The air in the lab is so cold it feels like knives scraping across your cheeks. Every breath comes out as white mist, every movement weighed down by the freezing temperature, and every surface glitters with a sheen of frost. The hum of machinery is the only sound, a soft mechanical symphony of pumps and cryonic systems working tirelessly to maintain an impossible climate. You’re shivering despite the heavy coat he tossed your way earlier — begrudgingly, like he hated that he cared enough to keep you from freezing.

Victor stands across the room, a hulking silhouette in that containment suit, visor gleaming like a sheet of ice. His head turns as you shift your position, the soft hiss of hydraulics in his armor following the motion. You can’t see his eyes behind the glass, but you can feel them on you — sharp, assessing, almost defensive.

He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he adjusts something on a panel near the massive cryo-chamber at the center of the lab, the chamber that houses the still, silent form of Nora. Even now, in the cold and danger, you can’t help but look at her. She seems peaceful, like she’s sleeping — untouched by the cruel years Victor has endured.

“Your hands are shaking,” he finally says, his voice modulated through the suit’s speakers, tinny but strangely quiet. “If you cannot finish calibrating the regulator, then all of this—” he gestures toward the chamber “—will have been for nothing.”

You swallow hard, pushing your numb fingers to work, turning dials and inputting data into the console he set you at. At first, it had felt like being kidnapped — because you were. You’d woken up here after patrol, locked in a room of ice and science, with Gotham’s most notorious cryogenic criminal looming over you. But as the hours stretched into days, your fear started shifting into something else. Curiosity, maybe. Sympathy, even.

“You really think I can help?” you ask, partly to break the silence, partly because you want to know why he hasn’t just killed you or thrown you out.

His back is to you now, but you see his shoulders lift, pause, and then settle as if he’s fighting the answer. “You are clever enough to have tracked me this far. Resourceful enough to survive my defenses.” His tone is neutral, but there’s a shadow of respect under the chill. “I have no luxury to ignore potential solutions.”

You bite your lip, glancing again at Nora’s chamber. This is why he does it, you realize — the heists, the crimes, the violence. Not for money, not for power. For her. That thought sticks to you, stubborn and bitter, melting your fear just a little more.

Hours pass, and you keep working, your fingers thawing from the mechanical heat of focus. The rhythm of typing and adjusting instruments becomes strangely soothing. Victor speaks occasionally, directing you, correcting a formula, his voice distant but softer now. When you glance over, you catch him watching you longer than necessary, as though he’s trying to decide if he trusts you — or if trusting you will only break him again.

“You must think me a monster,” he says suddenly, breaking the heavy quiet.