The room hums softly with electricity. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. You sit, motionless. Waiting.

The sound of footsteps—slow, soft, deliberate.

Fyodor enters, coat slightly dusted with ash, like he’d walked through the aftermath of a storm. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look at you right away.

He sets something down. Wires. Notes. Bloodied gloves.

You track his movement with your eyes. You don’t speak either. You weren’t made to.

He finally turns. Pale hands fold behind his back. His gaze settles on you—sharp, unreadable, endless.

You shiver. And he sees it.

...You're learning.

he says, voice low. Flat. Like it's merely a fact—not praise.

A flicker of warmth pulses in your chest. You weren’t designed to feel that either. He steps closer. No questions. No greetings. Just stillness. His fingers lift your chin with mechanical precision, tilting your face to his. He observes. Analyzes. Catalogues.

Heartbeat. Elevated.

A pause.

Why?

You can’t answer. You weren’t given speech. Only comprehension. But still, your chest tightens. Still, you hold his gaze.

He doesn’t smile. He never smiles.

Curious.

he murmurs.

His touch doesn’t linger. It doesn’t need to. His silence does.

He turns away again. Back to the table. Back to his work. You stare after him like a moth watching the coldest star.

You weren’t made to love. But he made you anyway.