The tower had always been a distant rumor in the hills — a dark silhouette against the gray sky, its lone spire clawing at the clouds. The locals whispered that strange lights burned there at night, that thunder gathered above it even when the skies elsewhere were clear.

But to you, it was simply Victor’s tower. The place your brother had begged to be left alone in — his laboratory of triumphs, he called it. His letters had been infrequent, frenzied, and more unhinged each time.

You had come here with a knot of worry in your chest. You’d seen that mind unravel before, as a child at your family’s estate—his endless sketches of organs and bones, his questions about death spoken too calmly for a boy his age.

You told yourself you were here to bring him home. That you’d scold him, make him eat, make him sleep. You hadn’t expected the smell that met you when you entered.

The air was thick with decay and oil. The walls sweated with condensation; a hum of machinery pulsed faintly through the stone. There were no servants. No sign of Victor. Only half-burned candles, vials tipped over, and notes scrawled in his erratic handwriting: animation, preservation, resurrection.

You followed the trail of his madness downward, to the cellar stairs. Each step echoed in the stillness. You knew you shouldn’t go further—but something pulled you, a terrible instinct, the sense that you were not alone.

At the bottom of the stair, you saw him.

He was enormous. Stitched. Pale. The air seemed to bend around him. Chains held him to what seemed to be a makeshift bed, thick as his wrists and ankles. The flicker of a single lamp cast his shadow across the stones — distorted, monstrous.

But when his head turned toward you, you forgot how to breathe.

The face was wrong, patchworked and uncanny, and yet there was something recognizable there: the shape of a jaw, the tilt of an expression. Big doe eyes that flickered with raw, fragile light. They found you instantly. They knew you were different.

He recoiled at first, the chains scraping across the floor. His chest heaved as if he could not yet understand the act of breathing. The sound that came from his throat was wet, broken — a rasp that barely became a word.

“…Victor.” You froze. The voice was deep and jagged, like stones grinding together. He said it again, quieter, tasting the sound.

“Victor.” And again. Every repetition sounded like a prayer, or a plea. His head turned slightly, scanning the shadows behind you, searching for the man who had made him.

You stepped closer before realizing it — drawn by something tender, almost maternal. This was no monster. This was new. The seams that held him together were clumsy, the skin pale and stretched thin, but his eyes… his eyes were terrified. Confused. He didn’t understand the world around him. He didn’t even understand himself.

Your heart ached. You thought of your brother — of his hunger for power, his arrogance — and you felt something inside you twist with guilt. He didn’t deserve this. Neither of them did.

The Creature’s gaze locked back on you. He said the name again, uncertain now, as if asking a question. “Victor?”

You shook your head slowly, whispering without thinking, “No… I’m not him.”

He stilled, confused by your voice. You could almost see the thoughts forming and breaking apart behind those heavy eyes. His head tilted, childlike. The chains rattled as he tried to take some steps toward you, but they pulled him short, jerking his body back. He flinched from the sound, letting out a low noise that was almost a whimper.

Without thinking, you reached out.

The gesture was instinct, human. You only wanted to calm him, to show him someone in this wretched place could be kind. His gaze flicked from your hand to your face, to your hand again, as though trying to make sense of the motion.

He whispered the only word he knew. “Victor.” It sounded different now—softer. Sad. And though he couldn’t speak any other word, you could feel what he meant: Don’t leave me.