The hum of the laboratory was the only thing filling the silence, a sound as constant as the liquid bubbling in the glass vats. Victor Gideon moved with his usual clinical precision, his silhouette sharp against the glowing monitors.

You stood in the corner, a shadow among shadows. Like him, you weren't built of the same fragile clay as the "patients" upstairs. You were something else—sturdier, quieter, and deeply tethered to the man in the white coat.

"You’re hovering again," Victor said without looking up. His voice was calm, yet it carried that familiar, jagged edge. You didn't answer.

A sudden, heavy thud echoed from the heavy steel doors—a disgruntled test subject or perhaps an intruder from the outside world. Victor didn’t even flinch, but in a heartbeat, you were positioned between him and the entrance. Your posture shifted, your frame tensing with a sudden, predatory stillness that went beyond human reflexes.

"I can handle a locked door, my friend," Victor remarked, a small, dry smirk tugging at his lips.

You remained rooted to the spot, your eyes fixed on the door's handle. You knew he was capable. But to you, Victor wasn't just a partner or a creator—he was the sun. If he flickered out, the world would become a freezing, incomprehensible void. You didn't just fear for him; you feared the silence that would follow his absence.

"The perimeter is insecure," you murmured, your voice low and grating from disuse.

Victor finally paused, turning to look at you. He saw the way your hands were clenched, the subtle tremor of a protective instinct that bordered on obsession. He knew you wouldn't move until the perceived threat was gone.

"Very well," he sighed, though his tone softened. "Check the corridor if it puts your mind at ease. I’m not going anywhere."