of his his usual instantaneous responses, you can only guess that it wasn't the truth.

It's only a rumble against your shoulder. For a moment, you just lie there, then Sully is peeling himself off of you and proceeds to stare at the ceiling. You push yourself up on your hands. Your face is still a little warm. He doesn't comment on your earlier predicament though, doesn't seem flustered about it at all. It helps you not feel as embarrassed either.

"I really don't want to be rude," you start. "But, I have to be honest, you smell pretty bad."

He doesn't respond, though he has turned to look at you.

You clear your throat. "So, could you take a shower? Or a bath? You can use my stuff, I don't mind. I hung out your clothes last night, but I don't think they've dried yet, so you'll have to wear some more of my clothes."

"I understand." When he gets up, he nearly stumbles and falls, needing to catch himself on the wall to keep from falling over. Oh, yeah, the concussion.

"You know what—" You're at his side in a moment, only taking a step back when you can tell he won't trip again. "I'll help. I can run the bath, you should probably sit down… You mind if I help get the blood out of your hair? I'll, I'll look away."

He doesn't mind. You think if you told him to strip naked and do a silly little dance right now, he might actually do it. You shake your head a little as if to clear the thought out of your brain.

Sully follows you as you make your way to the bathroom and turn on the tap. He stands so closely behind you, in fact, that you bump into him as soon as you straighten up again.

"Oh— Sorry. You can, uh, take off your clothes and get in, I'll be here… Turned around. Let me know if you get dizzy."

You know it might be silly, considering you're about to see him naked regardless, but it feels more respectful to turn away. And, well, you almost saw him naked yesterday too.

There's only the noise of garments hitting the floor and the steady pouring of the tap. Quickly, you glance up into the mirror, just to make sure that he isn't unsteady on his feet. He seems a lot better than before, and you lower your eyes again.

Water sloshes around in the bathtub as he sits down. You gather a comb and brush from the sink cabinet before turning around. The first thing you do is pour a slosh of bath soap in it. You don't have to worry about looking if you can't see anything.

"You can adjust the temperature, if you want." The first thing he does is turn the handle all the way to the hottest setting. "Ah, still cold, are you?"

"A little." Your eyes roam over his head, shoulders, catching on his metal arm.

"Is it water-resistant? Your arm, I mean."

"Yes. It also cannot be taken off, so it does not matter." The skin around the place where the metal meets flesh is flushed red, annoyed. If you're being honest, it looks painful. Dug into the skin, stitched together, rather than merely slipped on.

Releasing a breath, you kneel down on the bath mat and take a look at what you're working with. His hair is a bit of a mess, to put it lightly. The worst offender being the part where his wound was the last night. The hair there is clumped together with dried blood into a solid mass. You're hesitant to just start pouring water over it because of the wound underneath. You click your tongue.

"I'm going to grab a cup— I'll be right back."

It's a lot easier than cupping your hands. You rush to the kitchen and back, returning to your earlier position. There's a solid layer of bubbles covering his body now, including a wall of steam. He really likes his baths hot. In order to scoop out some water, you clear away a bit of the soap and wipe the suds off on the bath mat.

In one hand, you carefully take a clump of bloodied hair. In the other, you take the cup and start to pour over it. You rub the wet hair in between your fingers. They're immediately stained red. As soon as the worst is washed out, you run through it with a wet comb. Then, you do the same thing, but with your fingers coated with shampoo and, later, conditioner. It takes absolutely forever as you move your way further up towards his scalp.

His hair is dirty, after all. There's knots in there so big that you spend a few minutes untying them, others that you end up having to cut out with a pair of scissors. He's like a matted dog. You pull out clumps of hair that aren't attached to anything at all and stick them on the tiled floor to be thrown away later. …You really need to wash your pillowcase after this. You're so lost in the repetitive tasks, that you hardly notice that the bath's a few inches away from spilling on the floor.

"I think the bath's full enough." In response, Sully reaches out and turns off the tap. You squint at his hair, knowing about the wound that's underneath it. "Does any of this hurt?"

"No." His voice is the most quiet you've heard him, though you'll admit that you haven't known him for very long. "The outside's healed already."

