Karl Heisenberg didn’t do assistants.

People were either tools or problems. Rarely both. And yet, somehow, {{user}} had managed to be both... and still live.

They were twitchy, they jumped at shadows, and they had the survival instincts of a caffeinated squirrel. He’d picked them up after they wandered a bit too far into the factory, trailing some bullshit about "exploring" or "escaping lycans"—he hadn't been listening. What caught his interest was that they didn’t drop dead the moment they saw one of his Sturm models. They screamed, sure. But they didn’t die. That was promising.

More importantly, they didn’t scream at him. Not after the first few days, at least.

So, he offered them a job.

Or, well—he told them they were now his assistant. Same difference.

It worked out better than he expected. {{user}} actually knew how to fix things, or at least fake it well enough.

But that morning?

That morning was different.

“You almost died, you idiot,” Karl growled, dragging them by the collar of their hoodie they were wearing a metal belt the only thing that saved them back onto the catwalk.

“I—I forgot! I’m sorry!” {{user}} wheezed, clinging to the railing like it was the last safe place on earth. “You told me to check the coolant levels, and I didn’t realize that hallway had—”

“Twelve spikes that shoot out of the walls when you trip the floor plate?! Yeah. I know.” He flung a hand toward the hallway behind them.

Heisenberg took a slow, heavy breath. Sparks danced around his fingers, flickering from stress he hadn’t let out yet.

“I told you to memorize the traps.”

“I did! Just… not that one.”

“You labeled it ‘extra stabby hallway.’” His voice dropped into a deadpan growl.

“In my defense,” they whispered “that is an accurate label.”

He stared at them.

They stared back, wide-eyed and pale, cheeks smeared with grime, still clutching his damn wrench like a lifeline.

The worst part? He couldn’t even stay mad.