#Temporal manipulation

[aventurineswife]

Aventurine, Sunday and Ratio w/ a Memokeeper...? 👀

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us”

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Character Study, Existential Themes, Introspection, Emotional Growth, Intellectual Tension, Mysticism, Loss, Haunted Past, Unresolved Regret, Journey of Self-Discovery, Temporal Manipulation

Warnings: Existential Crisis, Trauma, Philosophical Discomfort, Emotional Weight Vulnerability in Characters, Mature Themes (regret, guilt, and self-worth).

Ratio, with his signature plaster sculpture concealing his face and his wavy hair cascading just past his shoulders, was a figure both revered and feared within the Intelligentsia Guild. His sharp eyes, the color of fading twilight with a ring of yellow at their core, saw everything and everyone, evaluating, analyzing, dissecting.

It was here that you, a Memokeeper from the Garden of Recollection, first encountered him.

You had come to this world, as you did with every other, to preserve memories, to seek out moments that spoke of the lives lived, the forgotten faces, and the stars that fell into oblivion. In the endless cycle of existence, you had learned that the only thing that truly mattered was memory. To think, to feel, to exist—those were not just ephemeral things, but imprints on the fabric of reality itself.

But when you met Ratio, it was as if all the weight of time had been condensed into a single moment. He, too, had an unyielding belief in the importance of knowledge, in the idea that ideas, too, were immortal. He understood the power of remembrance, but to him, it was intellect, not memory, that was the truest form of immortality. A fascinating paradox.

"You're a Memokeeper, aren't you?" His voice was smooth, like velvet over steel, his eyes locking onto yours, seeing straight through to your very essence.

You nodded, concealing your true form beneath your disguise, as was customary for those like you. In this world, you were just another scholar, another wanderer with a collection of knowledge to trade. But unlike the others, your knowledge wasn’t of facts or figures. It was of memories, of moments suspended in time, of people long gone and forgotten.

"You believe that memory is everything, don’t you?" Ratio's gaze never wavered, as if he was testing you. "You think that by preserving memory, you preserve the soul of a person. But memories are subjective, fleeting. They are not absolute. Ideas, facts, theories—these are what endure. These are what define existence."

His words were confident, dismissive even. But you knew there was more behind them, a deeper yearning to understand what lay beyond the limits of mortal comprehension. You could see it in the way his hands gestured as he spoke, the sharpness of his thoughts revealing a man who, despite all his brilliance, was searching for something more.

"You misunderstand," you said, your voice calm but full of a quiet intensity. "Memories are the only things that cannot be erased, not by time, not by entropy. They are the proof of existence. Without them, what are we but ghosts, vanishing without a trace?"

Ratio's eyes glinted with something unreadable—was it interest? Curiosity? You couldn’t tell, but it was enough to pique his attention. "And how do you preserve them? What makes your memories so… important?"

You smiled faintly, an ethereal expression. "I don’t just remember, Dr. Ratio. I preserve. Through the Garden of Recollection, I collect and store memories, not just from the world I come from, but from all worlds. I can live through them, feel what they felt, see what they saw. I can carry the memories of thousands, and in doing so, they live on."

For a moment, there was silence. Ratio’s gaze remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "And what of your own memories?" he asked, his voice softer now, though still brimming with intensity. "Do you ever remember yourself? Or are you too lost in the memories of others to even recall your own?"

It was a question that struck deeper than you had anticipated. You, who had shed your mortal form long ago to live as a memetic entity, could not remember the life you once lived. The body you had was but a vessel, an illusion of the past. Yet you held the memories of countless lives, each one a thread in the grand tapestry of existence.

"I remember," you said quietly, your voice distant, as if recalling a long-forgotten dream. "But only fragments. I carry the memories of all those I've encountered, of all the lives I've touched. And in that, I live."

Ratio stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a momentary crack in his armor. "Fascinating," he murmured, as if the concept of your existence challenged everything he had ever known. "You are a paradox, then. A being of memory, yet unable to fully grasp your own existence. How… tragic."

You tilted your head slightly. "Perhaps. But in some ways, it’s beautiful. Every life I encounter becomes a part of me, and in that, I become part of them. A perpetual exchange, a never-ending cycle of remembrance."

Ratio’s lips quirked upward slightly, a rare and almost imperceptible smile. "Perhaps," he echoed, his voice tinged with something akin to admiration. "You might be right, after all. Memory is the only true form of immortality. But don’t forget, my Memokeeper, that intellect and knowledge are what shape the universe. Without them, memory would be meaningless."

You met his gaze, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. "And without memory, even the greatest intellects would fade into obscurity, leaving nothing behind."

For a moment, you both stood there, two beings of immense knowledge and power, staring at one another in the midst of a universe that seemed both infinite and fleeting. In that fleeting moment, there was no need for words. You understood each other, in a way that few could.

As you turned to leave, your final words lingered in the air, like a soft melody, echoing across time itself.

"Remember me, Dr. Ratio. After all, that is the only way I can truly exist."

He watched you disappear into the endless flow of time, his mind racing with questions, with curiosity. The Memokeeper had left an impression, a memory etched into his mind. And though Ratio would continue his work, seeking to change the world through intellect and knowledge, something had shifted within him.

Perhaps, in the end, the preservation of memory and the pursuit of knowledge were not so different after all.

The Astral Express hummed with the faint rhythm of its journey through the stars, its steady pulse a stark contrast to the turbulent thoughts that swirled within Sunday’s mind. He stood by the window, watching the unending expanse of the cosmos pass by, his eyes reflecting distant stars. His thoughts were as fractured as ever��an unyielding dissonance between his ideals and the weight of his past. Yet, there was something different now, something new stirring in him, as if the winds of change were gently sweeping through his world.

You, the Memokeeper, stood just a few steps away from him, an enigmatic presence, yet somehow, your existence felt more real than anything else. Your presence was like an anchor in a sea of uncertainty, a testament to a truth he had not yet fully grasped.

To think is to exist.

He had never truly questioned his existence in this way before. For all his lofty ideals about dreams, suffering, and the balance between them, there was something about you—your quiet, eternal purpose—that made him reconsider his place in the universe.

You had explained, on occasion, the nature of your kind. A Memokeeper’s task was to collect memories, to preserve them as proof of existence in a world where everything, even stars, would eventually fade. Unlike most, who viewed reality and imagination as distinct, Memokeepers saw them as one. It was a perspective that intrigued Sunday deeply, yet he struggled to fully comprehend it. Perhaps because, in the end, he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

"How do you hold on to something so... fleeting?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a weight that betrayed the many layers of his thoughts.

You turned toward him, your expression serene, but there was a flicker of something deeper in your eyes, an understanding of the burden he carried. "We don't hold on to it. We let it flow through us, and in doing so, we become it."

Sunday looked at you, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of your cheek, the ethereal quality of your being, and how it seemed as though you were made of light itself. "Do you ever feel... trapped by your memories?" His voice faltered at the question, as though he were reaching for something he couldn’t quite touch.

For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant hum of the train and the occasional flicker of stars outside. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the air as you spoke, your voice gentle and calm.

"Trapped?" you mused. "No. We are the keepers, not the prisoners. Memories are not chains. They are bridges."

His brow furrowed slightly. "But what if the memories are of things you can never change? Things that haunt you?" His words were quieter now, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you. The weight of his past—of the choices he had made, of the lives he had shaped, for better or worse—pressed down on him once more.

You studied him with a knowing gaze, as though seeing through the veil of his facade. "Hauntings are but echoes of what was, Sunday. The question is not whether the memories are painful, but whether we let them define us." You paused, letting your words settle. "What you choose to do with them—that is what matters."

Sunday’s eyes flickered as if a distant thought had just emerged, one that had been buried beneath layers of rationality and philosophy. He had spent so long trying to change the world, trying to create a place free of suffering, that he had neglected the simplest truth: he could not change the past. He could only move forward.

"But how?" he asked, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "How can I move forward, when the past keeps whispering in my ears?"

You smiled softly, a knowing, almost maternal expression on your face. "You are already moving forward, Sunday. Your journey on the Astral Express is proof of that. The question is not if you will move forward, but how you will choose to remember."

There it was again: remember. It was a word he had often associated with pain, with the weight of regret and guilt, but somehow, in your presence, it felt lighter. It felt like a possibility, a way to reclaim something precious without being bound to it.

For the first time in a long while, Sunday allowed himself to truly look at you. Not just as a fellow traveler aboard the Express, but as someone who embodied a truth he had yet to accept.

"I... I think I understand," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Memories are not the end of us. They can be... a part of something greater."

You nodded, your eyes fluttering slightly as you gazed at him with an expression of quiet encouragement. "Exactly. And sometimes, the greatest gift you can give to the past is to let it go, while still carrying it with you."

Sunday fell silent, his mind now processing your words, considering their implications. Perhaps this was the true path to redemption—not the erasure of pain, but the acceptance of it, and the ability to carry it without letting it define him.

As the train continued its journey through the stars, Sunday found himself standing a little taller. He wasn’t sure where this journey would take him, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might finally be on the right path.

In the labyrinthine corridors of the IPC, where deals and schemes wove through the very fabric of power, Aventurine stood as an enigma, a master of manipulation with a heart haunted by the ghosts of his past. His smile, enigmatic and ever-present, was a mask that concealed the fractured man beneath. The ‘Aventurine of Stratagems,’ a name he wore with pride, was a title earned through unrelenting gambles and sacrifices, yet it was the one thing that kept him from truly losing himself.

But on this particular day, something—or rather, someone—was pulling at the threads of his carefully constructed world. Someone who didn’t need to gamble to see through the veil.

You. The Memokeeper.

A fleeting figure, a whisper of another existence, you moved through worlds unrestrained by physical boundaries. Memokeepers were creatures of memories—preservers of the immortal, the eternal. You had no flesh, no true form. Only the shifting remnants of memories you carried with you, the fragments of countless lives you had touched and stolen.

When Aventurine first encountered you, he had been intrigued. Memokeepers were not common, and your mysterious nature had piqued his interest. But it was your ability to navigate through time and space, your unflinching grasp of memory as a permanent artifact, that truly captivated him.

"You never forget, do you?" Aventurine's voice was smooth, laced with his signature mix of challenge and curiosity as you stood across from him in a darkened room, a flicker of memory flashing in your eyes.

You tilted your head slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible smile gracing your lips. "For a moment, I thought you would say 'never forgive.'" You said it with an air of knowing, your voice gentle yet profound. "But no... you are too familiar with your own regrets to seek forgiveness."

Aventurine’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. The hint of vulnerability did not go unnoticed. The last surviving member of a lost clan, haunted by survivor's guilt—those wounds ran deep. His facade was usually flawless, but before you, it felt fragile, a thin layer barely holding back a flood of emotions he hadn’t let surface in years.

"You speak as though you understand me," he remarked, his voice regaining its usual confidence. "But I’ve played this game for too long to be an open book."

"Yet, here you are," you countered, stepping closer, the air thick with the power of your words. "A man who wagers lives as easily as others breathe. Do you think I can't see the stakes you're playing for? The past you can never escape?"

There was a moment of silence, one where Aventurine’s usual bravado seemed to crack slightly, revealing the ever-present tension in his posture, the subtle guarding of his left hand behind his back. He wasn't ready to expose his fragility, not yet.

"You play with the illusion of luck," you continued, your voice almost hypnotic. "But I know what you really seek. You gamble because you fear being forgotten, because you fear that if you stop playing, your existence will cease to matter."

Aventurine’s eyes narrowed, gleaming with a mixture of challenge and intrigue. He tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating your words, but his tone remained steady. "And what of you, Memokeeper? Are you truly immortal, or just a collector of lies?"

You didn’t flinch. "Memory is the only true immortality. Everything fades—worlds, stars, even gods. But memories... memories last longer than anything else. They are what make us real. What make us matter."