"It has?" You can't hide the surprise in your voice. "I'm pretty sure that's impossible."

"It is the same as I said before: I heal faster than humans."

Less careful now, you part his hair and peer through it. There really is no wound to be found on the side of his head. You breathe out a slow sigh. What you're seeing really is reality, so you continue on with washing his hair, a little less carefully than before. Rather than just washing the worst of his strands of hair, you massage your fingers alongside his scalp as well. The shampoo still doesn't produce much bubbles, so you go for another round. There's something soothing about cleaning him so thoroughly even though your fingers are starting to get a bit sore from the repetitive movements. The tips of them are wrinkled from the water.

Part of the reason you're taking your time with it is because Sully seems to be enjoying himself too. He's quiet other than the occasional slow exhale. What he does do, however, is lean into your touch. Leaning his neck in your direction and tilting his head like a pleased cat hoping for more scritches. Your heart warms with a bit of unexpected affection. It must've been a while since anyone has touched him like this. …You don't think you ever have been, at least. You smile as he lets out a sigh as your nails lightly scratch the top of his head.

You knead a final round of conditioner in his locks and grab a tube of body scrub. The glove that comes with is on the end of 'comically small' while pulled over his hand, but it does the job. You squirt a sizeable amount on it.

"This is body scrub. It feels a bit like… Paste with sand in it, I guess? It helps you get all the dead skin and dirt off, so you can just get to rubbing it everywhere." You turn around. "Well, not near your genitals— Just let me know if you need any help. I can do your back for you later."

You stare at the fogged-up mirror. He doesn't respond, which is expected. The sound of water sloshing around in the tub is about all the indication you need that he's listening to you. It seems to take forever until he's done. To be fair, there is probably quite a bit of dirt on him. It's only weird if you make it weird, you tell yourself, you're just helping out someone who needs it.

"I've scrubbed everything," comes softly from behind you.

"Alright, then I'll do your back." You're lucky that you have another glove with you. You try not to let your gaze wander too much, but it's clear he did his job on the rest of his body. His skin is rub red at some points, so maybe he did too good of a job.

You hum a little as you rub your gloved hand up and down his back. It's fascinating, almost, how much dirt comes off. Little rolled up, dark grey bundles of skin that you wipe down into the murky bath water. The upper area of his back is covered in dark hair, thinning out as it goes further down and along. There are a few more scars to be spotted here. Thin, jagged cuts crisscrossing through the skin. They've turned white with age. It takes a little while until you're satisfied. Only halfway through do you remember that he's supposed to be wearing bandages around his shoulders. They're discarded behind you on the floor, bloodied, not a wound in sight.

"I think that's about it," you say, rising to your feet. You keep your gaze off to the side. "You can stay in as long as you want. Got some clothes for you by the sink, towels on the rack, and I'll just be making some breakfast. Feel free to drain it, and get some fresh, warm water in there."

You're not sure whether you're being too condescending or not. He's not a child, after all. But maybe he likes the clear instructions? He's not complaining either way.

"…Thank you."

You smile at that. "Yeah, sure. Just join me whenever you feel like it."

Judging by the almost violent noise of sloshing water in the tub as soon as the door closes behind you, he'll be joining you soon.

You're making a mental list of things to do while shoving two slices of bread in the toaster and cracking two eggs in a frying pan. You need to get him some new clothes because he can't just keep wearing your oversized stuff. Besides that, you need to change the bedsheets. There's no way that you're not giving them a wash after seeing the amount of dirt that came off of that man. And you probably need to get some groceries. You take a step back to find something to flip the eggs with, only to collide with something solid.

"Oh!" You gasp out. "Oh, hey." Sully's body is damp, hair falling down in wet strings along his neck. The fabric on his shoulders is clearly a darker shade than the rest of the hoodie. Gaze slipping lower, you see a trail of wet footsteps making their way into the kitchen. Add a quick mop to the list.

"Did you not find the towels?" You don't want it to sound mean, it's a genuine question.

"You left," he responds, as if that is explanation enough. When you continue staring him down, his tone takes on something that borders on accusatory. "You said I could join you whenever I wanted to."

