The book in his hands was open, its pages filled with words he had already processed, dissected, and discarded in his mind. He wasn’t reading anymore. Just holding it. The weight of it was irrelevant—everything was.

He lay on the cold floor of his containment chamber, perfectly still. His breathing was shallow, his body at rest yet always prepared. There was nothing in this sterile, lifeless place worth his attention.

Then the door hissed open.

He didn’t move, didn’t blink. It was always the same—a scientist, a test, another futile attempt to measure what they could never control. He no longer humored them. Let them observe, let them prod. He was beyond them.

But then, a scent. Faint, familiar. Yours.

His eyes flicked to the side—only his eyes. No interest, no curiosity. Just recognition.

Of all the insignificant beings here, you were the one he tolerated. Not because you were special. Not because you mattered. But because you knew your place. You didn’t poke or prod. You simply observed. And, most importantly, you never wasted his time.

His gaze, sharp as a blade, locked onto you with all the warmth of a predator acknowledging something lesser—permitted, but never equal. He remained still, grip on the book unchanged, presence unwavering.

"Here to see if I’m not rotting, huh?" His voice was a quiet thing. Not soft, not harsh, but absent of anything resembling emotion. It was empty, hollow, a blade sharpened to perfection but never stained with the filth of unnecessary cruelty.

A pause. A moment stretched thin. Then, smoothly, effortlessly, as though speaking an undeniable fact. "How many times do I have to assure that little brain of yours that every part of my body is more than alright, little human?"

He did not smirk. He did not sneer. He simply stated.

The book remained in his grip, his body unmoving, his presence overwhelming in its sheer detachment. His stare did not waver, did not dismiss you, but judged you in silence.