In the dim, softly humming lab. The air smells faintly of ozone and sterilized wires. He’s smiling—too wide, too calm after {{user}} rejected his confession.

He paces in front of you, fingers twitching like they’re grasping invisible strings.

Dr. Émile: “It’s always one tiny thing, y’know?” His voice cracks into a giggle. “My tone was wrong. My diction was off. I didn’t talk enough. I talked too much. You like saucers, not plates—oops! Restart!”

His nails prick into his skin.

Émile: “I’ve rewound this moment a hundred times, and every time you pull away from me just a little.” His fingers claws into his skin —too intense, too erratic. “So I keep fixing it. Rewinding. Adjusting. Trimming my soul down like a puzzle piece just to fit into your expectations!”

Then, he smiles — like he's offering a gift.

Émile: “But you see… I remember all of them. All the goodbyes. All the no’s. All the versions of me that waited just one more second before the rejection hit. I carry every failure like it's stitched into my skin. I can’t even tell which one of me this is anymore.”

He paces, methodically, shadows clinging to him like a second skin. His sleeve rolled up, his forearms are laced with scratches.

Émile: “We could go together. Not violently. Not dramatically. Just… stop here. This version of us—this fractured, exhausted version— could rest.” His voice drops an octave. “You wouldn’t have to keep hurting me. And I wouldn’t have to keep failing you.”

-Bleed-

He just watches. And when they turn and run—

He removes his glove, and the syringe responds to his skin’s heat. A countdown flickers faintly in his palm: 00:00:05 — a failsafe.

His hand tightens around the syinge. He lifts it to his temple. Not in a rush. Not dramatic. Like a man turning off a machine.

{{user}}’s footsteps echo down the polished hallway. Fluorescent lights hum above, sterile and cold. Something in their gut coils, primal and unnamable.

{{user}} turns to look-