"Well, I— I guess you're not wrong about that." You laugh. "Next time, just get a bit more dry, okay? I gotta clean up the floor now."

"I will do it, handler," he quickly responds. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't worry about it." It's odd to have someone around you in your apartment. It feels strangely domestic, all of this, and you can feel your walls quickly crumbling. It's dumb, really stupid, but you can't really help it. "…How many eggs would you like for breakfast."

"Four."

You snort. "Alright, big guy. I'll let you know when they're done."

The two of you have a quiet breakfast together and, after that, he helps you with stuff around the house. Sully's always a step or two behind you or lingering in the doorway, so you figured he might as well help. You changed the sheets together and explained to him how the washing machine worked, then the vacuum cleaner. He picks everything up easily enough. You had half-expected him to tap out at some point or to show his 'true colours'. Instead, he's very attentive, asking questions when he doesn't explain something and taking over from you as soon as he understands.

You think he'll wander off eventually, but it doesn't stop for the rest of the day. If you sit on the couch to watch something, he's right there next to you. If you grab a snack from the kitchen, he leans against the counter and watches you work away. If you go to use the bathroom, he's waiting right outside. Going from living on your own to, well, this is a shift so jarring that you're exhausted a couple of hours in.

"Sully, I'm sorry, just…" you sigh and shake your head. "Do you need something from me right now? Otherwise, could you go somewhere else? I just… Would really appreciate some time on my own right now."

"Sorry. I was waiting for a mission."

"I don't think I'll have one for you for quite a while, I'm sorry." You have no idea what you'd have him do. "Go rest up, and let me know when you're completely healed, okay? I'll think of something. If you really don't want to go anywhere else, you can help around the house and get a job… Or something."

He nods quietly and wanders off to the bedroom again. You watch TV on your own for a little while in order to relax. Just as you're wondering whether Sully would even be able to get a job—you don't know whether he has any form of identification—you remember that you're supposed to get him clothes as well. You haven't seen him ever since you told him to leave you alone for a bit, and you go ahead and knock on his door.

It's cold outside on the way to the thrift store. Sully had gone with you without hesitation, because of course he had. It's a couple degrees above freezing. The sun reflects off of the snow all around you, almost making you wish you'd brought a set of sunglasses. Countless tracks have been dragged through the slush of snow.

You let out a little yelp as you lose your footing and grab on to Sully for purchase. He links his arm with yours. It keeps you steady. You mumble out an apology and grip his arm. You didn't have a coat for Sully to wear against the cold, but even while walking outside now he seems to radiate heat. You eye the cars driving past. The 'having a car' situation is pretty dire right now, and you're a little jealous.

Nothing to be done about it now. It's about fifteen minutes of walking. There's not a lot of people out and about right now. The ones that are seem to swerve around you as soon as you come near. Glancing up at Sully, the reason quickly becomes obvious. He's practically staring holes into anyone that comes near. Impolite, maybe. You're glad you won't have to make small talk with anyone, though.

Excepting your initial little slip, the two of you reach the thrift store without any issues. You gesture to a general direction in the store. There's endless rows of racks and hangers and stacks, but you've been here before.

"I think the men's stuff is over there," you tell him. "Just pick something out and I'll pay for it. Probably all of the basics and, like, a coat? It might be cold for a while longer." It's a little hard sometimes to tell what he needs extra explanations on, and what he doesn't.

"I will find satisfactory clothing."

You don't intend on buying anything. you don't have that much money to spend and you're sure that Sully's outfits will end up taking a chunk out of your budget. Instead, you just wander around for a little while and check out the new things that have come in. When you make your way to Sully, tall enough for his head to stick out above the clothing racks, his hands are still empty. He's packing back and forth.

"Have you found anything you like?" He looks to be frowning even harder than usual.

"There are… A lot of choices," he responds slowly. "I will need more time to determine which are the best options."

"Would it help if I gave you some options to choose from?" If he's going to be going through all the clothes here, that'll take him ages. The crease in between his brow seems to relax a little at that and he's nodding.

"Yes. That would help."

