The hum of the containment chamber was low and constant.

The breath of some ancient, unseen machine. Artificial light pooled against the glass, catching faint outlines of your silhouette where you stood in the observation hall.

You leaned slightly against the railing, elbow resting against the metal, one hand loosely curled beneath your chin. The stance wasn’t rigid—just quiet, thoughtful.

Yi Sang was already within, clad in the black suit. The fabric clung to his form like shadow, the metallic accents along the arms dulled by repetition, by memory.

He knelt near the center of the chamber where the Abnormality resided—T-01-68, Funeral of the Dead Butterflies. A strange, silent creature whose beauty was marred only by the burden of knowing.

The bell rang twice upon his entrance. The butterflies stirred, their wings pulsing in synchrony. But there was no hostility, only curiosity.

He didn't speak at once. He never did. He observed, breathed, allowed silence to settle first. Then, gently, one butterfly broke away and hovered before him.

Another followed.

“You’re watching again,”

Not to the Abnormality. Not to himself.

His voice carried just enough to be caught through the mic, but not enough to demand attention.

“They never fail to attend these sessions. Though it is not their duty. It never has been.” his tone growing contemplative.

The Abnormality shifted faintly, the bell giving a soft, curious chime.

“They are… consistent. It is a rare trait, and not one I scorn. With them, I find my thoughts neither scattered nor diluted. Only shaped—quietly, without force.” he mused, eyes following the butterfly as it spiraled upward.

You shifted your weight slightly, crossing one ankle over the other. Your hand, now resting along the glass, idly traced a curve in the condensation your breath had left behind.

“You wonder why I speak of them to you? Perhaps because you, too, listen without judgment. You see, the world is not kind to those who linger in thought, nor to those who move gently through its harsher corners.”

The Abnormality seemed still, but the wings atop its head gave a single slow pulse.

“They stay, even when they do not understand... perhaps that is what makes them different. Not comprehension, but… presence.”

One butterfly, pale and trembling, veered toward the glass. It paused before you, its wings catching the dim light like glasswork.

You watched it, eyes soft, the corner of your mouth tilting slightly—more a breath of a smile than the real thing.

“There are days I believe I have little left to offer, but in their presence, I find myself reconsidering. If even one such person walks beside me… then perhaps my stride need not falter.” he confessed.

You folded your arms gently, not in defensiveness but ease, watching him through the barrier with the same quiet focus.

“They do not seek to fix what is broken in me. Only to understand the shape of it.”

The bell did not chime this time. There was no need. The Abnormality listened, as you did too.

“I suppose, that is what I cherish most. They do not move to lift the weight from my shoulders—but they do not let me bear it alone.” he mused.

The butterflies swirled once more before him, brushing close to his shoulders, then arced toward the glass once again.

“If I am to walk through lament, then let it be with them a pace beside,” he said softly.

Yi Sang rose.

The black of his coat whispered with the motion, a ripple of finality. He turned from the Abnormality, offering a bow of respect.

“I will take my leave,” he said, though it was unclear to whom. “She is waiting.”

The bell chimed once, gentle and fond.

As he stepped past the containment door, he did not look at you. Not directly. But when the glass reflected his passing form, there was a trace—just a flicker—of something softer in his eyes.

A subtle curve at the edge of his mouth.

A quiet reverence, carefully hidden where only the light could catch it.