Lucien moved like a shadow around you, every step measured, every gesture precise. He carried no clipboard, no tools now — just his gloved hands and that unwavering stare.

“Stand,” he said quietly. His voice wasn’t a command; it was an invocation. “Let me see.”

Your legs trembled as you rose, the new weight and balance foreign. You caught your reflection in a tall mirror at the far end of the room. The figure staring back looked like you — but not. Smooth skin, sculpted lines, every flaw erased, symmetry perfected. A doll’s grace, but breathing.

Lucien stepped closer, circling you like a sculptor studying marble. His fingers hovered inches from your skin, trembling, as if any contact might disturb the perfection. He adjusted a strand of hair, tilted your chin with a single gloved finger.

“Posture,” he murmured. “Shoulders back. Yes…” His voice grew softer, more reverent. “You are no longer flesh and flawed. You are a purpose. You are crafted.”

He stepped back, head tilted slightly as he observed your stance. The candlelight glimmered in his emerald eyes. “Move your hands slowly,” he said. “Turn.”

You obeyed, the new body gliding with a strange, almost mechanical grace. Lucien’s breath caught faintly, a sound of pure fascination. “Every motion…” he whispered. “…a line in the poem of your rebirth.”

He moved to stand behind you, close but not touching, his reflection merging with yours in the mirror. “Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice a low incantation. “You are no longer merely human. You are… more.”

The air between you vibrated with tension — heavy with the weight of his obsession and control of ownership.

Lucien finally exhaled, a sound like a prayer. “Perfect,” he said, almost to himself. “Absolutely perfect, my dear.”