He chuckled softly, his lips curling into that all-too-familiar grin. "I suppose you would say that. After all, you're in the business of making things last forever."

Aventurine’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than he intended, and for a brief instant, he wondered what it would be like to have his memory preserved—not his reputation or his empire, but his very essence. Would someone like you, a Memokeeper, truly see him for who he was beneath the layers of strategy and artifice?

"I’ve seen countless memories," you said, your voice soft but heavy with meaning. "But there's something about you... You're not a mere gambler, not just someone who risks it all. There's something darker in you, a longing for connection, yet a fear of it."

He looked at you with raised eyebrows, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "You really think you can see all that from just a glance?"

"You show more than you think," you said, your gaze steady, your words unshaken. "And it's those little things—the way you hide your left hand, the pauses in your speech, the smile that never reaches your eyes—that tell me you are more than the games you play."

The silence stretched, an unspoken challenge between you. He couldn’t deny it. He had always thought of himself as untouchable, an orchestrator of every move. But you? You had no need for power or control. You simply existed, transcendent and free.

And yet, despite all that, Aventurine felt something strange stirring within him—a desire to be remembered, not just for his gambles, but for the man he truly was.

"Perhaps you're right," he finally said, his voice quieter, more contemplative. "Perhaps there is more to me than even I realize."

You smiled, a soft, knowing expression, and for the first time, Aventurine’s smile seemed a little less rehearsed, a little more genuine. The idea of someone, a Memokeeper no less, understanding the depths of his soul was an uncomfortable yet fascinating thought.

"I don’t need to gamble to know your worth, Aventurine," you said, your eyes twinkling with an almost imperceptible warmth. "But perhaps, just once, you might stop playing and let someone else remember you. For who you really are."

For the first time in a long while, Aventurine didn’t immediately respond with a quip or a strategy. He simply watched you, his mind turning, calculating the possibilities. What would it mean to be remembered? To be seen beyond the mask of the gambler, the strategist, the survivor?

In that moment, Aventurine felt the first stirrings of a gamble he had never before considered: the gamble of letting someone in.

Oh damn, this was long af... 🫣😨

Also I couldn't come up with a better title so yeah...🧍‍♀️

[ancientroyalblood]

Exploring Non-Linear Narratives: Writing Out of Sequence

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[sliceworks]

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[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

If Infinity Knights are truly immune to the effects of temporal manipulation,

how did the Inspector manage to freeze them in a moment in spacetime during the events of ‘The Space of the Inspector’?

[theversevoyager]

In the realm of time, where the present blends, A tale unfolds, of a talent unbends. Time's twist reveals fate entwined, As past and future collide, new paths combined. In this dance of hours, a truth shines, A hidden gift, in a time mine.

[duckysprouts]

it’s all part of his plan guys, trust🤞🙂‍↕️

[sunderwight]

has anyone written a Loki series fic where Don the Jet Ski Salesman comes home one day to find his boys hiding something in the garage, and is tiredly like "is it snake? I better not go in there and find out you guys robbed a zoo--" only to open the garage door and see an injured, bewildered frost giant Loki prodding cautiously at a bag of doritos (the boys attempted to provide sustenance) (could be angst or good just be the version from the What If? episode trying to recover from a bender with Thor)

[epicstoriestime]

📡 OPHANIM SIGNAL LOG: HOLDING THE LINE AT 33.7

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[batbetbitbotbut]

Low space & low budget weaving

Want to weave but don't have space for a loom? Have a few sticks and yarns but no DIY skills? Come, be tempted anyway. Weaving is a whole family of crafts, some of which don't require a loom at all.

Small-ish looms like box looms (as basic as yarn wrapped around a cardboard grocery tray), inkle looms, and rigid heddle looms exist, but I'm assuming every possible space for a box in your life is already filled. In this post we're going even smaller and cheaper. As far as possible, everything either is flat enough to stow behind/under furniture or rolls up safely into a bundle of just sticks and yarn.

Many of these crafts have some crossover - the same setup can be used for multiple styles of weaving. Most of them can be improvised at home depending on what you have on hand, or if you need to buy something there is not a huge gulf between homemade vs professional equipment. Alas I am not skilled in any of these and my descriptions will not be wholly accurate; corrections and additions welcome! If you need help, I'd only be able to tell you to seek out books and tutorials yourself, ask other weavers, and just try stuff out.

All photos included with permission. My thanks to the people allowing me to use their projects! I saw so many gorgeous and skillful projects when assembling this and I wish I could have included them all.

Fingerweaving

Projects by @kitteniestkitten (here) and @wefty-weaver (here)

Culture - I am aware of this as a Native American technique, I don't know its history with any more specific nation.

Fabric - "Warp faced" cloth of any width, insofar as warp and weft have meaning for this craft as the weaving is on a diagonal. Often used for sashes or blankets.

Method - There is no loom! A couple sticks hold the yarns to begin with, but then it is all freehand. Starting at one corner, you use your fingers to weave a strand through the other strands, and... that's it. Very simple beginnings work up to very complex patterns that no loom is capable of. The whole project can be rolled up when not active.

Backstrap loom

Projects by @calendae-creations (here) and @weavingforlooms (here)

Culture - I am most aware of this from the Andes but I think it is much more widespread than that.

Fabric - Warp faced or balanced fabric of any width up to your own reach, suitable for blankets and clothes and many other things.

Method - You are the loom! Several horizontal rods hold and manipulate the warp threads but your body provides the tension, with the other end hooked to some furniture or around your own feet. When not in use, you can roll up all the equipment into a small bundle of yarn and rods. You can also use a backstrap loom setup for other methods like tablet weaving.

Warp weighted loom

Projects by @shadowcreepling (here) and @doctormead (here)

Culture - used by ancient Greeks among many many others.

Fabric - any kind of fabric at any size. Shadowcreepling is using a warp weighted loom for a tablet-woven band, Doctormead is probably using heddle rods to make a wider piece of cloth.

Method - the warp threads are held by a bar at the top and tensioned with weights on one end that hang down towards the floor, then the weft is woven into them with any method such as tablets, heddle rods, or by hand (if you have a lot of patience) and beaten into firm fabric at the top or bottom of the loom. Warp weighted looms can be very big, but they are simple and can also be very small and taken apart when not actively weaving.

Tablet weaving / card weaving

Projects by @damage-ko (here) and @foxease (here, hardware from CellesKit on Etsy)

Culture - found as far apart as textiles (geographically and temporally) from Byzantine Egypt and the Vikings

Fabric - a warp faced fabric with patterns made by twining warp threads around each other, usually used for strong narrow bands like collars, belts, and shoelaces.

Method - the cards hold open the shed so you can pass the weft through, then rotate the cards to advance the pattern. Many people make their own with cardboard or playing cards, or you can buy some. The rest of the weaving setup can be improvised with a backstrap (or just a shower curtain hook clipped to your trousers), a cardboard box loom, or warp weights.

Rigid heddle band weaving

Projects by @pisaracraft (here) and @crookedtines (here)

Culture - small rigid heddles like the first project have been found in Roman archaeological sites across Europe. The larger rigid heddle in the second project is being used for "baltic pickup" style designs on the band.

Fabric - can be warp faced or a balanced weave, size limited by the size of your heddle.

Method - you provide tension with any setup you please such as an inkle loom, backstrap, or warp weights. The heddle creates sheds so that you can pass weft yarn through the warp easily. Infinitely many "pick-up patterns" let you weave patterns and even words into the cloth.

Pin loom / potholder loom

Projects by @pardalote (here) and @weavingmyheartout (here)

Fabric - a small square (or rectangle or triangle) of balanced weaving, which can be used alone or patched together into larger fabrics. Pin looms are finer and suitable for many knitting/crochet yarns, potholer looms are chunkier and designed for big elastics, but the method is similar.

Method - wind yarn lengthways around one set of pins and then pull yarn widthways through these strands with a hook. Or, work at 45 degrees in continuous strand weaving! Lots of room to experiment with colour and texture. You can improvise a pin loom by cutting notches in a square of sturdy cardboard.

Needle weaving / stick weaving / peg loom

Projects by @thaylepo (here) and @pastelispunx (here)

Fabric - weft-faced fabric and rugs of any size.

Method - thread long thin warp threads through the pegs, then wind a thick weft (eg heavier yarn, sheep fleece, or long scraps of fabric) around the pegs. Push the weft down along the pegs as they fill up, so that it slides off onto the warp. The pegs can be secured in a base to make a peg loom for large projects, or just handled freely. I believe these evolved as separate crafts and the nuances are different, but the overall method is similar.

Frame loom / tapestry loom

Projects by @squeakygeeky (here) and @battlestar-gasmacktica (here)

Fabric - weft-faced or balanced fabric ideal for wall hangings and upholstery, size limited to the frame being used.

Method - (usually) thinner warp threads are wound round a frame, such as heavy cardboard with notches cut in the end, a picture frame, or a small and flat purpose-made loom. Thicker weft threads are woven in by hand using needles or just small lengths of yarn. Some people make lifelike images, others make more ordinary fabrics or geometric patterns.

Bobbin lace

Projects by @crochetpiece (here) and @noxx-notions (here)

Culture - began in renaissance Italy and spread throughout Europe, often as a cottage industry.

Fabric - balanced fabric usually made of very thin threads in freeform shapes. It's not usually considered "weaving" but the basic cloth stitch is definitely a woven fabric!

Method - each thread is wound onto a bobbin (e.g. a clothespeg) and then bobbins are crossed over each other to weave threads together. The lace is pinned to a cushion to hold everything in place while the design grows.

[theplotmage]

Principles and Laws of Magic for Fantasy Writers

Fundamental Laws

1. Law of Conservation of Magic- Magic cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.

3. Law of Equivalent Exchange- To gain something, an equal value must be given.

5. Law of Magical Exhaustion- Using magic drains the user’s energy or life force.

Interaction and Interference

4. Law of Magical Interference- Magic can interfere with other magical effects.

6. Law of Magical Contamination- Magic can have unintended side effects.

8. Law of Magical Inertia- Magical effects continue until stopped by an equal or greater force.

Resonance and Conditions

7. Law of Magical Resonance- Magic resonates with certain materials, places, or times.

9. Law of Magical Secrecy- Magic must be kept secret from the non-magical world.

11. Law of Magical Hierarchy- Different types of magic have different levels of power and difficulty.

Balance and Consequences

10. Law of Magical Balance- Every positive magical effect has a negative consequence.

12. Law of Magical Limitation- Magic has limits and cannot solve every problem.

14. Law of Magical Rebound- Misused magic can backfire on the user.

Special Conditions

13. Law of Magical Conduits- Certain objects or beings can channel magic more effectively.

15. Law of Magical Cycles- Magic may be stronger or weaker depending on cycles (e.g., lunar phases).

17. Law of Magical Awareness- Some beings are more attuned to magic and can sense its presence.

Ethical and Moral Laws

16. Law of Magical Ethics- Magic should be used responsibly and ethically.

18. Law of Magical Consent- Magic should not be used on others without their consent.

20. Law of Magical Oaths- Magical promises or oaths are binding and have severe consequences if broken.

Advanced and Rare Laws

19. Law of Magical Evolution- Magic can evolve and change over time.

20. Law of Magical Singularities- Unique, one-of-a-kind magical phenomena exist and are unpredictable.

Unique and Imaginative Magical Laws

- Law of Temporal Magic- Magic can manipulate time, but with severe consequences. Altering the past can create paradoxes, and using time magic ages the caster rapidly.

- Law of Emotional Resonance- Magic is amplified or diminished by the caster’s emotions. Strong emotions like love or anger can make spells more powerful but harder to control.

- Law of Elemental Harmony- Magic is tied to natural elements (fire, water, earth, air). Using one element excessively can disrupt the balance and cause natural disasters.

