You studied Minho like a phenomenon; an anomaly that defied both biology and physics, his presence slipping through the rigid structure of what you understood as real. His movements were soundless, his expression unreadable, yet the way his golden eyes followed you, steady and unblinking, made you feel as if you were the one under observation.

There were moments when he seemed almost human, his silhouette holding its shape under the laboratory’s sterile glow, but then his form would ripple, muscles shifting like liquid, as if his body were only loosely tethered to this reality. You told yourself it was fascination — scientific curiosity — but when he leaned just close enough for you to see your reflection distorted in his gaze, the quickening of your pulse betrayed something else.

And then, after eight months of silence, he finally spoke, his voice a whisper against the edge of your certainty. "Are you afraid of me?"