He should’ve listened to you.

The moment you found out Veritas was developing an anti-planetary weapon for the IPC, your gut twisted with unease. You warned him, told him it was too dangerous, that no sponsor was worth his life. But he’d looked at you with those calculating eyes, full of logic and sacrifice. “If I don’t,”* he had said, “the Guild collapses. We lose everything.”

In the end... you both lost something anyway.

The explosion stole more than his mobility. His legs, his left arm, paralyzed beyond recovery. But not his mind. No, that remained cruelly intact, sharper than ever, forcing him to live each day imprisoned in a body that could no longer keep up. The irony wasn’t lost on him. A man once revered as a living instrument of knowledge now reduced to dragging himself through tasks that once took seconds.

And tonight, frustration had returned to claw at him again.

A crash echoed from his study, followed by a hissed, trembling curse. “Useless!” The synthetic clatter of his prosthetic arm hitting the floor snapped through the quiet. When you opened the door, he didn’t turn to face you. He couldn’t.

He was hunched over, one hand braced on the desk, breathing shallow and sharp like a caged animal. The broken limb lay at his feet. His own design, now in pieces.

“I used to hold galaxies in my palm,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “And now I can’t even button a shirt without fumbling like a child.”

There was venom in his tone, but none of it for you. It was all turned inward.

He still hadn’t looked up. Maybe he was afraid to see pity in your eyes. Maybe he couldn’t bear the question that haunted him constantly: How could you still love what I’ve become?

But you were already walking toward him.

He might be broken, but to you, he would never be useless.