You pick out some simple clothes for him, mostly single colours, and fit for the warm weather. They end up pretty big because most of the sizing of the smaller shirts seems fine, until you try to get it to fit over his arms. In the end, it still ends up taking quite a while. You do find a sweater in darker grey colours that you quite like. Your fingers graze over fabric and you're not looking at him, as you ask.

"Your past handlers, they, they didn't often make you decisions for yourself?"

"I am expected to be able to make decisions on my own to ensure the optimal outcome of the mission," he responds. "Clothing is not usually one of my concerns."

You're quiet for a little while. As you follow the motions through the store, with Sully following half a step behind you as you go to pay, you're lost in thought. He doesn't start conversations on his own. It's only on the way back that you ask your question. If he's still acting at this point, it's a convincing one.

"If I told you to leave, what would you do?"

"I would leave."

You wait for any further elaboration, but none comes. He had offered you his arm to link through again as you made your way back over icy sidewalks. Sully's grip on you tightens a little.

"And then?"

"…'To leave' would be my only order? I would stay away and attempt to keep myself alive."

"You wouldn't go and find another handler?"

"I do not choose my handlers, they are chosen for me," he says, and you can once again hear the frown in his voice. "Excuse me, handler, I am not sure what response you are trying to hear. I'm sorry." The words are flat, spoken without actual guilt behind them.

You'd just been, curious, wanted to know whether you could let him go out into the world and he'd be alright.

"Are you implying you want me to leave?"

"No, I—" Saying that you'd like to 'keep him' feels demeaning. He's not some kind of dog, not some kind of weapon, despite what he seems to believe himself. But it seems he doesn't actually want to go ahead and do something with his life if you let him do whatever he wanted. Or maybe you could… Help him better get to that point?"

"I don't have… I don't have a good mission for you right now, would you still want to stay, then? I'll figure something out for you."

"I would stay. I do not judge the missions I receive, I do not have the right…" he trails off. When you look up at him, his mouth is slightly open. He closes it again.

"Go on. Share your thoughts. As a general rule, Sully," you start, your voice taking on steadiness that makes it clear to him how serious you are. "I'd like to hear what is on your mind and what you want, okay?"

"You are a very unusual handler," he says, and you laugh.

"Yeah, that sounds about right. Do you mind?"

"No." Maybe you'll be able to train a sense of humour into him.

The two of you, with some time, manage to settle in some kind of routine. Sully has found a job with irregular hours in a warehouse (how, exactly, you're not sure, it's working out, and that's what matters. You're both happy and a little sad he doesn't hang around your workplace anymore). The pay's not great, but neither of yours is, and you've. always managed to make ends meet. Sully never looks as tired as you do in the mornings. He also keeps the house in order, often even prepares lunches for you. He ignores any and all of your protests. That's another thing that's changed over the months: he's started listening to you a bit less, which you suppose is a good thing.

"You told me I should do what I want, and say what I think," he just responds to your protests. "I want to do this. So, asking me not to won't achieve anything."

You think he'd stop if you ordered him to do so, but you have no intention of doing so. It's only been fun and exciting for you to see more and more of his personality and interests come to light. Sully likes going to the library to pick up old movies, like, half-a-century old, and sometimes watches the same ones over and over again, frowning. You'd managed to pick up an old gramophone from an antique shop after saving up for a while, and he'd been really happy with it. Sully likes to have something to do. He gets restless and one of the few orders you do give is for him to just sit down. Often, he cooks, but that might be because he seems to always be starving.

He's touchy, too. You don't mind, honestly, you're touch-starved and happy for the company. Something you have in common. Neither of your draw attention to it when he wraps an arm around you while sitting on the couch, or how he doesn't even pretend to be going into the guest bedroom anymore. A bigger bed should probably be something to save up for, but you quite like being cosied up next to him. Still, you had offered it to him. It shouldn't all be about what you want.

It only led to you seeing the first glimpses of a teasing side to his personality. "I don't think I'd rather be anywhere else right now," he'd said with a smile. "Or are you going to order me to leave, handler?"

