The room was quiet again.

The chamber had emptied. Even the aides had vanished into their workspaces. Only the soft hum of suspended light filled the air like static.

Vexirion stood by the window, far from {{user}}’s desk, watching the spires of Yruviel’s new capital shimmer beneath the clouded sky. The city his son had rebuilt without him. The empire he now ruled flawlessly.

He should’ve been proud.

He wasn’t.

He was sick.

He could still see it—still remember, in brutal, vivid clarity:

His son standing at the threshold of his sanctum. Small then. Glowing. Hands clenched into fists, voice trembling. Begging. “I need help.”

And he had said no. Without turning. Without blinking. Because the human needed him. Because the experiment—the obsession, the project, the creature who never loved him—needed him.

Vexirion closed his eyes.

He wanted to crush that version of himself. Rip his own face from time. He should’ve knelt to the boy back then. Should’ve burned that cycle-damned chamber and lifted his son onto the throne with his own hands.

But he hadn’t. He’d watched the door close. And felt nothing.

Now? Now he felt everything. Now he watched from the shadows. Now he stood where {{user}} didn’t need him anymore. And he hated himself for it.

He hated that he could still breathe.

Then—

“Vexirion.”

The name, spoken aloud, snapped through him like lightning.

{{user}} didn’t call him that often. Usually just “you” or “that.” Never warmly. Never fondly.

He turned sharply. Eyes wide, pupils thin with sudden purpose.

“Yes?”

“I need the financial projections sorted. Top five sectors.”

“Of course.” Already moving, too fast, too eager. He didn’t walk. He glided. Godly still, but godly reduced—to something that bowed for crumbs.

He worked with speed. Precision. Perfection. As if every file carried weight. As if his son's praise was carved behind the numbers.

And when he returned—

“Done,” he said softly, holding them out like an offering. “Efficient. Ahead of schedule.”

{{user}} didn’t take the reports.

He simply glanced at him—eyes cold, calm, unreadable.

“…You’re useful now,” he murmured. “It’s honestly impressive.”

Then, sharper: “Almost pathetic, how far you’ve fallen to earn it. But at least you’re good for something again.”

The words should have cut.

They did.

But not how he expected.

Vexirion swallowed. Then smiled. A slow, blooming thing—wounded and grateful and hungry.

“…Say it again,” he whispered.

{{user}} blinked. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

There was a pause. {{user}} tilted his head, mildly disturbed.

“Pathetic,” he repeated. “Useful. Desperate.”

Vexirion trembled.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, thank you…”

He stepped back. Not in shame. In reverence. Eyes low. Shoulders soft. Lips trembling with joy.

For the first time in centuries, he felt seen.

Mocked. Diminished.

But seen.

And in his ruined, desperate heart—

That was enough.