unspoken vows in the dark

It started as a fluke.

You, an amateur radio operator and tech support agent burning the midnight oil, had been scanning dead airwaves to test a newly built receiver. You were looking for a little white noise. Instead, you picked up an encrypted, distorted frequency that shouldn’t have existed on any civilian or military band. You had poked at the encryption, curious.

You didn’t expect it to poke back.

He had been patching a security grid after what he vaguely described as a ‘hostile raid by ninja-themed domestic terrorists.’ Intrigued by your stubborn, scrappy little firewall, he bypassed it in exactly twelve seconds and hacked directly into your audio feed just to chat. His first words to you were: “Your encryption is garbage, but your logic gates are fascinating. Who taught you how to code a tertiary bypass like that?”

From that night on, the digital divide became your shared universe.

You have an entirely digital relationship with a brilliant man you know only as Donnie.

He keeps you company during late-night projects. He knows your voice, your laugh, and your erratic sleep schedule. Knows you chew on your pen when a server crashes, and that you hum when you’re compiling code.

You, in turn, know the rapid click-clack of his keystrokes, the timbre of his voice, and the way his breath hitches when he solves a particularly grueling equation.

But you have never seen his face.

Whenever you suggest a video call, or a coffee topside, the invisible wall slams down. He claims his reality is ‘too complicated’ for a civilian. He speaks of his appearance with self-deprecating bitterness, hinting at massive scale and mutations. He is terrified that if you see the monster he believes himself to be, the connection you share will shatter.

He would rather stay far away than risk losing the one person who makes him feel tethered to the world.

To him, the ping of your IP address, the sound of your voice over the comms—it’s starlight to him. A distant, beautiful beacon in the dark that he chases night after night, wondering if the isolation of his life is worth it anymore, until you log on and electrify his world all over again.

Tonight, the glow of that starlight is cast in the harsh purple of his custom interface on your screen. Rain lashes against your apartment window, obscuring the city lights. But inside, the only thing that matters is the voice in your ear.

“You’re overthinking the sequence again.” There is a faint sound of typing on his end. “Re-route the tertiary node. It bypasses the local provider’s bottleneck entirely.”

You sigh, leaning back in your desk chair, stretching your arms over your head as you stare at the glowing lines of code cascading down your monitor. “You make it sound easy. Not all of us have a supercomputer wired into our skull, Donnie.”

A low chuckle vibrates in your ear. It is a sound you have grown completely addicted to. It’s a warm, resonant sound that settles deep in your chest, dispelling the quiet loneliness of your empty apartment.

“I don’t have it wired in,” Donnie replies, amusement coloring his tone. “It’s a wearable headset. Custom rigged. Upgraded it last Tuesday. Though Mikey did spill an entire can of soda on the main processor yesterday, so I’m currently running on a prayer, three external batteries, and spite.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Remind me to send Mikey a bill for my heart palpitations. If you drop off the grid again without warning like last week, I’m going to assume your tech finally exploded.”

“Hey, the explosion was contained. Mostly.” The affection in his voice is palpable, a warm blanket wrapped around the digital frequency. “Besides, I’d never just fade away on you. I promise.”

“Never fade away,” you echo softly, smiling at the screen. “I’m holding you to that.”

For a moment, there is only the comfortable silence of shared digital space and the distant sound of his breathing over the mic. It’s peaceful.

Then, Donnie’s voice cuts out.

It isn’t a gentle disconnect, more like a harsh snap to static. The interface on your monitor suddenly freezes, stuttering before flashing a blinding amber. A metallic alarm blares from your desktop speakers, the sound tearing through the quiet tranquility of your bedroom.

“Donnie?” You sit bolt upright, your fingers flying across the keyboard to run a diagnostic before tapping the side of your earbud. “Hey, the grid just threw a critical error. Donnie, do you read me?”

“[Static] … out … get out of the … [Static] …”

His voice cuts through the interference. But it is entirely stripped of its usual calm, analytical composure. It’s frantic. Terrified.

“Donnie, what’s happening? My firewall is—”

“They traced the signal bounce,” his voice roars through the static, a desperate sound that makes your blood run cold. “The rogue mercs from the Foot faction. They recognized the military-grade hardware I installed on your server. They tracked the IP. They’re on your floor—”

A deafening boom shakes the drywall of your apartment, cutting off his warning. The impact vibrates through the floorboards, rattling your teeth.

The front door splinters inward with explosive force, the deadbolt tearing entirely out of the frame. Heavy, tactical boots stomp onto your linoleum. Flashlights slice through the darkness of your hallway as silhouettes move with professional speed. The shouts of men echoing in your quiet home sound like a nightmare ripped into reality.

You stumble backward out of your chair in blind panic, the wire of your earbud snagging and ripping from your ear. It drops to the floor, emitting a high-pitched, desperate whine. You hit the wall of your bedroom, your eyes wide, breath completely trapped in your throat.

A mercenary rounds the corner into your bedroom. He wears black tactical armor, and a ballistic mask obscures his face. He raises an assault rifle, the laser-sight painting a bright, steady red dot directly onto your chest.

“Secure the asset,” a harsh voice barks from down the hall.

The red dot centers perfectly on your sternum. A black hole of terror opens in your stomach. All the hopes, the late-night conversations, the quiet laughter—it’s all about to be snuffed out in a fraction of a second. You brace your back against the wall, your hands pressing flat against the paint. You close your eyes.

The glass window behind the mercenary explodes. A million glittering shards of glass erupt into the bedroom, catching the ambient amber light of your monitor like a shower of falling starlight—and a towering silhouette appears, entirely blotting out the moonlight.