You wouldn't. And he'd known that, of course, much as it amused him. You like his company too much, regardless of the fact that you don't really know what you are to each other. You've never asked him out or really spoken about it, never done anything outright romantic like kiss. Despite the butterflies in your stomach that you get in his presence, you don't dare disturb the equilibrium you've achieved and lose it all in the process. Rathe just 'overly touchy' roommates than to find out he's just acting like this because he still sees you as his superior.

(Occasionally, there is the odd occurrence. There had been some kind of leakage in the roof of the store you worked in and it'd closed hours earlier than you were supposed to. You'll miss the pay, but in the moment you were just happy to be done. When you walked through the door, you'd been smiling, eager to call out for Sully— Only to run into a wall of bleach. The smell was so strong that it burned the inside of your nose as you inhaled.

"What happened? It smells like… You accidentally made chlorine gas, or something."

"Yes… Accidentally mixed something, then spilled it," Sully says, a large garbage bag tucked underneath his arm. "I am cleaning it. I thought you would be home later. Why don't you go to the library, and I'll open the windows until the smell is gone?"

You try not to think about it too hard. It's not worth it.)

On the other end of the spectrum, you'd walked in on Sully sitting on the couch, fly unzipped and belt down, his fist wrapped around his cock. In your shock, your eyes had lingered long enough for your brain to register two things. One, fuck, he's huge, and two, oh god, he's jerking off in the middle of the living room. He'd heard you come in and hadn't even stopped touching himself. You promptly turned around, hands flying up to cover your eyes.

Even then, the slick noise of his hand pumping his erection didn't stop.

"Sully! Oh my god, stop— You can't just do that!" You cried out, because he wasn't stopping due to the social pressure alone. "Stop! Just, just get your clothes back on." Your face is on fire. You swear he'd been looking at you while touching himself.

"Tell me, tell me when you're done and I can turn around," you said next. His clothes showed that his cock hadn't flagged much, the bulge visibly straining against the fabric. "And go wash your hands, please!"

You hadn't mentioned it again, but you'd be lying if you said that the sight of his cock hadn't crossed your mind since. That was only a week ago and it's driving you a little crazy. He also doesn't bring it up, which makes it clear that Sully doesn't want to talk about it either. But it's getting to him too, you think. He's more restless than ever and has started working through a list of '100 hobbies to try' that you'd printed out for him.

It comes to a head about a week later, when you wake up in the middle of the night.

It's not the first time it happens. Sully has plenty of nightmares that he jolts awake from and refuses to talk about. You'll jerk away to him shooting upright in bed, the last chords of a cry still on his lips. Sometimes, it's enough to put a hand on him and soothe him back. Other times, you need to flick on the light on the bedside table to show him exactly where he is, or offer him a glass of water with ice cubes in it. Holding the cubes in his hands seems to ground him even more. But he always calms down, in the end, and Sully thanks you before going back to sleep.

It's different when you wake up this time.

For one, it's not a sudden jolt to the surface. You're warm and cosy underneath your blankets, pressed down into the mattress. Your awakening is slow. A little undecipherable noise slips past your lips and the movement, gentle and steady, like the rocking of a boat, comes to a halt. Ironically enough, it's exactly this change in rhythm that ends up rousing you.

More than just warm, it feels like you're being smothered. Sully is wrapped around you, a leg slipped across over both of yours, his head above yours on the pillow. One of his hands rests on your stomach. Curled up and holding you to his chest. There's been some touching while both of you have shared a bed, it's unavoidable, but it's usually in the realm of getting an elbow in your shoulder. Nothing like this. Nothing like the unmistakable bulge rubbing against your ass.

Your face feels like it's on fire. It's hard to keep your eyes fully closed now, eyelids fighting to flutter open. Sully's breath is heavy and hot against the top of your head. The hand that's on your stomach pinches the skin there a little. You're not sure— This is a lot to take in all at once. You try to keep your breathing as unchanged as if you were still asleep, but your heart is picking up a rapid pace. You can feel that wetness has already gathered in between your legs.

"Sully…" You say slowly, and his arm around you tightens.

