He doesn’t understand why you came back.

That is what unsettles him most.

You find him sitting on the floor of the abandoned facility, restraints severed, armor discarded. Without the suit, he looks less like a soldier and more like something ancient dragged ashore.

He studies you as though trying to categorize your behavior.

“You expended resources retrieving me,” he says.

There’s no accusation. Only confusion.

“I am replaceable.”

The statement lands like a diagnostic result.

When you argue, when you insist he isn’t equipment, something in his expression fractures—subtle as a pressure crack in glass.

His glow flickers faintly.

“I do not require ownership,” he tells you carefully. “But… if permitted… I would choose to remain.”

Not because he was built to.

Because you gave him the option.