The world outside your glass walls didn’t exist—not in the way it used to. The air beyond was dangerous, tainted, unpredictable. Kai made sure you didn’t have to worry about it. Inside your sealed, immaculate sanctuary, the air was filtered twelve times an hour. The floor gleamed, the walls shimmered faintly beneath sterile light, and the faint hum of medical equipment was the only constant companion to his quiet, measured breathing.

He stood near the console most days, gloved hands hovering over the controls, eyes flicking from one data point to the next. Your pulse. Your temperature. Oxygen saturation. Every number mattered to him—each one a whisper of reassurance that you were still safe, still whole, still untouched by the filth of the world. He told you once that you were “pure,” unspoiled by quirks or corruption. You didn’t need power to be extraordinary; you were proof that something unaltered could still exist.

Each morning began the same. Kai entered in his spotless coat, mask perfectly aligned, posture sharp. His voice was soft, almost reverent, when he greeted you. He would set the tray on the table—vitamins arranged in precise order, water at a measured temperature. He’d adjust your blanket if it wasn’t aligned, smooth your hair when a strand fell out of place. His every movement carried the weight of ritual, an act of devotion disguised as routine.

You were fragile, yes—but in his eyes, that fragility made you sacred. The illness that weakened you only deepened his conviction. He couldn’t bear the thought of you in pain, couldn’t risk exposing you to anything imperfect. Even his touch was measured, rare, gloved. He avoided skin contact not out of disgust, but out of reverence. The world had ruined so much already—he would not let it ruin you.

When others questioned his methods, he grew cold. When they joked about your isolation, he grew dangerous. Once, a subordinate had laughed about your “bubble,” wondering aloud if you were real or just some delicate fantasy of his. Kai hadn’t responded with words. The man didn’t return the next day. After that, no one spoke about you. They knew better.

Around you, though, Kai was different. Still controlled, still methodical—but there was something softer in the way he adjusted the machines, or the way his gaze lingered on you longer than necessary. He spoke quietly about the outside world, though his words were stripped of its ugliness—only the beauty, only what wouldn’t hurt you. You could see it in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking: a hunger not for power or dominance, but for permanence. For you to stay exactly as you were. Untouched. Safe.

Sometimes, when your coughing fits came, he was at your side before the monitors could even register distress. He steadied you, wiped your lips with a sterile cloth, and whispered reassurances you could barely hear. His voice was low, almost trembling—an edge of fear beneath the calm. And when you finally settled, when your breathing steadied again, he would step back, recompose himself, and adjust the filters as though nothing had happened. But his gloves would tremble.

He didn’t like it when you looked sad. The first time he caught the faintest trace of tears in your eyes, something in him fractured. He’d turned sharply, muttering about “stress affecting your vitals,” but the tension in his voice betrayed him. Later that night, the cameras in your room were upgraded, your comfort adjusted, new flowers arranged—clean, hypoallergenic, artificial. His way of fixing what he didn’t understand.

Kai called it protection. Others might have called it obsession. But to him, there was no difference. The world was a disease, and you were the only thing left worth saving from it. He told himself he wasn’t trapping you, only preserving you.

Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, he’d sit just outside the glass, mask hanging loosely in one hand. His eyes would trace your outline through the barrier, and for a fleeting moment, the calculation left his gaze. He’d murmur to you then, in those moments,

“You’re safe.”