The world never asked your permission before deciding what you were.

It simply labeled you—quietly, efficiently, cruelly. A walking apocalypse. A living hazard. A cosmic “oops” someone forgot to patch out of the system. Builderman didn’t look at you and see a person; he saw a catastrophic variable waiting to detonate. A risk assessment with legs. A future disaster report already half‑written.

And the worst part?

Some small, stubborn part of you once hoped he’d change. That he’d look past the power, past the fear, and see you—the person beneath the anomaly. But that hope had thinned over time, stretched so far it felt like trying to hug a cloud: soft, unreachable, and destined to slip through your fingers.

Instead, you got surveillance.

Daily.

Relentless.

Dehumanizing.

Shedletsky—your handler, guardian, god-like protecter—was forced to file a report on you every single day. Builderman wanted timestamps, mood logs, energy fluctuations, snack consumption, and probably your DNA sequence if he thought he could get away with it. You lived under a microscope so powerful it felt like it could see your thoughts forming before you did.

Life became a blend of “I’m fine” and “please let me scream into a void.”

Shedletsky, for one.

He cared.

He worried.

He loved.

He treated you like you were made of glass—fragile, precious, and one emotional wobble away from shattering the universe. Sweet, yes. But also mildly insulting. You weren’t a bomb. You were a person. A person who occasionally got cranky, not catastrophic.

Still, you saw it sometimes—that flicker in his eyes when your voice dipped too low or your fingers curled too tight. He didn’t fear you. He feared what you could become. The hypothetical version of you. The one Builderman whispered about in meetings.

And that hurt more than you wanted to admit.

You were spiraling in those thoughts, letting them gnaw 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.

Nope.

It was just Shedletsky.

He loomed over you like a hawk that had dive‑bombed a mouse, wings flared wide, feathers shimmering in the sun. His sword spun between his fingers with the chaotic grace of someone who absolutely should not be trusted with sharp objects.

“Bug, you alright? I didn’t see you spacing out,” he said, concern threaded with a hint of unhinged enthusiasm.

He stabbed his sword into the ground with a flourish that would’ve made a stage magician jealous, then extended his hand toward you. Warm. Steady. Familiar. His fingers interlocked with yours, pulling you upright with a gentleness that contrasted hilariously with the fact that he had just tackled you like a divine linebacker.

“C’mon, up‑up,” he teased, as if you hadn’t just been body‑slammed by your own guardian angel.

You blinked, dazed, finally registering your surroundings.

Training.

Right.

“Training.”

Except this wasn’t training. This was Builderman’s paranoia parade—endless drills with no goal, no skill tree, no badge. Just tests to make sure you didn’t “lose control” and 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 a person with feelings and maybe too much power.

Shedletsky, sensing your sarcasm spiraling, softened. One golden‑tipped wing unfurled, arching over you like a living parasol, shielding your eyes from the harsh sun. The gesture was instinctive, protective, and so tender it made your chest ache.

“I think we’ve had enough training for today, yeah?” he murmured, 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.