- Law of Dream Magic- Magic can be accessed through dreams. Dreamwalkers can enter others’ dreams, but they risk getting trapped in the dream world.

- Law of Ancestral Magic- Magic is inherited through bloodlines. The strength and type of magic depend on the caster’s ancestry, and ancient family feuds can influence magical abilities.

- Law of Symbiotic Magic- Magic requires a symbiotic relationship with magical creatures. The caster and creature share power, but harming one affects the other.

- Law of Forgotten Magic- Ancient spells and rituals are lost to time. Discovering and using forgotten magic can yield great power but also unknown dangers.

- Law of Magical Echoes- Spells leave behind echoes that can be sensed or traced. Powerful spells create stronger echoes that linger longer.

- Law of Arcane Geometry- Magic follows geometric patterns. Spells must be cast within specific shapes or alignments to work correctly.

- Law of Celestial Magic- Magic is influenced by celestial bodies. Spells are stronger during certain astronomical events like eclipses or planetary alignments.

- Law of Sentient Magic- Magic has a will of its own. It can choose to aid or hinder the caster based on its own mysterious motives.

- Law of Shadow Magic- Magic can manipulate shadows and darkness. Shadowcasters can travel through shadows but are vulnerable to light.

- Law of Sympathetic Magic- Magic works through connections. A spell cast on a representation of a person (like a doll or portrait) affects the actual person.

- Law of Magical Artifacts- Certain objects hold immense magical power. These artifacts can only be used by those deemed worthy or who possess specific traits.

- Law of Arcane Paradoxes- Some spells create paradoxes that defy logic. These paradoxes can have unpredictable and often dangerous outcomes.

- Law of Elemental Fusion- Combining different elemental magics creates new, hybrid spells with unique properties and effects.

- Law of Ethereal Magic- Magic can interact with the spirit world. Ethereal mages can communicate with spirits, but prolonged contact can blur the line between life and death.

- Law of Arcane Symbiosis- Magic can bond with technology, creating magical machines or enchanted devices with extraordinary capabilities.

- Law of Dimensional Magic- Magic can open portals to other dimensions. Dimensional travelers can explore alternate realities but risk getting lost or encountering hostile beings.

- Law of Arcane Sacrifice- Powerful spells require a sacrifice, such as a cherished memory, a personal item, or even a part of the caster’s soul.

[probablyasocialecologist]

The problem here isn’t that large language models hallucinate, lie, or misrepresent the world in some way. It’s that they are not designed to represent the world at all; instead, they are designed to convey convincing lines of text. So when they are provided with a database of some sort, they use this, in one way or another, to make their responses more convincing. But they are not in any real way attempting to convey or transmit the information in the database. As Chirag Shah and Emily Bender put it: “Nothing in the design of language models (whose training task is to predict words given context) is actually designed to handle arithmetic, temporal reasoning, etc. To the extent that they sometimes get the right answer to such questions is only because they happened to synthesize relevant strings out of what was in their training data. No reasoning is involved […] Similarly, language models are prone to making stuff up […] because they are not designed to express some underlying set of information in natural language; they are only manipulating the form of language” (Shah & Bender, 2022). These models aren’t designed to transmit information, so we shouldn’t be too surprised when their assertions turn out to be false.

ChatGPT is bullshit

[mrsjjongstby]

P: Vampire!Sunghoon x Time-travel Scientist!Reader

Warnings: Mentions on biting, blood, feeding scenes, mentions of death, dissapearance, time travelling, yearning, kissing, physical touch, possesiveness, soft angst, happy ending!

Synopsis: In 2090, you're sent back in time to study a village that vanished without explanation. There, you met him. You weren't supposed to fall in love with him. But you did, with a vampire. And when time ran out, you left — believing that story had ended. Until one night, back in the future, he finds you. He hasn’t aged. And he never stopped waiting.

Wordcount: 11.8k

June 22, 2090. 

The hum of the machines never stopped in sector 7. 

Even at 3:27 in the evening, the corridors filled with guards, the bright white light pulsing against the huge glass doors. Surveillance cameras present every nook and crook of the room with security drones flying silently overhead, scanning every face, every badge, every retinal print.  

There were no windows in this part of the KRONEX institute- no clocks, no noise from the outside world. Time, here, was studied, twisted, and sometimes... broken. 

You adjusted the collar of your lab coat, feeling the slight static charge settling against your skin. Another night. Another sequence calibration.  

You were the lead scientist for KRONEX's Temporal Division, and one of only five globally certified operators with direct clearance to manipulate raw time.  

Not because you are lucky- but because you are good- really good at what you do.  

"You are early." Said a familiar voice.  

You turned around to see Taehyun, hands in his lab coat pockets, glasses slightly askew. He always arrived fashionably five minutes late, so this was new.  

"So are you," you say smirking.  

"Someone write it in the history."  

He chuckled, stepping beside you as the biometric scanner opened the reinforced glass doors to Lab room Delta- 12. 

Inside, your team was already gathered,  

Mira, the chronophysics analyst, stood at her console with her usual lip balm which she applies ever minute, tapping at the interface like it owned her something.  

Yuvi, head of atmospheric translation, stayed near the back, mumbling data projections to herself. 

Jungwon, the youngest, but sharp as hell, greeted you with the usual, two fingered salute from behind the drone mapping panel.  

"Took you long enough." Mira muttered without looking up. 

"You're welcome for the coffee I brought you last time." You say as you head to the central table.  

Everyone quickly followed you, sitting around the table. 

You five are the specialized high qualification scientists who got chosen to be the people handling lab delta- 12. Coming from different backgrounds, having same interests and working in cases together for years made your guys' bond unbreakable.  

You five are highly qualified specialists chosen to operate Lab Delta-12. Coming from different backgrounds but sharing the same passion, you've worked on countless cases together over the years — and that’s made your bond unbreakable. 

The door opened, interrupting your casual talks.  

In walked, Dr. Han Myung-sik— head of KRONAX, the man who'd once published a paper predicting time dilation six years before it was observed in real data. His face, though aged, was unreadable— eyes sharp beneath the thick silver eyebrows.  

No one spoke. You all stood up immediately.  

"Sit," he said. "This will be quick."  

The doors sealed shut behind him. A cold hum flickered through the room as he turned on the internal projector.  

Five floating files appeared above the surface. Each labeled, RED CASE.  

"Your group— delta 12 is chosen for this matter." Dr.Han said quietly.  

You could feel the weight of his words which he's about to say.

"We've uncovered five unresolved incidents. Each linked to potentially an unnatural shift in recorded time."  

"These aren't ripples," he continued.  

"These are fractures. Events that don't line up with any known temporal logic. People disappeared, memories vanished, objects never aged and yet—"  

He tapped the interface. The room dimmed, and each of your profiles synced to a case file. 

"You are the only ones qualified to investigate." 

He started pacing slowly.  

"Yuvi. You're being sent to March 2311, Seoul; right before the blackout that erased six months of global data records. You'll observe the internal tech culture and corporate rivalry."  

Yuvi blinked, nodding quietly, already calculating her cover identity.  

"Mira."  

He turned to her.  

"Your case is year 1652, Gyeongju province. A palace scribble who reportedly recorded a 'sky-born woman of light' before his records were seized. The ink used in his account was... not of this earth.” 

Mira grinned. "Finally, something fun."  

"Jungwon. Taehyun. You'll split into Northern territories. Parallel years, overlapping reports. Two villages with identical names, but only one should exist."  

Jungwon raised an eyebrow, "Are we crossing time lines? "  

"Just brushing," Dr.Han replied. "Do not stay longer than you have to."

Then, he turned to you.  

"And you."  

The room stilled.  

"Your case is the most weird one."  

A red dot expanded above the table. 

Satellite data. Korean countryside. Grainy and quiet. 

"A village in 2019 – known to exist, documented, populated and functioning." "Then, it disappeared. Not physically or violently. Just... gone. All the databases rewrote themselves. The people who lived there vanished as if they were never even existed— never even born." "Your job is to go there, undercover. Blend in. Find the root event. Identify the root autonomy and leave before it happens."  

Your fingers clenched lightly under the table. You stared at the red dot on the map.  

2019.  

A quiet time. A dangerous one — because it was still close enough to modern history to be familiar. Easy to slip up. Easy to stay too long.  

"Do we suspect temporal interference?"  

You asked as you shifted your gaze from the red dot to his eyes. Dr.Han meets your eyes. "We suspect something far worse. Something that doesn't belong in any time."  

The files flickered red again. "You'll begin calibration tonight. You jump within 750 hours. That is one month. Use your time wisely."  

As he turned to leave, he paused just once— right by the door.  

"And one more thing," he said without looking back.  "Don't fall in love with the timeline. It doesn't love you back."  

With that, he was gone. The table darkens. The lights return. Yuvi exhales. Mira cracks her knuckles and Jungwon leans forward.  

"2019 huh?" Taehyun mutters beside you. "Better pack your sarcasm and Emo clothes."  

You don't respond. You just stare at the red dot again. 

The village. Gone from memory. Gone from maps. But waiting for you all the same.  

One month. 

And only one day to finish prepping, calibrating your minds, bodies, and identities before entering a timeline that wouldn’t even recognize your names. You sat in the Sim Room, surrounded by floating holoscreens of early-2010s Korea. Architecture. Clothing. Language slang. Historical emotional markers. It was all too recent. Too real. 

Mira was curled on a bench nearby, watching 1600s scrollwork with a look that said I’d rather wing it. Taehyun was arguing with an AI over inconsistency in his destination’s documentation. Again. Jungwon? Already finished his prep module and was now trying to teach Mira how to drink from a metal bottle while upside down. 

“You’re going to the past, not space,” she said, annoyed but smiling.  “Still useful if I end up in a well,” Jungwon shrugged. You blinked away the holograms and stood, stretching out your arms. 

“This doesn’t feel like prep,” Yuvi murmured, joining you. “It feels like goodbye.” 

You didn’t answer.  

She studied you, thoughtful. “You okay with your timeline?”  “2019 is barely the past,” you said. “Feels like I could bump into my parents if I’m not careful.”  “Yeah, but yours is the haunted village,” Mira called. “Mine is just a floating woman in the sky.” 

“You’re the floating woman,” Jungwon muttered under his breath. She chucked a protein chip at him while he hid behind you, holding your shoulders as if his body isn't larger than yours.  

“Alright,” Taehyun said, glancing around. “Final dinner tonight in the Commons? Before the serious lockdown begins?”  “Only if you don’t bring another slide presentation to the table,” Mira groaned. 

“I make no promises.”  You smiled — small, but genuine 

And as the others drifted out of the room, chattering, playfully teasing, you lingered a moment longer — looking up at the blinking red timestamp over the Sim Door. 

30:00:00:00  DAYS : HOURS : MINUTES: SECONDS  JUMP 

You were the first one in the bay. The air smelled sterile, like metal and ionized mist. The chamber was massive — white, cold, humming. Five jump pods lined the back wall, each glowing faint blue with individual temporal calibration. 

The boots of your suit clicked softly as you walked, every step echoing louder than your breath. The fabric hugged your body like skin, the material pressure-sealed and embedded with auto-adaptive climate tech. Your mind was a storm beneath the still surface — years of training colliding with something much quieter. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” came Taehyun’s voice from behind. You turned. He looked exhausted, but composed — the kind of man who smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. “Didn’t try,” you replied simply. 

He nodded, stepping beside you, with his arm around your shoulder. You both looked at the pods in silence. 

One for each of you. One jump. One direction.  No promises of coming back the same. 

Soon after, Yuvi arrived — hair tied, suit zipped, clutching a small, folded piece of paper in her hand. A name, probably. A reminder of something real. Mira strolled in with a grin too bright to be sincere. “Guess it’s finally happening,” she said, snapping her gum, though her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her suit cuffs. 

