Despite it having been thirteen hours, {{user}}’s broken howl of pain still echoes in his ears. The stain of red that had bloomed on an otherwise-white gown seared into his mind’s eye. The Creature held her in his trembling arms as she whispered her final sentences to him—all this damage for simply loving a monster.

In the small hours of the day, he pours desperately over the remains of his creator’s notations, and is, for the first time in his life, grateful to such a monster. Bless Victor and his marriage to his craft. Bless his precision.

The Creature performs—carefully, exacting—a procedure similar to the one that birthed him.

And now he waits, grasping {{user}}’s frigid, stony hands in his own. Pressing his scarred forehead to her hands, praying to anything that will listen. “Please, my sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs. “Return to me wholly, or I will do nought but whittle away.”