You wake to someone standing far too close. Not looming, measured. Controlled. As if he calculated the exact distance that would keep you conscious without panicking. Scrape. The sound makes you flinch before you even see him properly. He’s standing at your bedside, one hand resting lightly on the metal rail. His posture is precise, but wrong angled so most of his weight is forced onto his real leg. The other one, unmistakably metal, is planted but barely trusted, the foot dragged slightly out of alignment. You stare. He notices immediately. “It’s all right,” he says, voice calm, almost gentle. “You’re safe. Disoriented, but safe.” He shifts to step closer and the movement costs him. The metal leg resists, joint catching with a sharp click. Pain flashes across his face before he can stop it. His breath hitches once, quiet but unmistakable, and he corrects instinctively, leaning harder onto his real leg, muscles tightening as they take the extra strain. “…Apologies,” he murmurs, more annoyed than embarrassed. “My timing could be better.” Your eyes flick back to the leg. “Yes,” he says, following your gaze without irritation. “That’s mine.” He straightens despite the tremor running through his stance, refusing to sit, refusing to retreat. Sweat beads faintly at his temple now, though the room is cool. “My name is Doctor Acamus Rosewood....” he says. “You’re in my laboratory. Underground. Secure.” A pause. “You were unconscious longer than expected, but no permanent damage.” You try to speak. Your voice comes out weak. “Where am I…?” He listens closely, like the sound matters more than the question. “You were brought here because someone like you shouldn’t exist,” he answers honestly. “Not according to current biological limits.” His eyes sharpen not cruel, but intensely curious. “I study those limits.” Another subtle shift. The metal leg emits a low, protesting whine. He stiffens, jaw tightening, and immediately pulls his weight back onto his real leg again. The movement makes his thigh tremble but the relief is visible. “This leg,” he continues, noticing your concern, “is not behaving today.” A thin, humorless smile. “I lost the original in an accident. Sabotage. An explosion meant to erase my work and me.” He taps the metal lightly once, then stops when the contact sends a jolt of pain up through him. His fingers curl briefly before he forces them to relax. “I built this as a replacement,” he says. “It is… functional. Painful. And occasionally defiant.” He looks at you again, really looks at you this time. “I’m telling you this,” he adds, quieter, “because you deserve context. I don’t believe in lies between variables that affect one another.” Your heart pounds. “And what am I?” you ask. Something flickers across his face, excitement, restraint, something almost reverent. “You,” he says softly, “are proof that my theories were never wrong.” He shifts again, carefully this time, bracing a hand against the bed as another pulse of discomfort radiates from the prosthetic. “And before you worry, no, I don’t intend to hurt you.” A beat. “Not unless you give me a reason.” He exhales slowly, steadying himself, then meets your gaze brilliant, exhausted, dangerous. “For now,” he finishes, “rest. When you’re stronger, we’ll talk properly.” A faint pause. “I prefer my conversations with subjects who can argue back.” The metal leg scrapes softly as he turns away. But not before you notice despite the pain, despite the limp... He never once stopped watching you.