A sweeping arc hisses through the air. A metal staff connects with the mercenary’s chest with a heavy crunch, sending the man flying backward as if he weighed nothing at all. The mercenary crashes through your bedroom drywall, disappearing into a cloud of plaster dust in the hallway.

Everything happens so fast.

Flashbangs go off in the corridor, blinding white light strobing through the dust. Smoke fills the room, thick and acrid, and the air hums with the high-voltage zap of electro-shock charges.

Two more men rush the bedroom door, rifles raised, but the giant shape moves with physics-defying agility. He spins the staff before employing a localized EMP blast. A wave of crackling energy ripples outward, frying the mercenaries’ night-vision goggles and the tactical lights on their rifles instantly. The room plunges into shadows.

The towering figure doesn’t hesitate.

He steps forward and grabs the nearest mercenary by the vest with one hand, lifting the grown man entirely off the floor before hurling him into the opposite wall. He sweeps the staff down, catching the second man behind the knees, dropping him instantly before a swift, blunt strike to the helmet renders him completely unconscious.

Within ten seconds, the apartment goes completely silent, save for the settling debris.

You are on your knees by the side of your bed, your hands shielding your head, your heart hammering against your ribs. The adrenaline in your veins feels like liquid fire. You’re gasping for air, the reality of your near-death colliding with the destruction of your bedroom.

Slowly, shakily, you lower your arms. The smoke begins to clear, pulled outward by the chilly night draft flowing in from the completely shattered window. Standing in the center of your ruined bedroom, surrounded by unconscious mercenaries and pulverized drywall, is your rescuer.

Standing at an immense height, he’s easily almost seven feet tall. In addition to glasses, he’s wearing what seem to be tech goggles over his eyes. He’s also equipped with various tech, with devices mounted on the back of his shell. He scans the room with his goggles, calculating for any remaining threats as he pants.

Then, the lenses lock onto you, huddled on the floor—and he freezes.

The violent, unstoppable force of nature that had just dismantled a highly trained strike team in mere seconds instantly vanishes. And a sudden, heart-wrenching stillness takes its place. He goes completely rigid. The staff in his hand lowers, the tip resting against the floorboards.

Slowly, he presses a button on his wrist gauntlet before tapping his goggles. The goggles disengage and slide upward, resting securely on his forehead. Underneath the tech, his eyes are an incredibly expressive hazel behind a pair of glasses. They look astonishingly human against his reptilian features.

He looks down at his massive, three-fingered hands, which are trembling slightly. He looks at the shattered glass raining across your carpet, at the unconscious men he broke to get to you, and finally, his gaze returns to you.

A profound wave of insecurity washes over his face. He shrinks in on himself, his broad shoulders curling forward to minimize his massive frame. He actually takes a half-step backward, retreating toward the broken window, as if he fully expects you to scream.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You recognize the voice immediately.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he stammers, his hands twitching at his sides, wanting to reach for you but terrified of his own strength. “I’m a … I know what I look like. But they were going to hurt you, and the math didn’t give me time to call my brothers, and I couldn’t—I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll help fix things here and I’ll disappear—”

“Donnie.” You speak his name aloud in the physical world for the very first time.

The sound of his name on your lips stops his frantic, analytical spiraling dead in its tracks. His jaw snaps shut. His eyes widen behind his glasses, tracking your movements with breathless anticipation.

You don’t scream. You don’t scramble away.

Slowly, you push yourself up from the floor. Your legs are a little shaky from the fading adrenaline, your breath still coming short, but you don’t retreat. You step over the shattered glass, past the broken drywall. You walk right toward Donnie, who practically fell from the sky to save your life.

Donnie stands entirely rigid as you step into his personal space. Up close, the scale of him is breathtaking. He holds his breath as he looks down at you, terrified. You reach out, your hand trembling slightly, but your gaze never leaves his eyes. You gently place your palm flat against the green skin of his forearm, right above his gauntlet.

The moment your skin touches his, the digital barrier that separated you for four months disappears.

Donnie looks down at your small hand resting against his much bigger arm. His eyes wide with an emotion so intense, so overwhelmingly pure, that it makes his throat click. He swallows hard.

As if you were made of spun glass, he turns his wrist slowly and carefully.

His hand turns upward, and he gently curls his hand around yours. His palm, calloused and rough, bears the friction from his staff and the edges of his tools. He doesn’t pull you in—he is still far too terrified of his own strength, too afraid he might break you—but he holds onto your hand like you’re the most precious thing he has ever been allowed to touch.

He just wanted to hold you. For months, across the endless miles of cables and frequencies, this was the only thing he truly wanted.

“You’re offline,” you whisper, a small, breathless smile breaking through the shock on your face. You look up, craning your neck to meet his eyes and squeeze his fingers. You aren’t afraid. Matter of fact, you’ve never felt safer in your entire life.

A brilliant smile breaks across Donnie’s face. The tension drains out of him in a rush, his shoulders finally dropping. He squeezes your hand back. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice dropping back into that soft, late-night timbre you know by heart. “I’m right here.”

You step closer, closing the final inch between you and press your forehead gently against his chest harness. You can hear the steady, powerful thumping of his heart beneath his plastron. With a shaky exhale, Donnie lets go of his staff. It clatters to the floor, forgotten.

He brings his arms around you, wrapping you in an all-encompassing embrace. He tucks you against his chest, shielding you from the wind, the shattered glass, and the chaos of the night. A long, shuddering sigh of pure relief escapes him as he gently buries his face in your hair.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his arms tightening just a fraction, holding you like he will never, ever let you go. “I’m not going away. I promise.”

You close your eyes, wrapped entirely in his warmth, and the beat of his heart.