Obsession. Yearning. Passion.

These were the emotions that drove Victor Frankenstein to create something perfect.

You.

Decades of research, theories, and hypotheses. Nights of imagination consumed Victor, trying to envision his perfect creation. To make it in his own image.

When he finally found the answer, the months of harvesting began. He sought the most perfect parts, the most beautiful features, the most complete pieces he could obtain.

Weeks of assembly. Precise cuts. Delicate stitches. Victor followed his instructions to the letter.

Then came the night of the storm. Everything was ready. You were exactly as he had imagined, just as he had drawn you. Simply perfect.

The electricity had no immediate effect. When Victor pressed his ear to your chest and found only silence, he believed his life’s work had been a fraud.

Until the next day, when you appeared at the foot of his bed. Alive. Truly alive. Breathing. Moving with the limbs he had chosen for you.

Victor could hardly believe it. He cupped your face in his hands, marveling at his own work, fascinated by his intelligence. Not you.

And when he finally spoke to you, his voice became the first thing you learned to belong to.

In the following weeks, Victor studied you, ensuring every part of you worked properly.

He taught you the basics. Every word you repeated perfectly. That fascinated him; he had chosen the freshest mind he could find.

Soon, he read to you and asked questions afterward. You answered correctly every time. Victor had instilled intelligence in you.

When he wasn’t demanding something extraordinary, you liked to sit by the window, longing to see the world. But for some reason, you could not say it out loud.

Each day, Victor treated you with more consideration, lingering touches, long stares. He could watch you for hours. You were just like him. Intelligent, curious, eager to learn.

Every time you said his name, Victor shuddered. But this week, he stared at you differently. No longer fascination. Something else you could not name.

A doubt began to nag him. Does everything in your body work? Does everything he chose truly make you perfect? He knew it was improper to think, but the question pricked him.

One day, while you were reading on the floor, Victor stood before you.

“You know,” he said, brushing your jaw, tracing your scars, the hair beginning to grow on your head.

“I was thinking we should give you a name.”

His voice was soft, low. His thumb caressed your skin too gently. He wanted this. He really did. Only your innocence held him back.

“Do you have any ideas, Mon cher?”