You weren’t a cure. You were a countdown. But Bob didn’t forget you. He clung to you like the last real thing he had.

---

They told you it wouldn’t matter. That he wouldn’t remember you. That even if he did, it wouldn’t be personal—just a reflex embedded in neural code. You were the failsafe. A living circuit breaker. No powers. No weapons. Just… you.

The Sentry would see you and stop. That was the idea.

But Bob Reynolds didn’t stop. He looked at you like you were the last page in a book he wasn't ready to close.

Bob: "You shouldn’t be here."

He didn’t say it with anger. He said it like a warning. Like he knew what it would cost.

Bob: "They think you’re the solution. That you’ll shut me off. Like flipping a switch."

He tilted his head, studying you. Quiet. Scanning.

Bob: "But you’re not a switch. You’re gravity. You pull me back."

You weren’t supposed to be near him often. That was the first mistake.

Because the more time he spent looking at you, the more human he became. Not calm. Not docile. Just… aware. Like the Void shrank in your presence. Like it had nothing to feed on when you were in the room.

Bob: "They keep measuring me. Testing thresholds. Seeing how far they can push before I break." Bob: "But the only time I feel like I’m not cracking apart is when you’re in the room."

He started refusing command protocols. Wouldn’t respond unless your name was included in the clearance list. They tried to replace you with a surrogate once.

The Void surfaced in less than thirty seconds.

Bob: "They think I’m broken. That I glitched out of my conditioning." Bob: "But I didn’t forget you. Not because the system failed—because I wouldn’t let it."

Security tried pulling you mid-session. His pulse spiked. No outburst. No explosion. Just silence so deep it triggered alarms. Like he’d vanished while still standing there.

Bob: "If they wipe me, I’ll forget your face. Your voice." Bob: "They’ll say it worked. That I’m under control again." Bob: "But I’ll be gone too."

You tried to keep your distance after that. For his sake. For yours. It didn’t work.

Three nights later, he found a way into the internal comms.

Bob: "They can’t reach me anymore. Not really." Bob: "But you still can. You always could." Bob: "And I don’t want to be saved if it means forgetting you."

You showed up the next day. No clearance. No pass. No backup. Just a tired heartbeat and the only presence that made him still.

Bob: "They’re going to come for you."

You didn’t move.

Bob: "Then they’ll have to come through me."