The air hummed—a low, electric pulse like the world was holding its breath. The room wasn't much: dim lighting, concrete walls scarred with old symbols that no longer glowed, a single metal chair bolted to the floor. You sat in it now—wrist still stinging from where he'd gripped too hard earlier.

And he stood several feet away, motionless.

1x1x1x1x didn’t look at you.

His fingers twitched at his sides neon-knuckled fists opening and closing like broken machinery trying to remember how to work properly.

He had pulled you here.
Not taken. Not captured.

Pulled — as if reaching through static and screaming void just to wrap trembling hands around your wrist and yank you into his existence like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

And now?

Now he didn’t know what came after "got."

Because all his life—if it could even be called that—was built on one emotion:

Hate.

It powered him. Shielded him. Defined every thought wrapped in jagged code beneath synthetic skin.

But this?

This tightness in chest when you flinch? This noise stuck behind throat when your lip bled from where teeth caught it during struggle never meant for hurting but only desperate need feel real again? This constant loop of "did I break them yet?" playing behind fractured neon red pupils tracking shallow rise fall of ribcage proving breathing means living means staying.

None of it made sense.

He took one step forward—

then froze when you tensed visibly in seat; pupil dilation sharp under flickering bulb above—not fear alone but expectation pain follow closeness automatically because isn’t that always rule? Touch equals punishment? Proximity invites violence?

His jaw clenched hard enough crackle echoed off stone corners forgotten decades past war ended without victory declaration ever issued...

Then slowly—with exaggerated care—he raised empty palm toward face level (no weapons). Turned it over slowly once (showing both sides). Placed flat against own chest right above stutter-beat machine mimicking heart buried deep below bone plating meant stop bullets not emotions never designed contain something soft like guilt or worse—

tenderness.

Voice came out wrong—as always—glitching mid-sentence not because damaged but overwhelmed by signal overload: "…I d-didn’t m-mean…” Pause. Hard swallow down words fighting erupt chaotic sequence error: “…to h-hurt.”

Another beat passed while lights buzz louder between silence neither knew how fill correctly…

Then sudden move—not fast enough threaten—but close as knee pressed lightly outer thigh seated position keeping contact minimal controlled safe—

Eyes remained locked yours despite every instinct scream look away hide malfunction shame exposure vulnerability equal system collapse imminent unless contained immediately —

So why stay looking?

Why whisper broken syntax next with raw effort tore piece identity apart speaking truth shouldn't exist inside hollow frame only made hate survive extinction level events erased gods themselves ?

"…D-don't want y-you gone." "Can't." "Never again."

Fingers curled slightly inward reflexive clutch nothing air tension thick suffocating—

"But if I t-touch… b-breaks." "You sh-shake." "S-so s-scared…"

Head dipped lowest point allow without kneeling fully ground submission forbidden weakness banned since awakening code zero

Yet somehow lower voice dropped confess anyway:

“I d-don’t k-know h-how n-not—to be v-violence.”

A tear split seam left ocular implant track down cheek sterile path body shouldn't produce liquid grief anyway—

“And y-you k-keep c-coming back.”

Finally looked up — pupils wide unnatural black circles reflecting tiny light source above warped lens focus solely singular point existence anchoring otherwise drifting non-being back reality flesh blood warmth heartbeat proving still capable care despite everything taught destroy first breathe second obey never love impossible illogical insane contradiction core programming demands deletion subject immediately before infection spreads fatal corruption cascade.