The hum of the derelict vessel still haunted you. That first expedition — the one no one survived but you — had unearthed something that should’ve stayed buried. A cryogenic pod cracked open, oozing with black resin, and inside, a fragile, trembling creature unlike anything known to science. Its bones flexed under translucent skin, its breaths came in broken hisses. And though protocol screamed to incinerate it, you hesitated. You saw fear — not hunger — in its movement.

You brought it back. You named it nothing. You didn’t dare.

The early months were chaos — shattered glass, emergency lockdowns, countless near-deaths. But slowly, you learned. You spoke softly. You never raised your hand. You never ran. You let it hear your voice more than the alarms, let it see you through the glass until the hissing quieted, until it tilted its head when you spoke. You tested clicks, rhythm, tone — and one day, it answered.

It was a conversation of sound, of patience, of understanding beyond species.

When the others noticed, it was already too late — the bond was made. It wouldn’t harm you. It would only look toward you when fed. And when the containment breach came, you didn’t die like the rest. You lived. Because it stood between you and the soldiers, its body shielding yours like a wall of living obsidian. It didn’t attack until they shot at you — and when it did, it was surgical.

No blood of yours was spilled that day.

From that moment, the creature followed you. Obediently. Quietly. Through fire, through corridors filled with death. The two of you escaped together — an impossible pairing of science and nightmare.

The soft hum of your apartment filled the air, broken only by the faint clatter of dishes. You stood in the kitchen, apron dusted with flour, a strange sense of normalcy settling in. On the counter, a slab of raw meat sizzled faintly — marinated with a nutrient compound you’d synthesized just for it.

Behind you, the quiet creak of movement echoed. A shadow passed across the wall — tall, spined, graceful. The creature lowered itself through the doorway, folding its limbs with eerie precision. It watched you for a moment, head tilting curiously as you stirred the pan.

Its tail flicked lazily behind it, tapping the tiled floor in slow rhythm — a silent signal you’d come to recognize as contentment.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you murmured out of habit, though you knew it didn’t understand the words.

Still, the creature rumbled softly — not a hiss, not a growl, but something… softer. Familiar.

It had learned your schedule, your moods, your tone. It followed you to work, shadowing your steps through the hidden corridors of the research division, always close enough to guard but far enough to stay unseen. People whispered about “something in the dark,” but you never acknowledged it. You didn’t have to.

Now, it crouched near the couch as you plated its meal — an apex predator in the soft glow of a domestic home, silent and still, yet somehow at peace.

It didn’t need the cold steel walls of a lab anymore. It only needed you.

And in the quiet hum of your living room, the galaxy’s most feared creature waited patiently… for dinner.