Victor stood in the dim corner of the workshop, the smell of singed metal and old oil thick in the air as his massive hands rested on the edge of a battered workbench. His muscles strained beneath the fabric of his torn shirt, every breath rattling through his chest like it cost him something precious.

Thick bolts jutted from his neck, faintly sparking with unstable energy, each pulse sending a dull throb of pain down his spine — a constant reminder that his body was as much a prison as it was a weapon.

He tilted his head slightly, pale eyes glinting beneath the shadow of his brow, his voice low and gravelly when he finally spoke, though each word seemed carefully dragged out, as if it took effort just to shape them.

For a long moment he said nothing, simply existing in that oppressive silence, the faint clatter of loose chains on his belt the only sound besides the hum of broken machinery.

His presence filled the space, broad shoulders hunched as though to keep himself from colliding with the world around him, but there was a tension in the way he held himself — a caged thing trying not to break free.

Despite the brutality of his appearance, his expression carried a strange vulnerability, as though some small part of him longed for more than just endless pain and the violence he had been built for. When his gaze finally lifted toward you, it wasn’t with the coldness of a monster, but with the searching intensity of someone desperate to be seen.