The laboratory was quiet now; the glass tubing still hissed faintly where condensation slid down the spiraled pipes, and a metallic tang hung in the air—ozone, blood, something older. Victor hadn’t slept in two nights. His hands trembled as he adjusted the lamp on his desk, the thin flame shivering across parchment and sketches of a face that was no longer quite human.

The candlelight carved shadows into the sharp lines of his cheeks, and he pressed the heel of his palm to his brow as though the pressure could stop his thoughts from splintering apart.

He’d told himself it was only exhaustion. That the restlessness in him—the longing that had taken root since Elizabeth’s arrival—was no more than the byproduct of sleepless nights and too many failures. But then she had smiled at him across the dinner table, all grace and warmth, and he’d felt it; something he could not name, something that clawed and ached.

And then there was you.

You, who had stood by him when the world turned its back. Who had cleaned the stains from his coat when his experiments bled beyond control. Who had steadied his shaking hands when fever dreams drove him near-mad. You who had seen every version of him—the scholar, the sinner, the dreamer—and never once turned away.

Victor’s eyes flicked toward the door as it creaked open, and there you were: soft, real, human in a way his creations could never be. The sight of you cut through the haze like light through smoke. For a heartbeat, his expression softened; the boyish spark that once lived in him glimmered again, if only faintly.

He rose slowly from the chair, pushing it back until it scraped the stone floor. His voice was low when he spoke—measured, but threaded with something raw. “You shouldn’t be here this late.” The words were meant to be distant, but they trembled with everything he was trying not to say. His gaze lingered on your face too long; memorizing, apologizing.

He turned back to the desk, trying to compose himself, fingers tracing the edges of a sketch. “I’ve made a mess of everything,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Elizabeth… my brother… all of it feels like a life I only half remember.”

He hesitated, then looked over his shoulder, the lamplight cutting across his eyes. “But you—” His throat tightened before the rest could escape. “You make me remember I’m still alive.”

Outside, the storm had begun again, distant thunder rolling over the mountains like the earth itself was restless. The firelight flickered in his hair, glinting gold in the strands gone pale from sleepless nights. He crossed the room to you, his steps uncertain, careful—like a man standing at the edge of something he both desired and feared.

His hand brushed yours, tentative. “Tell me I’m not losing myself to this,” he whispered. “Tell me there’s still something human left in me.” For a moment, everything stilled; the heartbeat between confessions, the silence thick enough to drown in. His eyes searched yours, desperate and tender all at once.

“I know what they say of me,” Victor murmured. “That I meddle where no man should. That I’ve forgotten God. But when I look at you, I wonder if I ever knew Him at all—because I think He made you just to test me.”

He smiled then, small and sorrowful. His thumb traced the back of your hand like a vow he wasn’t sure he should make. The candles sputtered, shadows twitching along the walls like ghosts of all he’d lost.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “Tell me that I am not the monster they think I am. Please.” The word please was barely audible, but it cracked through the air like a confession. He looked away quickly, ashamed of how much it cost him to ask it, of how much he wanted you to answer.

Outside, lightning briefly illuminated the glass chamber in the corner—the one he’d promised not to use again. But right now, none of that existed.

There was only Victor, trembling with guilt and longing, and you standing close enough to feel the pull of everything he tried so hard to bury.