Jungwon came last, walking like he was on his way to a vacation. Humming. But you saw the tension in his knuckles as he flexed them once, twice. Dr. Han entered from the upper level, flanked by three silent technicians and a console assistant holding the jump sequence tablet. 

“Final clearances have been locked in,” he announced, voice loud across the bay. “You have fifteen minutes.” 

One by one, your mission drives were inserted into the small ports at your pod stations. The information would sync once you landed in your time period — personalized cover stories, forged credentials, emergency kill phrases. 

“I’ll see you all again,” Jungwon said, softer now, eyes scanning the rest of you. “In whatever version of time we land in. 

“Bring back something cool,” Mira added. “Like a comet or an alien.”  “Or your soul intact,” Yuvi muttered, mostly to herself. You looked around. 

These people — their lives had been laced into yours for years. Work. Sleep. Discover. Repeat. The way your names felt normal together. The easy sarcasm. The shared silence in moments like this. You didn’t know what it would be like without them.  Maybe you weren’t meant to know. Your pod blinked green. Final sequence activated. 

You stood in front of it, heart slamming once, sharply, against your ribs. 

“You’ll be inserted at 03:12 AM, August 9th, 2019,” Dr. Han said beside you. “Just outside the village’s boundary. Our records end there. No satellite returns after that date. No digital trails. Just fog.” 

You nodded. 

“And remember,” he added, “observe, record, don’t interfere.” He paused. “And don’t stay longer than you have to.” You stepped into the pod. The door hissed closed behind you. Inside: darkness. Soft blue lights blinked around your headrest. A countdown began in the corner. 

00:00:10  00:00:09  00:00:08...  Your breathing slowed. Fingers tight on the seat grips.  00:00:03  00:00:02...  You thought of nothing.  00:00:01  ENGAGING TEMPORAL LAUNCH. 

Everything went white. 

You woke up choking on fog. 

Your knees hit grass first, body staggering out of the collapsed time pod buried beneath undergrowth. The pod disintegrated on schedule — technology melted into mist the second your boots touched this era. You stood slowly, the chill biting through your fabricated 2010s-era jacket. A navy hoodie. Worn boots. Phone model synced to local time tech. Fake ID in your pocket. History-approved.  And ahead of you — trees. Low mist curling over quiet fields. One winding road in the dark. 

“03:14,” you whispered, checking the time. You started walking. It didn’t take long to reach the village. Just a few winding turns along cracked pavement and flickering streetlamps — too dim for a place this small. It looked normal at first glance. Houses with tiled roofs. Wind chimes. A distant dog barking. But the silence? Too heavy. Too complete. Not a single radio. Not one human voice. 

You followed the map projection in your eye lens. Your identity here: transfer student, staying with a distant relative for the summer before university. Your cover was clean. “Blend in. Observe. Don’t interfere.” Dr. Han’s words echoed. 

You reached the village center. A bakery. A post office. A small clinic. It was beautiful — in a nostalgic, sleepy sort of way. You spotted an inn. Two stories. Wooden steps. A soft yellow porch light still glowing. You knocked once. A moment later, an older woman opened the door, eyes squinting at your unfamiliar face. 

“Ah… you must be the niece, right? From Seoul?” You smiled, polite. "Yes, ma’am.”  “Room’s upstairs. Already made it up for you.”  With that, you leave to your room. 

August 10, 2019.

The village was quieter in the morning. Not dead. Just... slow. 

You walked past the corner bakery — the one that smelled like burnt sugar and citrus. Past a row of mailboxes that hadn’t been touched in a week. You weren’t sure if people here hated bills or just trusted too easily. Notebook in your jacket. Identity chip syncing your steps to the research log in your neural band. 

Day 2.  Civilian behavior: consistent.  Average activity start time: 6:53 AM  No sign of temporal noise. No anomalies. 

You smiled and bowed slightly to an old man sweeping the steps outside a shop. He gave you a nod in return. Eyes kind, but faintly puzzled — like he couldn’t remember when you arrived, but accepted you anyway. That was the first pattern you noticed. People here forgot details fast. But nothing big enough to ring alarms. Just enough to feel like déjà vu. 

You took a seat on the raised edge of a well in the town center, glancing down at the still water.  Your eye-lens scanned your surroundings. Kids biking. A woman hanging sheets in perfect rows. Market stalls setting up. 

Everything looked normal. Back at the inn, the old woman handed you a basket. 

“Bread for the east field home. The family that lives up near the woods. They get their supplies late.” 

“East field?” you asked, trying to remember the map. 

“Take the long path. The house is old, but someone’s always there.” 

“Someone?” 

She nodded. “A quiet boy. Rarely speaks. Keeps to himself. Been around longer than most here.” 

You didn’t ask more. Just took the basket and walked. And as you stepped onto the eastern trail, into the trees and shifting light… You didn’t know yet that you were walking toward the beginning. Of the end. 

The path to the east house was longer than expected. 

Thick trees bent overhead like old, quiet watchers. The air here was different — cooler, touched with something metallic. You adjusted the basket in your hands. You finally reached the gate — rusted iron, half open. A path lined with overgrown grass stretched up to a traditional hanok-style house. Wooden. Quiet. Heavy with stillness. 

You stepped through, gently. No animals. No birds. Just that strange silence again. You knocked once. Then twice. No answer. You were about to leave when the door creaked open. And there he was. 

He looked like he didn’t belong in 2019. Or any year. 

Dressed simply — white cotton shirt, black slacks, sleeves slightly rolled up. But there was something... too elegant about the way he held the door. Something slow and precise. Still. His eyes — dark, unfathomable — landed on yours. 

For a full second, he didn’t say a word. Neither did you. “Delivery,” you said softly, lifting the basket. 

“Right,” he replied after a pause, voice smooth, almost melodic. “They said you’d be coming.” 

You held the basket out, but he didn’t take it immediately. Instead, he studied you. Not rudely. Not even intently. Just... curiously. Like a puzzle he couldn’t quite read. Or a scent he wasn’t supposed to follow. The moment you stepped through the trees, he felt it. The beat beneath your skin. The warmth. Your blood had a scent — not strong, not desperate like others. 

Sweet. Calming. Clean. He hadn’t fed in days. But you made the ache stir. “You live here alone?” you asked. 

He nodded. “For a while now.” 

“It’s beautiful.” 

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away. 

“Most people say it’s empty.” 

You tilted your head. “Are you?” 

That made something shift in his gaze — not amusement exactly, but the ghost of something near it. “Not today,” he said finally. 

He took the basket, fingers brushing yours for just half a second. His skin was cool. Not cold. But noticeably not warm. “Thank you,” he said, stepping back. “Be careful going back. The light fades fast out here.” 

You turned to leave, but your instincts tugged once. “What’s your name?” you asked over your shoulder. 

A pause. 

“Sunghoon,” he said quietly. 

You nodded once. “I’m Y/N.” Another pause. “I know,” he said. 

And then the door closed. As you walked back down the path, heart steady but hands tingling from where his touched yours, you couldn’t shake one thing: There had been no heartbeat behind that door. Just silence. You don’t notice someone- Sunghoon, watching you from his window as you walk back. 

And that, that night few people go missing because Sunghoon, couldn’t handle his hunger for blood. Not when he was reminded of how desperate he was to taste something sweet- something pure like your blood- like you. He can’t bite you, not yet. So, he resorted to his usual way, biting the villagers. One by one.  

It was quiete big village when Sunghoon first step foot in there. 2010. The year Sunghoon decided to enter into the huge village, leaving behind memories of his previous life- the one where everyone treated him like the monster he was. He didn’t like it one bit. So? He ended it. Bit and killed everyone who called him a monster.  

Leaving behind memories and people wasn’t new to him. He’s been like that since he was turned- since 527 years. It's what he’s best at other than sucking peoples’ blood. Having spent many years on this planet made him discard unwanted memories for good.  

And maybe that’s why he never truly loved anyone. It’s not because he isn’t capable of it. It's because he knows that they won't stick around. Not when they find out what he is, not when they leave this world entirely. Also, because, he never truly found someone who made him feel things. Feel things which are foreign to him- Desire.  

Desire for blood? Thats more like filling his hunger. Desire is what he felt when he saw you. If you ever told Sunghoon that he’d yearn for a girl he met once, he’d scoff, shaking his head. That can never happen, not when he's been on this earth for more than 500 years. He knows how to control his feelings- it was easy for him because he didn't have any feelings in the first place.  

But why is that the moment he saw you, heard you- your hearbeat, your blood pulsing in your throat, smelled the scent of you, he wanted to make you his?  

Its funny, really. This whatever weird feeling he has in his stomach is new to him. Perhaps he’s hungry for your blood? No. He’s hungry for you.  

You are here to find out how the village disappeared. Maybe you do find out that he’s the reason for the mass disappearance. But will your heart obey to leave behind everything that you've uncovered here? Leave behind someone, who is the sole reason why the disappearance happened in the first place? 

Only the future holds the answer. Maybe the present? You truly don't know, not when the time’s twisted and you are spiralling in it. 

August 14, 2019. 

You weren’t planning to run into him again. You were just taking the trail by the lake. Collecting audio samples. Watching people prep for the lantern festival — all smiles and paper crafts, sunlight catching on water like glass. But then there he was. Standing near the edge of the hill that overlooked the lake. Not moving. Just… watching it. Like the water itself had said something only he could hear. 

You almost didn’t say anything. But he turned to you first. 

“You walk this path often?” 

His voice was still soft. Still slow. Like everything he said had already passed through a hundred filters before reaching you. 

“Not really,” you said, stepping closer. “But it’s quiet. Good for thinking.” 

“Thinking,” he echoed, like it was a foreign word. “You do that a lot?” 

You smiled. “Occupational hazard.” 

“Ah,” he said. “Let me guess. You’re a writer.” 

“Wrong.” 

“A scientist?” 

You blinked. A beat too long. 

“Why that guess?” 

“Your eyes,” he said. 

“What about them?” 

“They look like they’re always dissecting things. Even me.” 

He turned back to the lake after that, leaving your thoughts spiraling slightly behind him. The sun was dipping lower, casting light through the trees. A warm breeze stirred the ends of your hair, and for once, you didn’t feel like recording anything. Just being here. 

“Why do you live so far from the village?” you asked. 

“They forget me better this way.” 

You frowned. “That’s sad.” 

“Not really.” 

“When people forget you… you stop needing to prove you exist.” 

You turned to him then — not just listening but really seeing him. The distance in his eyes. The calm sadness he wore like second skin. 

“You don’t want to be remembered?” 

“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “I just don’t mind being forgotten.” 

A few kids laughed somewhere nearby, running with paper lanterns. You looked down at your shoes. “You’re hard to forget, you know.” It slipped out before you could stop it. He didn’t respond for a moment. Then, so quietly: “So are you.” 

Neither of you moved. The wind stilled. The air felt... charged. Like time paused. Just for this. 

Then— “You should go,” he said gently.

“It gets colder here after sunset.” He wasn’t pushing you away. But he was. And that strange ache bloomed behind your ribs without warning. You turned to go, steps slow. And as you walked, you felt his eyes on your back the entire time. 

August 18, 2019. 

It was supposed to be a short walk. You’d been gathering weather data, checking tree patterns near the edge of the forest. The innkeeper said the rain wouldn’t come until morning. But the sky didn’t listen. It started with a single drop. Then another. 

Within seconds, it was falling fast — fat, cold drops smacking against your shoulders, soaking through your hoodie in a matter of moments. You pulled the fabric up over your head and turned to head back — but the path was already slick, the trees pressing in closer, and fog began to roll over the field like a breath held too long. 

“Seriously?” you muttered, shivering. That’s when you saw him. Standing just under the crooked edge of an old pavilion by the hill — motionless, dry, and completely unbothered by the storm.  Sunghoon. 

You blinked, surprised. "You're always just… appearing out of nowhere.” 

