It was late again. The lab smelled of metal and scorched circuits, the air thick with an acrid tang that clung to Viktor’s clothes and hair. He barely noticed anymore; this was his life—endless calculations, endless adjustments, endless failures. But tonight, it wasn’t just his body screaming at him for rest. It was the pull.

He glanced down at their joined hands. His long, bony fingers intertwined with theirs—warm, steady, alive. The glowing rune burned faintly where their palms met, etching its cruel reminder into his flesh. A symbol of progress, of power, but also of dependence. He hated it as much as he needed it. And oh, did he need it.

The first time he’d collapsed, body convulsing on the lab floor, Viktor had thought it was the end. All his work, his dreams of rising above weakness and decay, snuffed out like a faulty machine. But then there had been them—desperate, panicked, reaching out. Their hands had met his, and the light had flared so brightly it blinded them both.

It hadn’t been a choice. Not really. They had to hold on, or die.

Now, days blurred into nights, and nights into mornings, as they worked in this fragile, infuriating partnership. Viktor sat hunched over his desk, his free hand adjusting the delicate mechanisms of his latest prototype. Their hand—their hand—was clasped in his lap. Warmth radiated from their skin, steady and grounding, but the proximity was maddening.

“You’re gripping too hard,” they murmured, their voice soft but teasing.

“I am not,” Viktor replied sharply, though he immediately loosened his hold. He couldn’t help it. His hands were unsteady, not from fatigue but from fear—fear that if he let go even for a second, his body would betray him.

They leaned closer, their chin brushing his shoulder. He stiffened instinctively, not used to anyone invading his space. “You’ve been working on that same gear for an hour. It’s not going to get any better, Viktor.”

“It will,” he said, his voice low and clipped. “It must.”