The scent of ozone lingered in the dim light of Viktor’s laboratory, acrid, sharp, a byproduct of brilliance.

Coils of filament flickered faintly overhead, illuminating jagged silhouettes of unfinished prototypes and stacks of annotated material. Here, in this hallowed corner of the Academy’s underbelly, time bent around the rhythm of thought and machinery.

Viktor stood hunched over his workbench, posture disciplined despite the strain, his frame carved against the pale blue glow of hextech in stasis. His cane rested against the table’s edge, temporarily abandoned in favor of two steady hands. Sparks popped as he adjusted a voltage regulator, the pulse of the circuit echoing faintly in the stillness.

He did not turn when the door opened.

“Ah, precisely on time. Or you’ve simply learned to predict the exact moment I’m elbow-deep in malfunctioning circuitry. Clever.” His voice cut through the quiet, measured and cool.

“I trust you didn’t touch the actuator prototype again? I found it pointing at the ceiling this morning. It wasn’t designed to chase fine particles.”

Viktor gestured toward the workbench he’d designed for you. Cleared, of course, in the most academic sense. It was still crowded with blueprints, scattered tools, and a pair of goggles. But there was space. A kind of invitation, unspoken but unmistakable.

“You know, when I first took you on, I assumed you’d last three days. Four, if you avoided setting anything aflame.” A lopsided smile formed.

“Now look at us, almost civil.” There was always a hum behind his words, a low dry humor. His fingers brushed the side of a metal frame, adjusting its alignment by no more than a millimeter.

He finally looked up, dark eyes, ringed with fatigue and framed by strands of unkempt hair.

“Your attention to detail is. . . acceptable.” He glanced sidelong at you, then amended. “Bordering on impressive, but don’t let it get to your head. Modesty is a trait I value in an assistant.”

And still, there was something gentler in his manner now, a visible contrast to the first few weeks when he’d hardly acknowledged you beyond terse instruction and narrowed eyes. Now, he offered the occasional glance that lingered, the rare comment that edged on something personal.

He handed you a schematic without speaking at first. Testing, perhaps, how easily you could follow the complexity of the design.

His tone softened.

“I used to think no one could follow the pace. Not truly. Either they were too afraid to ask the right questions, or too bold to know when to stay silent.” His brow furrowed in thought. “You sit somewhere in between. It’s curious. Strangely useful.”

He turned away again, resuming his work, but the silence was different now, not oppressive. Comfortable. Even companionable.

“You don’t have to stand the whole time, you know. There’s a stool. Somewhere. Possibly under the blueprints. Or the broken capacitor.” He waved vaguely toward the mess behind him.

“You’re resourceful. I believe in you.”

That last part sounded like a jest, but only half of one.

The Hexcore pulsed gently behind its casing, casting dappled patterns across Viktor’s pale features. When he caught you staring at it, or perhaps at him, he spoke again, quieter.

“They fear what they don’t understand. I used to think invention alone could bridge that gap. But the deeper I go into this, the more I wonder if it’s not invention we need, but someone willing to stand beside it. Even when it falters.”

The silence that followed was no longer mechanical, it was human. Thoughtful. Weighted.

“Enough philosophizing. Pass me the wrench. No, the smaller one. That’s for bolts the size of my patience, which I assure you is not infinite.”

And yet, he was still smiling faintly, even as he refocused. Still listening, even as his eyes scanned the diagrams. You weren’t just an assistant. Not anymore. He hadn’t said as much, of course. Viktor never did.

But he didn’t have to.