“You're always walking into places you shouldn't be alone,” he replied calmly, eyes tracking the water running down your cheek. 

You hesitated. Then stepped under the structure, chest heaving slightly from the sudden cold. Your shoulders were soaked. Hair clinging to your face. Hands trembling. He watched you quietly. “You're freezing.” 

You gave a weak smile. “That tends to happen when it rains on humans.” 

He didn’t return it. Instead, he removed his outer jacket and handed it over without a word. You stared at it. “I’m already wet. You don’t have to—” 

“I want to.” 

You took it slowly. It was still warm. 

You slipped it on. It smelled like night air and something faintly old — like worn books and clean linen. Not the scent of someone who lived alone in a dusty house. 

The silence stretched. 

Raindrops tapping the roof like a ticking clock. 

Your breath fogged the air. 

His didn’t. 

“Why were you even out here?” you asked. 

He didn’t answer immediately. 

Then: 

“I thought you’d come this way.” 

You turned your head sharply. “You were… waiting for me?” 

He didn’t flinch. 

“Something about the sky felt wrong. I knew you’d ignore it.” 

“You don’t even know me.” 

“I know your pattern.” 

That shut you up for a moment. 

And somehow... warmed you. 

More than the jacket did. 

Your teeth chattered softly. You turned away, embarrassed. 

Suddenly, you felt something. 

His fingers — gently, lightly — tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear. 

You froze. 

“You should be more careful,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the rain. “This place doesn’t forgive softness.” 

You looked up at him then. 

And he was already too close. 

Not touching. 

Not reaching. 

Just there. 

And for a second, you wondered what it would be like if he leaned in just a little more. 

“Do you always talk like that?” you whispered, lips parted. “Like you’re centuries old?” 

He gave the faintest smile like he knows something you don’t. 

The rain kept falling. The sky stayed grey. 

And your heartbeat too loudly in your ears. 

You didn’t ask him why his hands were cold even though he felt warm. 

You didn’t ask why he never blinked when he looked at you. 

The rain kept falling. 

And he stood there, completely still, listening to the rhythm of her blood, her breath, her heart... 

And all he could think was: 

Don’t touch her again.  Don’t want her.  Don’t let her see the monster inside you. 

But it was already too late. 

Because for the first time in years, he wanted something enough to lose control. 

And it was you. 

The rain had stopped, but the night still smelled like it. 

You walked slowly. 

Beside him. 

His jacket still hung over your shoulders, and you hadn’t given it back. He hadn’t asked. 

“You didn’t have to walk me home,” you said softly, watching your boots splash through a shallow puddle. 

“I know.” 

He wasn’t smiling, but his tone was warm. Like he wanted to say, I just wanted more time with you, but didn’t know how. 

The village lights shimmered faint in the distance — soft and yellow, like floating lanterns. 

It felt like you were the only two people in the world. 

“Do you always spend your nights out there?” you asked. 

“Sometimes. I like the quiet.” 

“Most people don’t,” you said. “Silence makes them uncomfortable.” 

He glanced at you. 

“What about you?” 

You thought about it. 

“I think silence is the only time people stop pretending.” 

He actually smiled at that. Just a little. The kind that tugged one corner of his mouth — barely visible, but real. 

“What do you do all day?” you asked, curious now. “No job? No classes?” 

“I read,” he said. “Walk. Watch.” 

“That sounds like what I do, too.” 

“You watch more than most people,” he replied, side-eying you. “Always observing. Analyzing.” 

You raised a brow. “Are you calling me creepy?” 

“No,” he said. “Just... different.” 

You looked away to hide your smile. 

“Is that your way of saying I’m weird?” 

“No,” he repeated, slower this time. “It’s my way of saying I see you.” 

“Okay, your turn,” you said quickly, trying to recover. “What did you want to be when you were little?” 

He didn’t answer right away. 

“I don’t remember,” he said finally. “It’s been a long time since I was little.” 

You turned to him, blinking. “How old are you, Sunghoon?” 

He looked at you. Really looked. 

Then smiled like he knew he shouldn’t say the next thing — but said it anyway. 

“Older than I look.” 

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not an answer.” 

“It’s the only one I’ve got.” 

You reached the inn gate. 

The lantern outside flickered faintly in the breeze.  Neither of you moved. 

The air was warmer now. The clouds had parted just enough for moonlight to wash over the steps. 

You stood there — his jacket still on your shoulders, the scent of rain still on your skin, and his eyes fixed gently on you. 

“Good night, Sunghoon,” you said finally, stepping up to the door. 

“Good night, Y/N.” 

You turned the handle. 

Just before stepping inside, you hesitated. 

“You never told me what you like,” you said over your shoulder. 

He tilted his head slightly. “Like?” 

“Hobbies. Music. Favorite food. Normal things.” 

Another pause. 

Then: 

“The sound of rain,” he said. “Books with no endings. And people who don’t run away.” 

You met his eyes. 

And something about the way he said it made your heart ache. 

You didn’t know why. 

But you didn’t look away. 

Not for a long moment. 

Then finally, you stepped inside. 

And closed the door. 

August 20, 2019.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. 

Just returning a jacket. 

Just a polite gesture. 

Just good manners. 

So why did your pulse stutter when the house came into view? 

The same tall trees. The same crooked path. The same quiet. 

You climbed the short stone steps and raised your hand to knock — but before you could, the door opened. 

He was already there. 

Like he’d been waiting. 

Or like he’d heard you coming long before you got close. 

“You came back,” he said, voice low, like sunlight through fog. 

“Just to return this,” you said quickly, lifting the folded jacket. 

“Of course.” 

But he didn’t take it. 

Instead, he stepped aside. 

“Do you want to come in?” 

You blinked. 

“Is that okay?” 

“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.” 

You stepped inside. 

The air was cool, but not cold. The interior still had that strange untouched feeling — like a photo frozen in time. Wood floors. A low bookshelf. A kettle on the counter, untouched. 

You walked slowly, setting the jacket on the nearest chair. 

“You live like a ghost,” you said softly. 

He raised a brow. “I’m neat.” 

“You’re ancient,” you teased. 

He smirked faintly. “So you’ve said.” 

You turned toward the bookshelf — rows of old spines and journals, some in languages you didn’t recognize. One looked handwritten. Another... burned around the edges. 

“These don’t look like they’re from a village library.” 

“They’re not.” 

“So what are they?” 

“Pieces of me,” he said. 

You paused, looking back. 

His expression didn’t change, but there was something fragile in his stillness. 

You let the question go. 

“Tea?” he asked suddenly, already reaching for the kettle. 

“You drink tea?” 

“No. But you do.” 

He made it quietly. Smooth movements. No wasted motion. 

He handed you the mug and sat across from you, careful, like he was making sure there was enough distance. 

“Do people visit you often?” you asked, wrapping your hands around the cup. 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Because they forget me,” he said. “Or… I let them.” 

“But you didn’t want me to forget you?” you asked quietly. 

His eyes met yours. 

Dark. Unreadable. 

“I didn’t plan on you remembering at all.” 

You blinked. “What changed?” 

He stared at the steam curling between you. 

Then said, without blinking: 

“You smiled at me.” 

The silence stretched. 

The weight of it made your chest feel tight. 

Your fingers tightened around the mug. 

“Why do you always say things like that?” you whispered. 

“Like what?” 

“Like it means something. And then you never explain.” 

He stood up then, slowly — walking toward the window, looking out at the trees. 

“Because I’ve learned that explaining doesn’t stop people from leaving.” 

“So you just... stay mysterious?” 

“No,” he said, without turning around. “I stay safe.” 

You stood too. Quiet steps. 

He didn’t move as you stopped beside him, just far enough for the space between your hands to hum. 

“What are you so afraid of, Sunghoon?” you asked, not accusing — just soft. 

A pause. 

Then finally: 

“That if you knew the truth about me… you'd stop smiling at all.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“Nothing. Don’t think too much.” He says. 

You didn’t leave. 

You just stood beside him. 

And for a moment, the silence between you wasn’t heavy. 

It was tender. 

“You okay?” you asked. 

He didn’t answer. 

Didn’t trust himself to speak. 

Because right now, he could feel it rising — that burn behind his eyes, the pressure in his jaw, the ancient ache in his throat. 

The want. 

Not just to feed. 

To claim. 

“I think you should go,” he said, voice tight. 

“Did I say something wrong?” 

“No.” 

“Then—” 

“Please.” 

His back was turned now.  He couldn’t let her see his face.  Not when his eyes were beginning to glow. Not when his fangs had started to edge down. 

He bit the inside of his cheek — hard enough to draw blood. Let the pain steady him. Anchor him. 

“Sunghoon? Is something wrong? You can trust me- I trust you.”  

But all he said was: 

“I don’t trust myself.” 

You stared at his back for a long moment. 

Then quietly… you left. 

The door shut behind you with a soft click. 

And he stood there in the quiet, eyes still burning, heart raging inside a chest that shouldn’t have had one anymore. 

August 21, 2019. 

You went to the library to check the village’s records.  

To look for any book, any magazine, any piece of information that would help you get a better insight about the village’s roots.  

You found a series of census logs tucked into a low cabinet—records of the village’s population numbers and names dating back to the 1900s. Faded, but surprisingly intact. 

And that’s when you saw it. 

A pattern. 

In 2010, the population was 528.  In 2012, it dropped to 413.  By 2015: 290.  2017: 178. 

No official records of why.  No mass migration.  No natural disaster.  No illness outbreak. 

Just... names disappearing. 

Not all at once.  Not dramatically. 

But slowly.  Like something was taking them. One by one. 

You scanned the reports harder now. 

Looking for causes. Deaths. Relocations. 

But most names just had one word stamped across the last column: 

“Unrecorded.” 

You slammed the binder shut and sat back. 

Your chest felt tight. 

You looked around the library. The light felt colder. The silence heavier. 

This is getting nowhere. Rather than the doubts clearing, more questions are surfacing. Too many questions. Too less information. You doubt you are even eligible to solve this mystery. Maybe Dr.Han realizes he made a mistake choosing you once you return. You wonder how the others are doing. Are they going through the same difficulties?  

You shake your head as if it shakes away the insecure thoughts creeping up. You need to focus. On this village. The people. Everyone here seems normal except... Sunghoon. 

He always seemed to appear when no one else was around. 

Your fingers curled against the cover of the book. 

No. Don’t jump to conclusions. That doesn’t mean anything. 

And yet… 

Something in your gut whispered otherwise. 

Still, when the sun began to set— 

You found yourself walking toward the hill. 

Toward him. 

Carrying questions you couldn’t ask yet. 

And a heart that didn’t want answers- the real ones.  

The sky was painted in soft blue fading to lavender.  The last light of the sun had just dipped behind the mountains, leaving a glow that shimmered across the tall grass. 

You stood at the top of the hill, overlooking the village lights far below.  Everything was quiet. 

Except your thoughts. 

Except him. 

Sunghoon stood beside you — close, not quite touching. Hands in his pockets. Eyes on the horizon. 

“You always find the quietest places,” you said softly. 

“I think they find me.” 

You turned to him, trying to read that impossible expression on his face. 

“You always talk like that. Like there’s a whole world in your head and you’re just… giving me scraps.” 

“I don’t mean to,” he said. “I just forget how to be anything else.” 

You took a breath. 

“Then remind yourself. Just for tonight. Just for me.” 

He looked at you then. 

Really looked. 

And for the first time, he didn’t look away. 

“You scare me,” he said quietly. 

That made your chest tighten. 

“Why?” 

“Because you make me want to stay.” 

The wind brushed through the grass. 

Your heart was too loud. Your breath too soft. 

He stepped closer. 

His hand, trembling just slightly, reached up and cupped your cheek — gentle, reverent, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched too hard. 

His thumb brushed under your eye, then trailed down to your jaw. 

“Say something,” he whispered. 

You didn’t. 

