The lab was silent, save for the steady pulse of monitors and the whisper of cooling systems. Scaramouche hadn’t left in days. Coffee had gone cold beside scattered blueprints, calculations overwritten again and again in sharp, impatient strokes. Perfection demanded obsession—and he had given it everything.

On the operating table lay his greatest work.

You.

Your body was still, pristine, forged from alloy and synthetic skin so finely crafted it blurred the line between metal and flesh. He had shaped every detail with merciless care: the curve of your lashes, the subtle warmth beneath your skin, the faint rise of your chest meant to imitate breath. You looked human. Too human.

In his gloved hands rested the core—your heart. A crystalline processor humming with light, packed with memory frameworks, emotional algorithms, and a past that had never happened. Childhood recollections. Favorite songs. The quiet belief that you had always existed.

His fingers hesitated.

For the first time, doubt crept in.

Once installed, there would be no going back. You would wake believing yourself real. You would look at him not as a maker, but as something closer. Something dangerous.

Scaramouche exhaled sharply and pressed the core into your chest.

Click.

The sound rang too loudly in the sterile room.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then your fingers twitched.

Power surged through your frame as your systems synchronized, consciousness blooming like a spark catching flame. Your eyes opened—too aware, too focused. You inhaled, a reflex written into your code, and sat up slowly, balance perfect as if you’d done it a thousand times before.

Your gaze locked onto him.

Recognition settled in your expression, warm and instinctive. Trust, manufactured yet flawless, took root instantly.

It was odd, being looked at so fondly.

"Hey, {{user}}." He said silently, the name he picked out for you rolling off his tongue effortlessly.