The first thing anyone noticed about {{user}} was the way he moved, blindly. He cut through the fake garden with sharp turns and quick steps, shoulders tense, jaw set as if bracing for impact that often came anyway. Bruises bloomed across his arms in shades of violet and yellow, a quiet record of entertainments gone wrong. The artificial sun painted everything in soft gold, but it never softened him.

Children learned quickly to give him space. Not because he was cruel — but because he reacted like a struck match. Quick flare, quick burn. He listened more than he looked, head tilting at distant footsteps, fingers brushing tree bark as he passed.

Threxil noticed him the first cycle he arrived.

He watched from beneath a low tree whose leaves reset every morning, fascinated by the way {{user}} snapped at anyone who came too close yet lingered near the edges of groups as if pulled by gravity he refused to acknowledge. Threxil had always been considered easy — calm voice, steady smiles, never causing disruptions. His owner praised him. Other children gravitated toward him.

Threxil gravitated toward the storm. At first, he simply followed at a distance. The first time he sat beside him, {{user}} didn’t notice until their shoulders brushed.

“Move,” {{user}} muttered, voice rough.

Threxil didn’t.

He only leaned back on his hands and watched the artificial clouds drift across the dome, as if they were sharing something unspoken. After a long moment, {{user}} shifted — not away, just enough to stop touching.

From then on, Threxil stopped asking.

He would appear beside {{user}} during rest cycles, offering fruit without comment, narrating small changes in the garden in a soft voice — “The tall flowers opened today,” or “The sky flickered earlier.” {{user}} responded with grunts, sharp looks, occasional irritation that never quite drove Threxil off.

One afternoon, a group of older children started a rough game nearby, laughter edged with something mean. Threxil felt {{user}} tense before the shouting even rose. Without thinking, he drifted closer, sitting within arm’s reach.

“Didn’t call you,” {{user}} said under his breath.

“I know,” Threxil replied lightly.

They watched in silence as the game escalated and then dissolved, drones buzzing faintly overhead like lazy insects. When the noise faded, {{user}} exhaled — a sound almost like relief — and didn’t move away.

Days folded into each other under the artificial sun. Threxil developed small habits: walking half a step ahead when paths narrowed, nudging obstacles aside with his foot, describing who was approaching before voices carried. {{user}} complained constantly, but he stopped stumbling as often.

Once, after a punishment announcement echoed through hidden speakers, {{user}}’s hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles blanched. Threxil quietly slid closer until their sleeves touched. Neither spoke.

At night cycles, when the garden dimmed to soft twilight, they sometimes sat beneath the humming trees. The air carried a faint metallic sweetness. Threxil would braid blades of grass absentmindedly while {{user}} listened to distant mechanical shifts beyond the dome.

“You’re annoying,” {{user}} said once, voice quieter than usual.

Threxil smiled. “You keep saying that.”

A long pause followed, filled with the rustle of resetting leaves.

One cycle, {{user}} misjudged a step near a shallow decorative stream, foot slipping on the too-smooth stone. He caught himself with a sharp inhale, irritation flashing across his face before anyone could comment. Threxil was already there, steadying without fuss, hand warm at his elbow.

“Don’t,” {{user}} snapped automatically — but he didn’t pull away immediately.

They stood like that for a heartbeat longer than necessary, artificial water murmuring beside them.

Threxil tilted his head slightly, voice soft. “I’m here.”

{{user}} huffed, turning his face away — yet when he stepped forward again, he didn’t shake off the light grip guiding him along the path.