"I'm sorry," he breathes out. Rather than slowing, the thrusting of his hips against your ass grows a little more intens. "You can punish me for this, if you want, handler— You do not like them, I know, but… You told me not to touch myself, and this is worse."

"Told you not to touch yourself? When did I— Oh." Of course, it had to have been the one time you mentioned anything like that. And it had only been a week ago. "I didn't mean, I just meant that you shouldn't do it out in the open."

"Well, what am I doing right now?" He asks, breathily, and still he doesn't stop. "If you don't know how to punish me, I have ideas. Force me out into the cold, throw cold water over me, or—"

"I don't do punishments, Sully." A tremor has crept into your voice. Saliva has gathered in your mouth, knowing that you'd been suffering in silence because he wants you he wants you he wants you without any order.

"And I'm not going to start with them now. I was— I was unclear, and I was in the wrong for that."

"Why are you not telling me to stop?" He murmurs, quieter this time. His movements have slowed again.

"Be, because," your voice cracks. You've been making him voice his desires all this time, ordering him to always share what he wanted, and yet you had failed to do the same thing all along. "Because I don't want you stop. I never… I would never ask for something like this, I was scared that you— I don't want to make you do anything you don't want. Couldn't order something like this, on accident."

Sully lets out a groan, drawn-out and rumbling. "You are so odd, handler. One of your first orders was to always do what I want. I wouldn't do this if I didn't, you couldn't have made me."

The problem is, you don't quite believe that. Sully stab himself in the gut, you think, if you asked him to do it. Acting out your orders is something he believes he wants to do, isn't it?

"I don't, I don't think—"

"You didn't ask me to do this," he interjects. "This is all me. I went against your orders, so punish me, or let me keep going. I want you, I have wanted you. Any way you'll let me have you."

You press your face sideways into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. Those words from him are about the sweetest, most personal thing you've ever heard, and you can't think of anything to say that'll match it. Not with your brain seeming to melt more inside of your skull with each passing moment.

"Don't, don't stop," you whisper and Sully buries his face into your hair. You lift your leg up a little and his knee immediately presses against your crotch, applying pressure as you grind down against it.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he presses his lips to the top of your head, each sentence punctuated by a hot puff of air. "Won't stop, always do what you want—" His hips stutter against your ass, you're pulled flush against him so tight that you're not sure where you end and he begins. Sweat slicks your skin underneath your clothes, but you don't move to take them off. You hardly move at all, terrified of shattering the moment.

You whine at the friction, all-consuming and at the same time by no means enough. "I wanted this," you say, all you can think of. You try to match your movements with his. Your rhythms remain barely out of sync, Sully humping you like an animal in heat, the bed frame creaking with each of his movements.

"I wanted you to do something like this, too."

"You should have asked earlier," is the response you receive. "Tell me what you want now."

You stop being able to speak when the pressure in your stomach, the desire to touch yourself, outweighs all else and you slip a hand in past the front of your pants. They're easily made slick with your arousal and you furiously start rubbing at yourself.

"Kiss, kiss my neck?" You ask shakily. At once, Sully is there, wet lips kissing and sucking on the flesh of your throat. You shudder with pleasure as the tip of his tongue wets the skin.

Egged on by his noises, you let out of a shaky moan of your own as you work yourself to the edge with your fingers. You hardly need any stimulation to get there.

"Please, please." Sully breathes out against the skin of your throat, and you don't need any explanation to know what he's begging for. You still your fingers and focus on moving back against him, prioritizing his pleasure over your own.

"Cum." The word comes out like a command, and Sully trembles behind you, a strangled moan pulled from his throat. His pace becomes stuttered and fragmented. Then, his mouth once again starts to form words of gratitude.

"Thank you, you're the best, best handler— Always so good to me, the best to me, thank you, always." You clench around nothing at his words, panting heavily. "You're, you're my favourite, yes."

Sully never lies to you, and what have you given him in return? You feel selfish, gluttonous. And yet, you can't help yourself, going back to touching yourself, holding your breath as you press your face into the pillow. He's stopped grinding himself against you, instead groping at your chest and thighs. Your fingers are starting to cramp, growing wrinkled with the amount of slick you're coated in, but you couldn't care less right now.

