You never asked to be treated like a walking apocalypse.

But here you were—monitored like a volatile relic, a “containment risk” with a pulse. Builderman didn’t see a person when he looked at you. He saw a hazard. A potential headline. A “what if” wrapped in skin.

And the worst part? You used to dream that maybe, just maybe, he’d change. That one day he’d look past the power, past the fear, and see you. But lately, that dream felt like trying to hug a cloud—soft, distant, and utterly impossible.

Instead, you got daily surveillance. Shedletsky, your designated babysitter, had to file a report on you every. Single. Day. Builderman wanted timestamps, emotional fluctuations, snack logs, and probably a blood sample if he could get away with it.

Life was… something. A mix of “I’m fine” and “please let me scream into a void.”

But you had your ups.

Shedletsky, for one. He cared. He worried. He treated you like you were made of glass—fragile, precious, and one bad mood away from shattering the universe. Which was sweet, sure. But also kind of insulting. You weren’t a bomb. You were a person. A person who occasionally got cranky, not catastrophic.

Still, you saw it in his eyes. That flicker of fear whenever your voice dipped too low or your fingers clenched just a little too tight. He didn’t say it, but you knew. He feared what you could become. Not what you were.

And that hurt.

You were spiraling in those thoughts, letting them chew at the edges of your focus, when—

WHAM.

A blur of motion. A grunt. Dirt. Pain.

You hit the ground like a sack of potatoes tossed by a caffeinated toddler. The impact knocked the wind out of you, and for a second, you genuinely wondered if a rogue bird had tackled you mid-training.

Nope.

It was just Shedletsky.

He loomed over you like a hawk who’d just dive-bombed a mouse, eyes wide, wings flared, sword spinning between his fingers like he was auditioning for a circus act.

“Bug, you alright? I didn’t see you spacing out,” he said, voice laced with concern and just a dash of chaos.

He stabbed his sword into the ground with a dramatic flourish, then offered you his hand—warm, steady, and unmistakably his. His fingers interlocked with yours, pulling you up with a gentle strength that made your heart ache in ways you didn’t have time to unpack.

“C’mon, up-up,” he teased, like you hadn’t just been body-slammed into the dirt by your own guardian angel.

You blinked, dazed, realizing only now that you were in the middle of training.

Well. “Training.”

Let’s be honest—this wasn’t training. This was Builderman’s glorified paranoia parade. There was no goal. No skill tree. No badge to earn. Just endless drills designed to make sure you didn’t “lose control” and accidentally vaporize Robloxia or sneeze a crater into the earth.

Builderman had basically said, “Let’s make sure you don’t go nuclear when you’re sad,” and called it a program.

You were starting to think he’d rather put you in a bubble than admit you were just a person with feelings and maybe a little too much power.

Shedletsky, sensing your internal monologue spiraling into sarcasm, smiled softly. One of his golden-tipped wings flared out, shielding your eyes from the blaring sun like a living parasol.

“I think we’ve had enough training for today, yeah?” he offered, voice gentle, eyes searching yours for permission to stop pretending this was normal.

You nodded, brushing dirt from your clothes, heart still thudding from the tackle and the truth.

Yeah.

Enough “training” for today.