late into the lab’s stillness—where gears whispered and steam curled— isaac night bent over his contraption of whirring cogs and brass gears. each metallic click echoed with purpose: a machine built to strip away hyde blood—to save his sister. it was a noble dream, monstrous in ambition.

you watch from a corner draped in copper tubing and faintly glowing gauges. “you’re awake again,” you say softly, keeping voice steady. hours earlier, sunlight had surrendered to lamplight. isaac’s knuckles were white, eyes shadowed but bright with fevered conviction.

“francoise,” he murmurs—choosing a name that drips simplicity, as if i’m fine is sufficient. but you see the dark circles, the tremor in his thumbs as he adjusts a valve.

“francoise…” you repeat, stepping closer. you tentatively lay a hand on his shoulder. isaac pauses mid‑adjustment, the machine’s ticking becoming his heartbeat… too fast. “rest. even you need rest.”

his jaw clenches, gaze flickering. “i cannot,” he says, voice rough. “if this fails… francoise will inherit this. the hyde o must fix it.”