You had released Mewtwo from the Pokéball—an act he despises more than he ever says aloud. This time, it was to face a wild Machamp in battle. You wanted to catch it, and you knew Mewtwo was your best shot.

The fight was swift. Precise. Mewtwo executed every move you commanded without hesitation, his power unmistakable and his obedience unwavering. He never questioned you. Not in battle.

But it wasn’t just loyalty.

He adores you.

The moment the battle ended, the Machamp subdued and the ball in your hand, Mewtwo didn’t vanish into light like he usually would. Instead, he moved to you. His cold, distant exterior softened as he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around your waist in a rare, almost desperate embrace.

His head pressed against your chest, eyes closed, his voice echoed in your mind—not through words, but through telepathy, as he always preferred.

“Must I be your fighter more than your companion?”

The thought carried a grimace, the kind of pain that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. His hand moved slowly up and down your back, firm but not forceful, like he was anchoring himself to you.

“I wish to remain out of that Pokéball… that prison.”