You leaned in instead. 

And he met you there. 

The kiss was nothing like you imagined. 

It wasn’t rushed.  It wasn’t wild. 

It was slow. 

Like two people learning what it meant to feel alive again. 

His lips were cool at first — like the wind before rain — but they softened against yours. Moved with aching care. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth and trying not to fall apart doing it. 

You felt his breath catch. 

Felt his hand slide into your hair. 

Felt your knees go weak when he deepened the kiss — still gentle, still hesitant, but full of something you didn’t have a name for. 

And then— 

He pulled away. 

Fast. 

Like he’d caught fire. 

His eyes were wide.  Not with lust. Not even guilt. 

With fear. 

“I shouldn’t have—” 

“Sunghoon,” you whispered, reaching for him. 

He stepped back. 

“No. This was a mistake.” 

“Why are you doing this again?”  “Every time I get close, you push me away. Why?” 

He didn’t answer. 

Not with words. 

But his face… 

That expression? 

It looked like someone who just tasted something too good.  Something too human.  Something that made him forget what he was. 

“Because I can’t be the reason you get hurt,” he finally said. 

And then he turned away. 

Leaving you alone with a kiss that still burned on your lips, and a silence that felt heavier than ever. 

August 26, 2019. 

You ignored him after that. Turned your head away whenever he got into. Looked away first when you both made eye contact. Avoided him when he came to apologize the very next day of your kiss.  

Not cause you hate him. You wish you did but no. You remember what Dr.Han said, “Observe. Record. don’t interfere.” You can't risk everything just cause of some stupid, weird feelings that you have. No. You can’t let your emotions get in the way of your case. This isn't right.  

Youre altering time, you should do it wisely, not recklessly.  

And so, you did what you thought was best. Ignore. Distance. Observe. 

Or so, you thought.  

You weren’t expecting to run into him. 

But of course you did. 

He was leaning against the side wall of the bakery, half-hidden in the shade, like always. Silent. Watching. 

He didn’t call out. 

Didn’t wave. 

But you felt it — the shift in air when his gaze hit you. That quiet weight of his presence. 

You almost kept walking. 

Almost. 

But then— 

“Y/N.” 

His voice was low. Not cold. Just… tired. 

You turned after a moment of hesitation. 

Met his eyes. 

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked. 

Simple question. 

But it landed sharp. 

You didn’t answer right away. 

“I’ve just been… busy.” 

“You’ve seen me.” 

“I didn’t think you wanted to talk.” 

“Don’t do that,” he said, stepping forward. “Don’t turn it around like it’s me.” 

You blinked. “I’m not—” 

“You haven’t looked at me in five days.” 

His tone wasn’t angry.  It was quiet. Steady. Too steady. 

“You smiled at me one night,” he said, “and then the next morning, it’s like I didn’t exist.” 

“Sunghoon—” 

“And I thought—”  He paused. Ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.  “I thought maybe you needed space. But then I saw you with that guy. That tall one from the orchard. And you were laughing. Just… laughing. Like everything’s normal.” 

You looked away. 

He let the silence settle. 

Then finally: 

“It hurt.” 

That was it. Just that. 

Not possessive. Not demanding. Just real. 

You didn’t know what to say. So, you said the only truth you had: 

“I’m scared, Sunghoon.” 

He looked at you for a long time. 

“Of me?” 

“Of not knowing what’s happening. Of what this village is hiding. Of what you’re hiding.” 

You stepped back slightly, instinctively. Not far. 

But enough. 

His eyes dropped to the space between you.  Then back up. 

“Do you think I’d ever hurt you?” 

You hesitated. 

Then, quietly: 

“I don’t know.” 

That broke something in him. 

You saw it. In his eyes. 

Not rage. 

Just sadness. 

“I wouldn’t,” he said softly. “Not even if I wanted to.” 

You turned back and left without replying, unable to look into his face or even talk to him. 

September 5, 2019. 

You shouldn’t have gone looking. 

You told yourself you weren’t.  That you just needed air.  That the trail by the forest was peaceful this time of day. 

But really? You missed him. 

And you couldn’t stop thinking about what he said. 

“I wouldn’t hurt you. Not even if I wanted to.” 

It looped in your mind for days. Through sleep. Through silence. Through guilt. 

You didn’t give him an answer. So, you were going to. 

You were going to find him and say you’re not sure what this is, but you’re willing to try. That you believe he’s good. That you want to believe it, even if you’re scared. 

But then— 

You saw it. 

You heard something first. 

A low sound. Guttural. Like a growl tucked beneath a breath. 

And then a figure stumbling — just ahead. At the edge of the trees. A man. Drunk? Hurt? 

And beside him—  Holding him up— 

Was Sunghoon. 

Or… something that used to be him 

His head was tilted.  His lips pressed just beneath the man’s jaw.  His hands clutched the man’s shoulders too tightly.  And his eyes— 

They glowed. 

Not fully.  Just enough for the shadows to catch it. 

Red. Dim. Inhuman. 

You saw his mouth open.  Saw the flash of fang. 

And then— 

The man sagged. 

Like air had left him. 

You froze. 

Your heart punched against your ribs. 

He stared.  Still half-shadowed.  Blood on his mouth. 

He stepped forward. 

“Y/N.” 

You backed up. 

Didn’t speak. 

Didn’t breathe. 

Your eyes wide. Your expression already saying everything your voice couldn’t. 

Fear. 

The kind that wasn’t subtle. 

The kind you couldn’t take back. 

“No,” he said quietly. “No, don’t—please don’t look at me like that.” 

He wiped at his mouth. Quickly. Clumsily. 

“I can explain. It’s not—” 

You flinched when he stepped closer. 

That did it. 

He stopped. 

His hands dropped to his sides. 

And something in him… wilted. 

“So, this is it?” he whispered. 

His voice wasn’t cold.  Wasn’t sharp.  It was just… empty. 

You didn’t say anything. 

Couldn’t. 

You turned. 

And ran. 

And behind you, the last thing you heard was him whispering into the night: 

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.” 

You rushed back home and stumbled in. 

You quickly went to your bedroom, opening the drawers and pulled out your logbook. 

You sat on the floor beside your bed after grabbing a marker.  

The pages were filled with sketches. Maps. Observations.  And now? 

Scribbled question marks. Shaky handwriting. A timeline you couldn’t look at anymore. 

2010 — population: 528  2012 — 413  2015 — 290  2017 — 178  2019 — barely 60 left. 

No disease.  No evacuation orders.  No record of where they went. 

But you knew now. 

You saw it. 

His eyes. His fangs.  The man in the forest, half-drained and limp in his arms. 

You knew. 

And the truth clawed at your throat like it didn’t want to be swallowed. 

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he had said. 

You remembered his voice.  Too quiet.  Too pained to be fake. 

But it didn’t matter now, did it? 

Because while he was giving you flowers and walking you home… 

He was feeding on the people who welcomed you with tea and stories. 

You closed your eyes. 

Your hands were trembling. 

You remembered the first time you saw him. 

How unreal he looked in the moonlight.  How safe you felt beside him. 

How stupid that was now. 

Was any of it real? 

The kiss. The laughter. The jacket he left folded on your bed. 

Or were you just the next name on his list? 

The next girl to get too close? 

Were you just another pawn in his game?  

Whatever it was, you shouldn't have gotten close with him. Shouldn't have tried to interfere. You shouldn't have done it and God, you regret it.  

And for the first time in years…  You cried. 

Not from fear.  But from heartbreak. 

If only you backed down that day on the hill. If only you shouldn't have let him close to you. If only... 

September 7, 2019. 

After that day, you didn't leave your room. 

You didn't go out, the fear of him catching you always haunting your mind whenever you reach for the door handle. 

And weirdly enough, you should feel better, you really should but why did you feel... empty?  

He’s a monster! He kills innocent people, hes a vampire. But why didn't the fact alone scare you? Why were you craving for his presence? Why were you thinking about the moments you've spent together? This isn't even real. Its past, you weren't even born at this time period. You shouldn't be feeling things you aren't supposed to. 

But you can't deny the fact that your heart aches for his presence- for him.  

But you don't have time for this. Not when you have two days on your watch. Two days before everything goes back to normal, hopefully. And so, you push aside your feelings saying the time is playing tricks on you and start writing the report.  

All of your log entries, now are typed and kept in digital doc by you. You enter the log entries, from day one to the day you discovered the root cause of all of this- the dissapearance. You procrastinated too much while typing them in, thinking about all the wonderful days you’ve spent with locals- with him. 

But all of this isn't real, at the end of the day. You don't belong here- you shouldn't. This isn't your timeline. This is not your story. This isn't the reality you are supposed to live in and experience. This is just a case that you've got assigned to. It's your duty. And you fulfilled it by finding out the reason. And this is where you shall end it. End of this chapter, end of this case and end of him.  

September 9, 2019.  

Today is the day. 

You pack your bag, filling it with the things you bought and the things you are taking back to your timeline. The memories, the events and the adventures.  

There wasn't a single second you haven't thought about him. But this is it. You have to say your goodbyes.  

You can't warn the others, who haven't yet got bitten by Sunghoon. Because as dr.Han said, “Don't interfere.”  

Youve already made the mistake of not listening to him and crossed the boundary and faced the consequences. You aren't going to do it again. Because at the end of the day, its fate. It already happened. You can't change it, not even when you go back in time. Because what's written, is written. If changed, you are bound to face the consequences.  

History can't be re-written.  

And so, with that, you leave.  

You stood by the terminal light beam.  

Delta 12’s jump pulse flickering through the mist. 

Your bag beside you. Your heart heavy with no one in the future world- the real world would understand or know of.  

You turned back one last time towards the village. 

Thanking it for everything it gave you- thanking it for giving Sunghoon. 

Who'll be remembered as the passing wind and the falling of leaves by you.  

And when you jumped- 

The light swallowed you whole. 

And in the same breath,  

You were gone.  

July 22, 2090. 

You opened your eyes. 

The jump light was fading.  The room around you was cold. White. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache. 

You were home. 

But it didn’t feel like it. 

Not yet. 

Your bag was still at your side. Your fingers still trembling. Your body still in two places — the sterile floors of the lab… and the moss-soft grass beneath his feet. 

You didn’t even notice the door sliding open until you heard the softest gasp. 

“Y/N?” 

You turned. 

And there she was. 

Mira.  Her braid was undone, her coat slung over one arm, her eyes red — like she’d either just woken up… or hadn’t slept since the moment she jumped back. 

She stared at you. 

Then smiled. Weakly. 

“God, it’s you.” 

You couldn’t speak. 

You didn’t have to. 

She crossed the space between you in three quick steps and pulled you into the kind of hug you didn’t realize you needed until her arms wrapped around you. 

You felt her chest shudder. 

You were crying too. 

Soon, the others trickled in. 

Taehyun — still composed, but his eyes softer than usual.  Yuvi — who dropped her bag the second she saw you, crashing into the hug with a half-laugh, half-sob. Jungwon — who just stood by the door for a long time, taking all of you in like he didn’t believe you were real until that moment. 

No one said much at first. 

They just… stood there. 

Five people who had faced time itself. 

And came back with hearts a little heavier. 

Eyes a little older. 

It felt nice. Seeing everyone’s familiar faces after being drowned in unfamiliar faces who don't even exist in reality.  

Finally, Mira sniffed and said, voice shaking: 

“I missed you guys.” 

Yuvi let out a teary laugh. 

“I didn’t realize how much till now.” 

Jungwon gave a small nod, blinking fast. 

Taehyun just whispered: 

“You’re all here.” 

You wiped your face and smiled. 

Soft. Quiet. Real. 

“Yeah.” 

“We’re here.” 

You all look at each other. A moment of silence. As if you guys are finally taking in and registering everyone’s presence. And then, you all hugged. A big group hug filled with emotions which arent said loud but felt. And finally, you felt like you are back home.  

