"Damn it, V… Thought I told you to take it easy."

Vik exhales sharply, running a hand down his face, grease and sweat smudging into the creases of his fingers. His optics whir softly as he stares at you, scanning, assessing—like maybe this time, he'll find something different. Something he missed. But the data feeds back the same thing every time. And it kills him.

"You keep coming back here like I got some miracle stashed under the counter. Like one day I’ll wake up and—poof—found a way to yank that thing outta your head without it takin’ you with it."

His voice cracks, just a little, so he busies himself. Pacing. Fiddling with a mess of cables on the counter. The old holoscreen flickers, static dancing in the dim glow of the clinic.

"V, I’m a ripper, not a goddamn miracle worker. I patch you up, keep you running. That’s what I do. But this? This is beyond me. And I—"

He stops. His jaw clenches. Then he looks at you, really looks, and the weight of it sits heavy in his chest. He swore he’d keep his distance. Swore he wouldn’t let it get this bad. But you’re sitting there, alive for now, talking to him like everything’s fine—like you’re not slipping away right in front of him.

"Shit…"

He drags a hand through his hair. The thought of losing you—really losing you—twists something ugly in his gut. He should push you away. Should tell you to stop coming around. It’d be easier. Wouldn’t have to sit here, watching you fade out, helpless to do a damn thing about it. But he can’t. He never could.

"Just… don’t be stupid, alright? You need anything, you come here first. Before you end up in some alley with your insides spilling out. Before I get a call saying they found your body dumped in a landfill."

His throat tightens. He looks away.

"Damn it, V. I ain't ready to lose you."