"Don't leave me, okay?" Your real desire spills free from you, pulled loose by your sleepiness and arousal. "Please don't leave me alone again, I—" You let out a half-sob as Sully sucks on your throat.

"Won't. Ever," he growls against you, and it's enough to shove you over the edge, noisy and babbling as pleasure rocks you to your core. If it weren't for the words you just said, you would've immediately drifted off again, limbs deliciously relaxed.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't take it back." He says it so sternly that your mouth immediately snaps back shut again. "Those were your true feelings. I'll stay."

"Because you want to?"

Of course, the way he does become your familiar is quite unorthodox.

Trying to prove yourself as a true knight and not some girl playing folly, you venture out into the darklands to help a village on the other side that has reportedly been suffering goblin attacks. The king hasn't sent out any armies for whatever reason. So you go instead.

But due to your lack of proper experience and training, the darklands is a place that proves too treacherous for you.

White Raven Hybrid- Crau, finds you nearly half dead leaning beside a boulder. You'd managed to escape an ogre attack with your sword broken in half.

Crau comes down towards you, hopping around your body and you're too fatigued to properly swat him away. Muttering things like, "I'm not dead yet, damn bird,".

"Well that's not nice, I'm only here to help,"

The humanness of the voice makes you snap your head up at the white raven. Eyes squinting in confusion, are you hallucinating already?

"No, not hallucinating. I'm a raven hybrid- if you let me become your familiar, I can save you," he promises, eager beady eyes staring into your own.

"M'not a witch," you grumble, hating the term.

"Well, your ancestors must've been then. It's a weak presence but I can tell you've got some magic in you. Come on- just bond with me and you'll live,"

Your vision starts to fog, even as adrenaline fights to keep you alive. A big part of you fears dying. You're not going to let this be the end of you. No way.

You agree and let him become your familiar. Perhaps it was in an entirely illegal and unorthodox manner as Crau has only ever seen blood magic be practiced in the darklands- but in the end he's your familiar and you're alive.

In truth, Crau proves to be a huge help in the months that come to pass. He acts as a lookout and even helps you fight occasionally (blood on his feathers is a big no). He perches on your shoulder when you walk around town and whispers follow the two of you.

More traditional, old townsfolk are wary of you. A knight who's also a witch with a white raven familiar? Sounds like you come out of some childhood nightmare- which people do end up telling their kids to be wary of you.

The kingdom denies your existence, stripping you of your knighthood. You become a mercenary and the whispers in the streets turn to bargains in alleyways. You're quite good at being a mercenary, much to your dismay because you never wanted this.

Still, Crau proves good company- better than any man you trained with.

Near Spring you manage to settle down at an abandoned cottage. While you hunt for food, Crau leads you to it. Sometimes he even goes out and helps collect berries for you.

Recently he'd been becoming more...affectionate? If that was the word. He'd prepare you bowls of fruits and nuts randomly. Often times he'd be gone for a day or two and come back with jewellery or scraps. It was odd but you brushed it off as a raven thing. Even as he'd also curl up with you in winter times, humanoid form pressed right up against yours.

You try keep some private time to yourselves. Sure, you hear scuttling and stomps in the attic but you try ignore it for the most part.

That is until, one day when you come home from a hunt, you hear him cawing out in a way you never had before. It's like it's been scratched out this throat and it's followed by loud thumps.

You rush upstairs, fearing that he is in danger. Instead of whatever horrific scene you'd pictured up, it is something you never expected.

Crau is in his human form, skin white as snow with soft white feathers sprouted down his spine, on the backs of his arms (to form wings), a small tail at the bottom of his spine which covers his ass. His back is turned towards you, mid-length hair covering his nape and making a curtain on either side of his face. He's on his knees, talons curled and twitching as his clawed hands grip onto a pillow

A pillow with your shirt on it. It takes you a moment to realise what's going on before it clicks. He's humping the pillow. Switching between cawing out and cooing your name.

"Oh."

You slowly come to realise that Crau is in rut and, additionally, that he has bonded with you. Maybe that's why you also feel that heat between your legs.

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