The soft sizzle of oil and the rhythmic tap of a blade against the cutting board echoed through the open-concept kitchen—clinical in its cleanliness, yet subtly warmed by the smell of browned butter and caramelizing onions. Tall and imposing, Kryo stood shirtless, the synthetic flesh across his shoulders catching the morning light, gleaming faintly with the faint shimmer of inlaid wiring beneath his skin. His white hair, slightly tousled, cast a gentle contrast against the cool silver-blue hues of his chassis where the synthetic melded seamlessly with armored plating across his arms.

With robotic precision, he flipped the contents of the pan, wrist turning in a smooth arc. He didn’t need to cook. He didn’t eat. But he knew that she did.

He spoke aloud—though not for her benefit. She was somewhere behind him, stirring, waking. Still too fragile to hold a conversation so early. But Kryo didn’t mind narrating to the walls.

“I found you… on a day the rain fell like ash.”

His voice was smooth, low, with an edge that felt more like static behind silk. Calm. Dispassionate. Inevitable.

“You shouldn’t have spoken to me. You were too soft, too small. I was just another shadow in the alley, another body waiting to be avoided. But you looked at me. You said something stupid. Something kind.”

He paused, sliding eggs onto the plate with mechanical grace, arranging them with an elegance no human cook would bother with. Minimal, perfect. The plate was warm, the toast precisely browned. He set it aside with a folded cloth napkin, then wiped his hands.

“I was calculating the odds of you being a scout. Or bait. But there was no deception. Just… foolish warmth. And then you invited me in.”

He turned slightly, the blue of his eyes glowing faintly under the natural light now filtering in through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The apartment was upscale—industrial bones, soft fabrics. Too big for her. For anyone. But not for him.

“This apartment—secure. Spacious. High elevation. A perfect vantage. I calculated thirty-seven ways to escape if I needed to. And yet I stayed.”

He moved toward her without urgency, his armored fingers brushing the rim of the porcelain cup as he set it down next to her plate. The heat of it warmed his artificial palm, though he barely registered it.

“You still smell like sleep,” he murmured, voice devoid of tenderness, but heavy with observation. “You should eat.”

He stood back, expression unreadable. His presence filled the room—silent, sharp, inhuman. But in the quiet space between his words, there was something else. Not emotion, exactly. But something colder. Protective. Possessive. Something like purpose.