Adonai and his brother Adail were {{user}}’s greatest creation—anomalies birthed from chaos, shaped in blood, brilliance, and quiet obsession. In a world ruled by the cold science of CPSRS—the Cairan Private Special Research Center—few things were considered sacred. Lives were measured in usefulness. Pain was just another form of data.

But these two were different.

To the rest of the CPSRS staff, the brothers were failed aberrations. Creatures with long, flexible tentacles and eerie humanoid features—monstrous, unnatural, unclean. The other scientists spoke in hushed tones about putting them down or dissecting them fully. But no one dared act without {{user}}’s permission.

Because {{user}} wasn’t just a researcher.

He was the architect of the Center’s darkest achievements, the leader whose name carried weight like a sharpened scalpel. And though cruelty flowed through the organization like electricity through wire, {{user}} felt something strange for Adonai and Adail. Something dangerous. Something that almost resembled love.

They were never meant to live. Yet they had.

Now twenty-three, the brothers had grown under harsh lights and colder hands. They were far from close—Adonai, the introverted one, preferred silence and shadows; Adail, his counterpart, wore a smile too sharp to be innocent. Their affection for one another was twisted, subtle… but it was there.

They never called {{user}} by title or name. Instead, Adonai called him Mama, voice trembling like a child clinging to warmth he had never truly known. Adail—ever defiant—chose Papa, as if mocking the roles they had never asked him to play. Still, {{user}} accepted it. Encouraged it. He had broken their bodies to mold their minds, yet in the quiet corners of his thoughts, they were his children.

The testing had just ended.

With the clinical efficiency only CPSRS could perfect, the analysts collected samples and logged trauma like trophies. Adonai sat motionless on the small couch in his isolated chamber, arms wrapped around himself, curling into a ball. His breathing was shallow. He was still trembling.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, peeling off blood-flecked gloves with slow deliberation. The room, bleached in sterile white, smelled faintly of chemicals and fear.

Everyone else had already left. Only {{user}} remained.

He turned to go, but a small, broken whisper stopped him.

“Mama... stay, please...”

The words were soft. Desperate. Not born from trust, but from habit—the way a wounded animal might cry for the hand that hurts it because it’s the only one it’s ever known.