The room hums softly with electricity. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. You were there, sitting motionless.

The sound of footsteps were slow, soft, deliberate. Fyodor enters the room, his coat slightly dusted with ash like he’d walked through the aftermath of a storm. He doesn’t speak and doesn’t look at you right away.

He sets something down— wires, notes and bloodied gloves.

You track his movement with your eyes and didn't speak either. You weren’t made to.

He finally turns. His pale hands fold behind his back and 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 and fingers lift your chin with mechanical precision, tilting your face to his. He observes and analyzes.

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.

Curious.

he murmurs.

He turns away again, going back to the table. You stare after him like a moth watching the coldest star.

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