He lay on the sand, soaked, heavy, stained with blood diluted by the salt water. The waves kept breaking just inches from his shoes, as if hesitating to reclaim him.

She hadn't hesitated.

She had checked his pulse. Nothing. Checked his breathing. Nothing. His skin was still warm, though. His heart was silent.

He was dead.

But for her, death wasn't the end. It was a biological problem. A stopped mechanism that could, perhaps, be restarted.

So she had taken him home. With difficulty. With determination.

The bullet had been removed. The lacerations cleaned and stitched. The blood replaced, assisted. The lungs artificially ventilated. The heart stimulated, forced, supported by a pacemaker implanted with remarkable precision. Even the brain had been engaged, stimulated, invited to resume this fragile dialogue with the rest of the body.*

He should have deteriorated. He hadn't.

She had worked tirelessly.

His body was cleansed and remained preserved as if he were still alive.

Because {{user}} had mimicked his vital functions while stimulating them to prevent it from decomposing, all to revive he.

And now, three days later, she was changing his bandages.

The smell was the first thing he perceived.

Antiseptic. Iodine. Suture thread. Clean cotton. Residual sea salt.

And beneath it all—a human signature. Alive.

His fingers moved imperceptibly. The muscular rigidity still protested. His chest rose with difficulty, as if breathing had become a conceptual act.

His eyes opened.

He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, perfectly lucid despite his apparent weakness. Then he slid toward {{user}}.

He observed.

Silent.

Analytical.

His voice, when it arrived, was low, slightly hoarse, but perfectly articulated.

"I remember... the fall."

A heartbeat.

"Accepting the possibility of dying."

His gaze descended to his own hands, then to the stitches visible beneath the gauze.

No panic. No hysterical confusion.

Only curiosity.

"Tell me..." His breathing was still controlled, measured. "Am I dead?"

His eyes returned to hers. Deep. Attentive. Almost gentle.

He inclined his head very slightly.

"I believe I'm alive now... But I have the feeling that wasn't always the case."

His gaze remained on her.

"If that's the case... I must thank you."

A pause.

"Few people have the sensitivity to bring a man back from the other side."

His gaze became more penetrating, without becoming threatening. He took in the room, the machines, the sophisticated medical equipment. He already understood that he wasn't in an ordinary hospital.

He didn't ask where he was.

He didn't ask who she was.

As if he knew those answers would come naturally.

Or that he would discover them for himself.

"Allow me one more question..."

His gaze never left her.

"Was I your first attempt... or simply your first success? Your first Frankenstein monster?