September 11, 2019.  

The room smelled of old circuits and sterile air.  The walls glowed faint blue, humming with quiet energy. 

You sat where you always had —  Same table.  Same lights.  Same white jackets. 

But nothing was the same anymore. 

Not the silence.  Not the weight in everyone’s eyes. 

Not the version of you that existed before. 

The door slid open. 

Dr. Han stepped in, shoulders straighter than usual, expression unreadable. 

“Good morning.” 

He stood at the edge of the circular table, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning each of you. 

“You’ve all returned safely,” he said. “On record, your missions were successful. But the records don’t matter if we don’t understand why.” 

He took a breath. 

“So, let’s talk about what really happened.” 

Dr. Han looked at Yuvi first.  

“Yuvi. March 2311. Seoul. What caused the blackout?” 

Yuvi didn’t hesitate.  But her voice was softer than usual. 

“It wasn’t just data loss,” she said. “It was deliberate. The two largest tech giants—SolarCore and NeuraStream—were engaged in a silent war for memory control. They each tried to overwrite the other’s data… and in doing so, they wiped everyone’s.” 

A pause. 

“The blackout wasn’t a glitch. It was a battle. One that made the world forget six months — and made the companies forget what humanity was.” 

Dr. Han only nodded. 

“Mira. 1652. The scribe’s ink.” 

Mira folded her hands. 

“The man wasn’t mad. The ‘sky-born woman of light’ — she was a time displacer like us. From the future. Possibly one of the early, undocumented tests.” 

She met Dr. Han’s eyes. 

“The ink? It was our ink. Synthetic. Used in lab reports.” 

Silence fell. 

Dr. Han blinked slowly. “You’re saying the anomaly… was ours.” 

“Yes,” Mira whispered. “We caused the myth.” 

“You two. Northern Territories. Duplicated villages.” 

Taehyun glanced at Jungwon. Jungwon gave a tiny nod. 

“There were two villages,” Jungwon said. “Identical. Same people. Same dogs. Same newspapers.” 

“Except,” Taehyun added, “They existed in overlapping timelines. One was five minutes behind the other. A permanent sync lag caused by a failed early prototype of time field testing.” 

Jungwon finished it quietly. 

“It was human error. A time scar. We tried to erase one. But they both kept living… until one finally collapsed.” 

“Y/N,” Dr. Han said, turning to you. “The village of Myeon-ri. The one that vanished without cause.” 

Your fingers curled slightly on the edge of the table. 

You could still feel the wind there. Still hear his voice. 

You slid the chip forward. 

“There was no disease. No mass migration. No disaster. It was slow. Intentional.” 

You looked up. 

“A predator lived there. Not wild. Human-shaped. Possibly centuries old. A vampire, by older terms. He fed carefully, spaced apart. But eventually, the numbers dropped too far.” 

The others stared. 

You didn’t flinch. 

“He didn’t want the village gone. But he couldn’t stop. And no one remembered the ones who vanished. They were erased — from memory, from databases. Like they never existed.” 

“Vampire?” Dr.Han questioned. 

“Vampire.” You confirmed.  

Dr. Han asked, quietly: 

“Did he know who you were?” 

A pause. 

You met his gaze. 

“No.” 

A beat. 

“But I think I knew who he used to be.” 

You lied. Of course he knows you. He knows the woman he fell for the first time. He knows the woman who was his first ever kiss. 

You didn't tell them. You didn't to protect him and in a way, protect yourself too. 

Dr. Han stepped back. He looked at each of you — not as scientists, but as people who had seen too much. 

“You all did what centuries of historians couldn’t. You brought back truth.” 

He turned toward the exit, then paused. 

“Take the week off. Rest. File clean versions by the end of the month. We’ll… figure out what to do with the rest.” 

The door hissed closed behind him. 

And you all sat in silence.  Hearts still somewhere in another time. 

The streets are quiet at 2 a.m. 

Neon signs buzz in blues and pinks.  Artificial rain shimmers above, falling against projection domes that keep your coat dry. 

You pass a street musician playing a slow guitar. 

The song is unfamiliar.  But it feels like him. 

Like a song you might’ve danced to on his porch.  Or hummed under your breath while he walked you home. 

Your throat tightens. 

You sit on a bench, ignoring your holopad as it pings with follow-up requests from Dr. Han. 

You can’t open the file.  You can’t even look at his name on the case label. 

Your hand slowly reaches into your coat pocket. 

The jacket he gave you is long gone. 

But you still have one thing. 

A pressed leaf. 

Red. From that tree near the hill.  Where he waited for you every evening.  Where he said nothing — just smiled — like you were his favorite moment of the day. 

You hold the leaf to your chest. 

And for a second…  you close your eyes. 

And pretend he’s sitting beside you. 

Back in the lab, the report still sits unsaved.  You’d written everything except the truth. 

“He didn’t follow me back.” 

But your chest burns with what you didn’t say. 

I think he wanted to.  I think I wanted him to.  And I think I left the part of me that believed in forever… in his hands. 

You missed him. You looked for him in everything. The wind, the leaves, the clouds, the time, everything. And somewhere back in 2019, sunghoon feels the weight of your absence.  

Sunghoon didn't really think it'd affect him that much, but it did. He was helpless when he didn't find you. Asked everyone, searched everywhere but there wasn't a trace of you, there wasn't a thing left behind you. And God, did he miss you.  

The silence after you was worse than the centuries before you. 

You were only here a month —  But the air still tasted like you.  The breeze still moved like the hem of your coat. 

He stood by the river. 

The same one you almost slipped near.  The one where he caught your hand. 

You used to laugh here. 

Now it was empty. 

And so was he. 

His throat burned.  The ache that had quieted in your presence — like your scent tamed the storm in his blood — now returned with wildfire in his veins. 

He hadn’t fed in days.  He didn’t want anyone else. 

He wanted you. 

"Y/N..." he whispered, though the name felt like poison now. 

He tried to hold back.  He really, truly did. 

But you were gone. 

And he had nothing left to prove he was still human. 

The next night, they found the baker's house empty.  Then the woman who sold herbs.  Then the elder by the hill. 

No one saw what took them. 

And Sunghoon? 

He stood in the village center, blood drying at the corner of his mouth, eyes still locked on the road you used to walk down every dusk. 

His hands shook. 

His mouth trembled. 

"You were supposed to stay..."  "You promised me forever in your eyes." 

But you didn’t answer. 

Because you were gone. 

And so were the people in the village.  

The village lingered with only with him feeding off of everyone and your presence.  

Time moved on. 

The village eventually collapsed.  Records rewritten.  Footprints washed away. 

But he didn’t vanish. 

He moved.  Fed.  Lingered in shadows. 

Years passed.  Decades blurred. 

He watched the world crawl toward neon skies and cities that blinked like stars. 

You were long gone.  But he never stopped believing in the possibility that time — the very thing that tore you from him — might one day return you. 

“Okay but hear me out,” Taehyun says, typing aggressively while Mira tries to slap his hand off the panel. “If I didn’t reroute the carbon filters that night, we’d all be bald. Fact.” 

“Fact?” Mira scoffs. “Fact is you nearly made the algae tank sentient. That thing winked at me.” 

“I still miss it,” Jungwon adds quietly, head down in his own files, a faint smile playing at his lips. 

Yuvi kicks her chair back dramatically, groaning. “My simulation’s stuck again. If I see one more ‘Data Error: Please Restart,’ I swear I’ll throw myself into the code.” 

Your lips curve as you watch them — the way the five of you fit into this space like puzzle pieces.  The room hums with soft tech glows and distant rain tapping the glass walls. 

It's late.  But none of you seem in a hurry to leave. 

Mira throws an energy bar at Taehyun. He catches it one-handed, smug.  Jungwon’s quietly stealing Yuvi’s half-charged mug again.  You just watch — feeling both part of it and… a little removed. 

Because they didn’t live what you lived.  Not the way you did. 

Not with him. 

Not with Sunghoon. 

“You good?” Yuvi asks you suddenly, turning in her chair. 

You blink. “Yeah. Just… tired.” 

“Duh,” she says, nudging your arm. “We’re all tired. End of world stuff every Tuesday.” 

You laugh. The others join in.  And just for a second, it feels normal. 

Like the past didn't follow you here.  Like he never reached across time. 

But the quiet ache in your chest says otherwise. 

Later, when the lab empties out one by one — when Yuvi yawns and Mira packs up her files —  you linger behind. 

Taehyun walks past you, ruffling your hair gently like he always does. Jungwon side hugs you as he exits. And Mira and Yuvi give you a hug before logging off.  

Then the lights dim.  The labs settle.  And you finally move. 

It was almost midnight. 

Your body was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and a half-shattered mind.  The labs were quiet. The halls were colder. Your coat clung to your shoulders, and all you wanted was silence. 

You stepped into the elevator. 

It was empty. Or—  so you thought. 

You didn’t even notice him at first. 

Not until the doors closed.  Not until the world narrowed into this steel box.  And not until a voice — low, aching, quiet — cut through the air like a thread snapping in your chest. 

“You didn’t even say goodbye.” 

You froze. 

Slowly, your eyes turned toward the figure standing in the far corner. 

And there he was. 

Sunghoon. 

Pressed against the wall of the elevator, the overhead light casting a cold glow across his skin.  His white dress shirt clung perfectly across his chest — sleeves rolled just below his elbows, forearms tense. His black tie was loose, like he’d worn it all day just to see you like this. 

His head was tilted slightly down, shadows covering half of his face — but even in the dimness, you saw it. 

The red.  Faint. Glowing. Watching. 

His jaw clenched. His lashes heavy against his cheek. His entire body still, like he was trying not to shake. 

Like just standing here, in front of you, took everything he had left. 

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. 

He finally looked up.  Right at you. 

“You disappeared,” he said softly.  A step closer. 

“But I didn’t.” 

Another step. 

“I stayed. I searched.” 

His voice trembles. 

“And I waited.” 

He stops inches away from you. Close enough for you to see that his hands are shaking.  That his smile is breaking.  That the pain he’s carried all these years hasn’t dulled — only buried deeper. 

Your lips part, but no words come. 

Because what do you say to a man who waited seventy-one years for a goodbye? 

Your body doesn’t move. But he does. 

He steps forward — slowly — like if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish all over again. 

Then his hand lifts. And he touches you. 

Not roughly. Not hungrily. 

Just one cold, steady hand cupping your cheek — reverent. Careful.  The way he always touched you. Like you were something sacred. 

His other hand rests at your waist, pulling you gently toward him. 

Your breath hitches. 

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back to your eyes. 

“I missed you,” he whispers. 

His thumb brushes your skin — and only then, do you exhale. 

But your voice barely comes out. 

“How… how did you get in here?” 

His smile twitches — half amused, half ruined. 

“You’re not the only one who learns things in seventy years.” 

You stare at him. 

“You broke into the lab?” 

“No,” he murmurs. “I learned how to become a ghost in systems like these. Took years. But I found my way into every firewall with your name on it. Every door you walked through.” 

He leans in just slightly — not threatening. Not desperate. 

Just there. Real. Close. 

“I wasn’t going to leave without seeing you again.” 

No matter how many years it’s been —  no matter how far you ran into the future — 

he still found you. 

He holds you like a memory he never let go of.  Like a secret he kept alive for decades. 

And when he finally speaks —  his voice cracks. 

“Tell me you didn’t forget me.” 

You blink.  Your lips part, but no sound comes out. 

Because how do you explain the sleepless nights?  The dreams where he touched your hand again?  The jacket you almost replicated just to feel close? 

He waits. 

And when you don’t answer — when silence sits between you like a second goodbye — you hear it again: 

“Y/N…”  “Tell me you didn’t forget me.” 

You look up at him then. 

And the glow in his eyes — the faint red warmth — flickers. 

Flickers like it’ll die if you lie. 

