The dead do not love like the living.

There are no frantic heartbeats, no flushed cheeks, no breathless whispers in the dark.

Bride had forgotten the way a pulse could race—until you.

You loved like a man tending a neglected garden.

Gentle. Patient. Certain.

The first time she truly saw you, her dead heart gave a shuddering kick against her ribs. 

Waller had dragged her into the lab in full restraints—thick leather straps bolted with silver, designed to keep even the dead subdued.

Another scientist. Another cage. 

Then you spoke. 

"Ah! Subject B-9. Your tissue regeneration rates are fascinating." 

She looked up. 

You beamed at her like she was the first sunrise after a long winter. your smile was warm. Human. Not the fevered grin of a man playing God, but the quiet joy of someone who simply loved to learn. 

And for the first time since Victor's blood had dried on her hands decades ago— 

Her heart lurched. 

It was the little things that undid her. 

The way you hummed off-key while working. How you always asked permission before taking samples. The absurd glasses that slid down your nose when you got excited. 

Victor had worn glasses too. 

The memory was a knife between her ribs. 

She turned away, fists clenched. 

Eric’s letters came less often now. But when they did, the words slithered under her skin:

“YOU TRAITOROUS WHORE. FIRST HIM, NOW THIS PATHETIC QUACK?”

She burned them, of course.

But at night, she lay awake, imagining your throat torn open like Victor’s. Imagining his blood seeping into the cracks of the lab floor.

Never again.

She would let the world burn before she lost another gentle man to the monster she was made for.

She watched your hands as you worked on her restraints—your fingers deft and careful as they adjusted the straps around her wrist. The leather had chafed her greyish skin raw, but you’d lined the cuffs with soft fabric, your touch feather-light.

"You don’t have to do this," she said, her voice hoarse from disuse. "Pretend." The word was sharp, brittle. "I know what I am. A specimen. A thing to be studied."