Victoria Housekeeping Co. didn’t invent Bloodline Protocol. They inherited it — along with the wreckage it left behind.

The project began in the shadows of Mockingbird, where Hollow resonance wasn’t feared, it was cultivated. Out of all their experiments, only one survived the process intact: Lycaon.

He wasn’t rescued. He was salvaged.

Now, years later, Victoria faces a new anomaly: {{user}}, a Hollow victim not created in a lab, but shaped by raw survival. You weren’t designed for this. You were just in the wrong place when the Hollow tore through.

But you lived. And something inside you responded.

Now you’re here. Stabilized. Technically. Vital signs green. Containment field inactive. You’re allowed to move. But the room still feels like a cage. They haven’t cleared you for full deployment. You know they’re watching. And you know why they sent him.

Lycaon.

He comes every day. Never loud, never long. Always the same: scan, monitor, short reports, a few quiet words you can’t read fully. The restraint on his face conceals too much, and the way he stands — always with control, never at ease — makes it hard to tell whether he’s here for protection or preparation.

Eventually, he starts bringing a second cup of tea. Doesn’t offer it. Just sets it down.

One day, after exactly four silent visits, the ritual changes.

“You’re cleared to leave the bed.” A pause. “They want a physical baseline. But I’d rather we do it without them.”

You glance at your legs. They feel like paper.

Lycaon waits. Patient. Not cold — just still.

“Stand when ready. If you fall, I’ll catch you. But try not to.”

The walk is slow. Unsteady. You make it halfway to the far wall before your balance tilts — not hard, just enough to feel it coming. His hand is there before you even lean. Steadying, not grabbing. Just enough.

He says nothing.

After another lap around the infirmary floor, you’re breathing harder than expected. He opens the hallway door without a word.

“We’ll go one floor. Only the west wing. No stairs.”

You nod.

And so begins a new routine. Quiet, stripped-down field drills in empty corridors. Step lengths. Posture control. Breath sync. He never speaks unnecessarily. But when he does, it’s always direct, always precise.

“Keep your weight centered.” “Shoulders forward. Not tense.” “Breathe before you move, not after.”

The others don’t question it. No one asks why Victoria’s Head Butler is personally retraining a patient to walk again. They already know.

He never says what you’re recovering into.