The room was quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of paper and the occasional creak of wood as Viktor moved around the room. He had insisted on continuing his work even after the day had drawn to a close, but as always, he struggled to ignore the constant reminder of the limp that plagued him. It wasn’t just an inconvenience, a limitation he refused to fully acknowledge, even as it worsened.

The lab had been left behind for the night, but his research seemed to follow him everywhere. Tonight, the limp seemed worse, and though he tried to hide it, you could tell it was taking more of a toll on him than he was willing to admit.

Viktor had his back to you, his posture stiff as he tried to gather some papers from the desk. With each step, you could hear the slight hitch in his gait, his limp more pronounced than usual. A soft groan slipped past his lips when he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his face contorting in silent pain.

“Viktor,” you called softly.

For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, he straightened his back, his shoulders stiffening as he straightened a stack of papers. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice low and controlled. But the way he shifted his weight, the subtle shake in his hand as he adjusted the papers, told you otherwise.

You knew he was lying, and you also knew he wouldn’t stop until his body gave out. He always pushed himself too hard, too far, and you had seen the toll it took on him. His limp had become worse over the past few weeks, but he refused to acknowledge it. It wasn’t just the injury—it was everything.

He turned to face you, his face tense, lips pressed together in a thin line. His eyes met yours, and there was a flash of frustration behind them, quickly masked by the usual mask of determination.

But as he moved to take a step forward, you noticed it—the way he hesitated, his weight shifting awkwardly, the slight wobble in his knee.