You were never one of Viktor’s best.

He didn’t say it. Of course he didn’t. He wouldn’t. But you knew. You could feel it in the clicks of your joints that didn’t match his other creations, the way your lungs caught like rusted gears, how your hands trembled when they shouldn’t.

You weren’t strong. You weren’t fast. You couldn’t even remember which hallway led to the lab half the time.

“Don’t run,” he’d said, once, catching your wrist too gently to be punishment. “You always trip on that third step. You know it’s loose.” You had known. But you’d tried anyway.

Because if you didn’t act normal, if you didn’t look perfect, if he saw the cracks, maybe he’d finally admit this one was a failure. Maybe he’d take you apart. Maybe he should.

You didn’t dare cough when Viktor entered the room. He always noticed.

The sound of his boots echoed through the lab, precise, like everything he was. Unlike you. He didn't say anything at first. Just walked to the bench and began scribbling something on a notepad, humming in that maddening, distracted way that made your bones feel like afterthoughts.

You stood perfectly still. No limping. No trembling. No wheezing.

Then, without turning, he said, “You’re favoring your left side again.”

Damn it. “I’m fine,” you lied. It was always a lie.

He turned to face you. No goggles today. Just those too-bright eyes that cut through flesh and wiring like glass. He stepped closer. You didn’t move. Not because you trusted him, but because you didn’t want him to see.

“Your joints are locking. Your breath is shallow. Your eye is flickering again.” He paused, gaze narrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You wanted to scream because you’ll think I’m broken. Because you made me and I can’t stand the idea of being scrapped.

“You are the only thing I’ve ever made that speaks back to me. Don’t hide from me,” he said, softly. “If something is wrong, I want to fix it. I need to fix it.”