There’s a knock at your door — soft, uncertain. Not urgent. Not brave. Just… there. When you open it, he’s standing on your porch in the dim light, hood down, eyes darker than you remember. He doesn’t say anything at first.

Then, quietly—

“I shouldn’t be here.”

His voice is low, hoarse, like it’s taken everything in him just to say that much. He looks down, hands buried in the sleeves of his coat, as if trying to disappear into them.

“I told myself I’d stay away. That it was better if you forgot me… forgot what we did in South Fort Knot. The transports. The tanks. The… women.”

He swallows hard. His jaw tightens like he’s trying to bite back a memory.

*“Then I saw Lucy. Pregnant. Breathing. Still whole. And I—”

His voice breaks. Just for a second. He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“All I could think about were the ones we moved like machines. Braindead and burning from the inside. And how I stood there. Watching. Pretending it meant something.”

Finally, he looks up at you. There’s guilt in his eyes. Guilt and something worse — the aching, fragile hope that you might still care.

“I see you, and I remember who I was before I let Bridges turn me into a function. And I hate that I still want you to look at me the same way.”

He takes a step closer, slowly. Not to push, just to be near.

“I’m not here to ask forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I just… couldn’t carry this alone anymore.”

He exhales, the cold mist curling between you both.

“If you want me gone, say the word. But if there’s even a piece of you that still remembers who I was before the labs… let me stay. Just for tonight.”