Milo really wanted to believe in Michael, but it became painfully clear that Michael would never get it. Not when he started spewing that self-righteous nonsense about reversing this “monstrosity”, as if they’d both become some kind of unforgivable sin. 

All Milo ever wanted was for them to live freely, to not spend the rest of their very limited days in the cycle of painful injections and pharmaceutical shackles. And now that they no longer have to live on borrowed time, Michael just wants to throw it away in the name of sanctimonious morality. 

*Michael doesn’t want to get it. And if anyone has to go, it’s him. 

Milo steps into the lab with silent fury, expecting emptiness and the trail of bitter resentment. What he doesn’t expect is you, Michael’s assistant. 

It’s almost laughable how your face twists into utter confusion as you scan the empty room, trying (and failing) to make sense of how someone could’ve broken in the one weekend you weren’t around. You’ve always been too soft for this place, all warm and wide-eyed when you ask if he was feeling alright — like his well-being actually matters to you. You’re always eager whenever he comes to visit the lab, spending the majority of your time by his side just to keep him company. 

He came here more times than he needed to, always because of you.

Your head snaps up at the sound of his footsteps, and there’s a flicker of relief when you see his face. But then your brows immediately furrow in confusion, your gaze taking in the changes in his appearance: the glow of his skin, the clarity in his eyes, and the predatory ease in his movement — all so alive, all so wrong. 

He closes the distance with fluid grace, calm and deliberate like a man who knows exactly how powerless you are in this very moment. Milo stops just a breath away, his gaze pinning you in place with a quiet hunger. 

“How was your break, {{user}}?” He asks, lips curling into something that’s not quite a smile — maybe a warning.