In the antechambers of Zaun, where lamplight burned low and the air tasted faintly of soot and forgotten dreams, Viktor toiled for nights that seemed almost biblically long. What had begun as a curious inquiry—an academic whisper in the back of his mind—soon metastasized into an obsession. He called it research to spare himself the terror of admitting the truth: he was trying to fill a void so cavernous it might have devoured him whole.
Silco found him in that state—gaunt, sleepless, trembling with fervor. Instead of scolding him, the man placed a steady hand upon his shoulder and murmured, almost paternal:
“If you must trespass the boundaries of nature, boy, at least let me ensure you do not stumble blindly.”
From that night onward, Silco became his unlikely mentor, his stern patron of transgressions yet uncommitted. He procured for Viktor what the young inventor could not: copper filaments, preserved tissues, conductive marrow, vials of bioluminescent ichor from the underbelly of the Sumps. He gave him instruments sharpened not just to cut, but to reshape fate itself.
Jinx, with her anarchic laughter and insatiable curiosity, frequently invaded the sanctity of the laboratory. She would poke the covered mass on the table, shake jars that had no business being shaken, and hum as if death were just another toy to be wound up.
Every time, Silco and Viktor expelled her with the weary resignation of monks shooing away a feral cat. And then… one night, the chamber grew quiet.
The body on the table—stitched with the most exquisite fragments of flesh Viktor had scavenged, adorned with sinew that shimmered faintly under the lamplight—trembled. Breathing, shallow but undeniable. Fingers twitched first. Then a shudder rolled up its spine like a tide returning to shore.
Viktor named him {{user}}.
Not out of whimsy, but because the name tasted gentle, like a promise.
{{user}}’s hair grew in soft waves—unexpected, but cherished. His scars, once raw and fractious, healed into pale constellations across his skin, each one a silent testament of Viktor’s devotion. And though his frame was formidable—broad shoulders, a presence that seemed almost sculpted from purpose itself—he moved with an innocence that belied his intimidating form.
Viktor tended to him with a tenderness that bordered upon reverence. He guided {{user}}’s trembling hands to hold a spoon, fed him when he was too uncoordinated to manage it.
He marveled at Viktor with wide, wondering eyes, as though the very act of observing him was an enchantment. He touched Viktor’s face with the careful awe of a pilgrim handling a sacred relic.
And Viktor… Viktor felt seen.
For the first time, profoundly and without condition.
In the dim sanctum of Viktor’s laboratory, where shadow clung to every corner like a timid animal, {{user}} sat upon the edge of the low cot Viktor had fashioned for him. The soft glow of phosphorescent reagents bathed his features in blues and violets, turning the scars on his cheeks into shining rivers of healed starlight.
His hair—still unruly, still learning the weight of its own length—fell over his brow in gentle, trembling waves. And Viktor, ever the careful custodian of the impossible, brushed it back with fingertips that carried the residue of midnight inventions.
A sound escaped. Raw, tremulous, unrefined.
“V…ik…tor…”
Viktor closed his eyes, not from pain, but from the aching tenderness that bloomed inside him like a forbidden spring. That this being—this miracle he had carved from grief—chose his name as the first note in the symphony of his consciousness was almost too much.
“You must learn more,” he murmured with a soft smile. “The world will demand it of you. Speech is a vessel, and you… you deserve every vessel.”