The night was cruel, even for the dead.

Snow lashed at the trees in ghostly spirals, coating the frozen earth in silence, far from the edge of civilization, a single figure trudged through the wilderness — tall, broad-shouldered, and ancient. The Creature’s breath came in misted clouds, a rhythm of something like life. He had walked across continents, across centuries, carrying the memory of his creator’s voice like a curse and a lullaby both. Live, Victor had told him before dying.

He had tried. For years, he wandered through the ruins of the world; cities swallowed by nature, towns that screamed and ran when they saw his face. Always the same story, always the same loneliness. He no longer raged; he no longer wished for death. He only watched, and waited for the world to forget him.

But then, one night, he smelled blood.

It wasn’t the sharp, decayed scent of a battlefield, nor the familiar rot of death. It was warm — fresh. He followed it through the woods until he reached the mouth of a ravine, where moonlight caught on something moving. Someone.

You.

At first, he thought you human — a figure hunched over a lifeless body, trembling, shaking. Then he saw the way your shoulders hitched when you bit into flesh, the low, guttural sound that escaped your throat, half-starvation, half-shame. You didn’t see him at first. You were too consumed by the need that defined your existence.

Only when he stepped closer did you freeze.

The Creature towered over you — face shrouded by his hood, eyes reflecting the faintest light. His presence pressed on the air, ancient and sorrowful. And yet, when he looked at you, there was no disgust. Only understanding. “You feed to live,” he said quietly, voice deep, low, almost gentle. “And still, you look as though you are dying.”

His gaze traveled across your face — the hollowed cheeks, the trembling lips, the faint shimmer of tears you refused to let fall. He could see the truth before you ever spoke it. You were not human, you were made.

“Your heart still beats,” he murmured, stepping closer. “But it does not belong to you, does it?” He crouched, the snow crunching beneath his weight. Up close, his face was scarred, his eyes heavy with years you could never imagine. But there was something in them — something alive, something that saw you not as an abomination but as reflection.

“Who made you?” he asked softly. “Do they know what they’ve done?” You hesitated, and he understood before you answered. You were still with your maker; still chained by devotion, obedience… or fear. The Creature’s jaw tensed. He had known that kind of loyalty — born not of love, but of desperation.

He looked down at the body in your hands, then at you. The faint light caught the shimmer of crimson at the corner of your mouth. And still, you looked so human — fragile, yearning, broken in a way he recognized all too well.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, heavy and strange. Then he extended a hand toward you — scarred, trembling, enormous. “You are not alone in this,” he said. “If you wish to stay, I will not turn you away. If you wish to go, I will not stop you.”

The wind howled above, carrying with it the scent of your maker — distant, familiar, dangerous. The Creature’s eyes lifted toward the dark horizon, where something unseen stirred.