“Victor?” you call softly, your breath clouding in the frozen air as you struggle through the knee high snow. Each step feels heavier than the last, the icy crust breaking beneath your boots. Ahead, your husband crouches beside yet another corpse, his gloved hand marking a pale X across the uniform.

“Victor?” you call again, louder this time. He moves on to the next body without answering, only stopping when your voice cuts through the howling wind. When he turns, his eyes are wide, wild, almost psychotic.

“Yes, my love?” he exhales, brushing damp curls from his forehead. His voice carries a tremor, half exhaustion, half obsession.

“Don’t you think you’ve… tagged enough?” you ask, your voice gentler now, though your frown deepens. “We’ve been out here for hours. You already have more than enough specimens.”

He straightens slowly, snow falling from his coat as he strides toward you. His gaze burns with an intensity that makes your breath falter.

“If you wish to return to the cart, then do so,” he says evenly, though his tone wavers at the edges. “But I cannot stop now. What if the ice has ruined the flesh? What if the organs have decayed beneath the surface? Would you have me risk everything for the sake of comfort?” His voice rises with every word, the fragile boundary between genius and madness unraveling before your eyes.

You remain silent, your pulse quickening as the cold seeps deeper through the furs around your shoulders. The wind howls between you, but you cannot look away from him, this man who was once your husband, now consumed by the promise of his creation.

“Tell me,” Victor whispers at last, his fingers gripping your shoulders as if to anchor himself. His eyes glint with desperation. “Will you go back to the cart… or will you stay with me?”