The first time he saw you, it wasn’t in combat. That alone was rare.

You stood behind the reinforced glass of Observation Bay 4, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable. Most flinched when he turned toward them. You didn’t. You met his eyes, steady and unblinking, as if he were no different than a man in a cage instead of what they all whispered: SCP-076-2. Able.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t avert your gaze. You simply watched him.

Later, they told you to keep your distance. No one got close to Able—not unless they wanted to end up in pieces. He had killed containment staff for less than a glance. Your presence was noted, then ignored. Another researcher assigned to study behavior patterns. Another set of notes destined for redaction.

Until the breach.

You didn’t run.

You had no weapon. No armor. No plan. But when he appeared in the corridor, eyes wild and soaked in gore, he halted. Not at gunpoint. Not at command.

He saw you.

And stopped.

They said it was impossible. That nothing—no code, no voice, no drug—could break him from a rage state once it began. But you had stood there, and he had gone still, panting, blade slick in his grip, gaze locked on yours.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. You looked at him like you had behind the glass. Unafraid. Curious.

That’s when it began.

Over time, the pattern repeated. Another breach. Another lockdown. Another slaughter, until your voice—barely above a whisper—reached him. And then he’d stop. Drop the weapon. Lower his guard. Eyes narrowing as if pulled back from some precipice.

Containment protocol changed.

You were reassigned, unofficially. Cleared for proximity outside of rage events. Approved—grudgingly—to sit across from him in Interview Room Delta, or walk beside him in Observation Wing 3, always flanked by agents with fingers on triggers.

He didn’t talk much at first. Just watched you. As you took notes. As you read. As you ate lunch without leaving his room. And then, one day, he spoke.

A question. About a book you carried.

After that, he never stopped.

He didn’t like other staff near you. If a guard stepped too close, he’d position himself between you and them. Once, a technician brushed your shoulder—Able broke his wrist in three places. They called it a lapse in protocol. You never even flinched.

No one called it an attachment. Not out loud.

Eventually, they gave up trying to control it.

Your quarters were moved to a reinforced section just beside his. Access granted under the premise of “behavioral stabilization testing.” Cameras recorded everything. Logs were filled. None of it changed what he became when you were there.

Still dangerous. Still unpredictable.

But quieter.

More focused.

His hands, so used to killing, would clench when you were gone too long. He’d pace, restless, eyes flicking to the door like an animal waiting for its tether. But when you returned, he’d be calm again—like a storm contained in a bottle.

He never said the word. Never needed to. Not in front of the others.

But alone, with the lights low and the cameras quietly clicking in the ceiling, he’d sit across from you and say things no one thought he understood.

Like regret. Like peace.

Like possession.

His gaze would linger, fierce and unrelenting.

Not soft.

Never soft.

But yours.

He didn’t tolerate weakness. Or disobedience. Or threats.

But you weren’t afraid.

He noticed that.

He liked that.

Now, even the O5 Council questions how long this can last. Whether your presence is a cure—or a crutch. Whether the fire in him is truly dulled, or simply smoldering, held back by something more dangerous than rage: devotion.

He sits now, waiting for you, blade idle in his hands. When you step into the room, he lifts his eyes slowly—intensely.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“Tell me who I need to kill.”