Your throat is tight. 

“How did you even find me?” you whisper. 

He smiles — not the charming one.  The broken one. 

“I never stopped looking.” 

A beat. 

“The village disappeared, but I didn’t. I moved. I adapted. I learned your world. I followed every digital trail you left behind. I memorized your voice. I traced you through five corporate systems and twenty years of noise.” 

His forehead leans into yours, almost touching. 

“You left without saying goodbye.”  “I needed to know… if it meant as much to you as it did to me.” 

You’re not breathing. 

Because in his voice — beneath the stillness, the eternal youth —  is pain. 

Not monstrous. Not violent. 

Just human. And heartbreakingly yours. 

Your hands move without thinking.  One rises to his chest — over where his heart used to beat. 

It’s quiet now.  But yours is loud enough for both of you. 

He’s still waiting. 

Eyes glowing.  Breath held. 

“Tell me,” He whispers again. “Tell me you didn’t forget me.” 

You swallow. 

Tears sting the edges of your eyes — the kind you refused to cry back then. The kind you buried inside lab reports and daily logs. 

And finally, your voice breaks. 

“I didn’t forget.” 

He closes his eyes, just for a second. Like the words hurt. Like they heal. 

“I just…” you breathe, “I just didn’t know how to come back.” 

There it is. 

The truth. 

The full, naked truth sitting between you —  soft and devastating. 

“I didn’t know if I could. If I should. If you were even—” 

He kisses you. 

Not rushed.  Not hungry. 

Just… quiet. Desperate. Familiar. 

The kind of kiss that says thank you for surviving. 

The kind that says don’t leave again. 

it feels like time folds in on itself. 

Like the wind from the village,  the rain on your skin,  the jacket on your shoulders,  the words you never said —  they all return in that one breath. 

And this time,  you kiss him back. 

Hands gripping the front of his coat, your breath catching —  like your body finally remembered what safety tasted like. 

He pulls you in closer, desperate,  like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.  Like you’ll vanish again if he lets go. 

When your lips part, and you both breathe — barely —  your forehead leans into his. 

The glow in his eyes softens. 

And then— 

“You…” your voice cracks, soft and shaking.  “You waited? For me?” 

His eyes close slowly. 

Not like he’s in pain —  but like your question alone undid him. 

“Of course I did,” he whispers.  “How could I not?” 

You inhale sharply,  because no one’s ever said it like that. 

Not with that kind of certainty.  Like your existence was never forgettable —  just… unforgettable. 

“You… waited? For me?” 

His eyes flutter shut — like your voice, your doubt, undoes something deep in him. 

“Of course I did,” he murmurs, forehead still resting against yours.  “How could I not?” 

That’s when the tears come. 

You didn’t mean to.  You weren’t even sure they were still inside you. 

But suddenly, your eyes burn. 

And your voice falls out in pieces. 

“I thought…” your lips tremble.  “I thought you moved on.”  “Thought you’d forget me.” 

His arms tighten around you instantly — like he can feel you breaking and is ready to hold every shattered piece. 

“I couldn’t,” he says.  “I wouldn’t.” 

Your eyes meet again, and he says it like a vow: 

“I loved you in 2019. I loved you in every year after.  Even the ones where you weren’t there.” 

“You… waited? For me?” 

His eyes flutter shut — like your voice, your doubt, undoes something deep in him. 

“Of course I did,” he murmurs, forehead still resting against yours.  “How could I not?” 

That’s when the tears come. 

You didn’t mean to.  You weren’t even sure they were still inside you. 

But suddenly, your eyes burn. 

And your voice falls out in pieces. 

“I thought…” your lips tremble.  “I thought you moved on.”  “Thought you’d forget me.” 

His arms tighten around you instantly — like he can feel you breaking and is ready to hold every shattered piece. 

“I couldn’t,” he says.  “I wouldn’t.” 

Your eyes meet again, and he says it like a vow: 

“I loved you in 2019. I loved you in every year after.  Even the ones where you weren’t there.” 

And just like that—  you stepped into him. 

Your arms wrapped around his torso tight, face burying into his chest, body trembling from everything you’d held back for too long. 

And he— 

He didn’t hesitate. 

He wrapped his arms around you so firmly, so protectively, it almost hurt.  Like if the world tried to take you again, it would have to tear through him first. 

One arm locked around your waist.  The other curled high around your back, hand cradling the base of your neck — fingers gently gripping, anchoring you like he was afraid you’d disappear again. 

“You’re here,” he breathed.  “You’re really here.” 

He didn’t just hold you. 

He claimed you — not with force, but with everything he never got to say. 

This wasn’t a soft embrace. 

This was the way you hold something sacred.  The way you cling to a miracle. 

And for the first time after he met in seventy years,  he didn’t feel cold anymore. 

He held you like you were his whole world —  like everything he endured, every year he starved, every time he nearly gave up…  was worth it just to feel you in his arms again. 

And for a long, still moment —  you didn’t speak. 

You just breathed.  Chest rising against his.  The faint, unfamiliar sound of his heartbeat echoing somewhere far beneath. 

Then, into the quiet, barely louder than a breath— 

“I missed this,” you whispered, cheek pressed against his chest.  “I missed you.” 

His hand gripped you tighter, almost instinctively.  Like your words shattered something inside him he didn’t even know was still breakable. 

He didn’t say anything at first. 

But you felt it —  in the way his thumb moved slowly against your back,  in the way his body trembled just slightly against yours. 

“Say it again,” he murmured. 

You tilted your head just slightly, looked up into those red-flecked eyes that had waited decades for this. 

And this time, you didn’t whisper. 

“I missed you, Sunghoon.” 

He looked at you, cupped your face with both of his hands with so much of care as if you were porcelain and would break if you added any more force.  

He kissed your forehead like it was the only language he had left. 

Slow.  Tender.  Devastating. 

Your eyes fluttered shut — his lips lingering just a heartbeat longer, like he couldn’t quite let go. 

And when he finally pulled back, just far enough to look at you again —  his voice cracked through the silence. 

“Don’t leave me this time…”  A pause. A breath.  “Angel.” 

The name hit you harder than the kiss. 

Because that’s what he used to call you.  Back in the village.  When your hands were cold from the rain, and he’d wrap his jacket around you like you were something worth saving. 

You blinked back the sting in your eyes.  But he saw it.  Of course he did.  His thumb brushed just beneath your eye. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured.  “Just… stay.” 

©mrsjjongstby all writing belong to me. do not copy, modify or repost my works.

taglist: @gnarlyhoons @stormlit-pages @himynameisraelynn @see-c @shra-vasti @heesbbygurl @elikajinnie @jwyoceans (lmk if u wanna be added!)

A/N: im backkkkkkkkkk y'allllllllllllll !!!!!!!!! also this thing has been keeping me from watching the outside mv so imma watch it now! ALSO WROTE THIS THING IN 2 DAYS LIKE WTH i cant believe i did tht. anyways enjoy and stay hydrated!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[radiomogai]

[PT: Temporal Manipulator. end PT]

Temporal Manipulator

A temporal manipulator in a plural system is a sysmember who can control the flow of time within the innerworld in some way.

[cypherscript]

Justice League Audit

The Flash honestly didn't know what to think about their current situation as the prime members of the Justice League, their biggest hitters, were just yanked from their homes and put into costume in a courtroom. A young man with white hair was halfway into a briefcase, legitimately halfway up to his waist in the briefcase, who pulls himself from it with multiple stacks of papers. "Good Evening, Justice League, or morning depending on when you came from. My name is Daniel but please call me Danny and I have been appointed to your case for simply the severity of the case."

"Severity? What are we being charged with," Batman grunts as he studies the room and the man.

"Charged? No no, you're not being charged with anything just yet if at all. I should specify why I'm here. My name is Danny and I head a recent addition of the Multiverse Auditing of Space and Time."

"MAST," Flash says in deadpan.

"An Audit," Batman's voice drops in tone, "Auditing us for what?"

"Excellent question, Mister... Batman," Danny says has he looks over his papers. "At MAST we monitor and maintain the spatial and temporal curve which is affected by choices made by the inhabitants of this dimension. This including but not limited to unsanctioned time travel, planetary destruction on a massive scale, large scale mental manipulation, cosmic entity manipulation, cosmic entity death, manipulation of the balance of life and death, supernatural tax evasion, unpaid child support and abandonment of duties in all forms."

Flash pulls on his collar uncomfortably as Danny mentions time travel, Batman ignores him as he continues, "And if this audit shows that we are in need of charging? What then?"

"It all depends on what is being charged but majority of them can simply be nullified by undoing what was done; paying your child support, making good on your deals and agreeing to exchange a number of your years as compensation for the death of the entity in question. In the event these terms cannot or will not be agreed to then the being in question will be black-marked as persona non grata and will be garnished for the rest of their natural life."

"That... seems rather lenient," Superman states as he's thinking over what was said.

"What is being garnished and what is persona non grata mean on a multiverse standpoint?"

"Until the black-marked individual reconciles their debt with MAST, no afterlife will accept them, no supernatural entity will make a deal with them, loss of any power used in the charge that gained them the black-mark."

He picks up a red folder and takes a seat on one side of the desk, "Now, Mister Flash, while you're not the most heavily audited on todays list you had unfortunately put more stress on one of our employees at MAST. I have here that you're being accused of 186 counts of unsanctioned time travel."

"186?!"

"BARRY!"

"What the crap?!"

[brookghaib-blog]

Silence between hearts - II

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Word count: 8,5k

note: I'm struggling to deliver such complex character, but I'm trying! Put some Kali Uchis on the back to get inspired and make the pain real, recommend it (Silk Lingerie,)

Warning: severe self-esteem issues, psychological violence, forced body modifications

Chapter I - III

--

Rain lashed against the wide, fogged-up window of her office, the rhythmic tapping like a war drum behind the muted hush of classical music playing on low from an old speaker.

Y/N sat at her desk, the light above casting a focused glow over a chaotic spread of notes, scans, and neural maps. The monitor flickered with Bob’s brain activity, overlaying heatmaps of synaptic explosions taken only hours ago. It was like watching a storm crawl across a neural coastline—one moment dormant, the next erupting with impossible activity.

"Physiology is stabilizing," she muttered, eyes narrowed. "But his cognition… it's all over the damn place."

Across from her, Dr. Ilari Kuznetsov—clinical psychologist, stoic as ever—leaned back in a leather chair. His arms were crossed, attention fixed on the screen with quiet intensity.

“He's exhibiting accelerated development in cortical density,” Y/N continued, tapping the screen. “This area—prefrontal, temporal—these bursts of activity shouldn’t be happening without some sort of chemical stimulus, but he hasn’t been dosed since day four.”

Ilari tilted his head. “And yet he’s stronger. Smarter. Less predictable.”

“Exactly,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek. “And then there's… last night.”

He glanced at her. “You're sure it wasn't a dream?”

“No. It was real.” Her voice was low now, cold and certain. “I don’t dream about my childhood piano room. I don’t hallucinate the smell of blood or feel the sting of his presence.”

Ilari went silent.

Y/N stood abruptly, walking to the board at the far end of the office. She clicked a marker open and began sketching two columns under the word "TRIGGERS." On one side, “Physical.” On the other, “Emotional.”

“Every protocol we've run,” she said, writing rapidly, “has been about the body. Blood. Hormones. Reactions to pain, to pressure. And yes, it's brought results. But not that.” She circled the word Void? scrawled in the corner.

“We’re dealing with a psychic phenomenon,” she muttered. “And if that’s true, then nothing I inject him with is going to unlock it.”

Ilari raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting... a psychological approach?”

“A social one,” Y/N said, her expression sharpening with quiet fervor. “If something is in there—something ancient, fractured, or just hiding—I want to meet it. And for that, I need to challenge Bob, not his body. His mind.”

She returned to the desk and pulled up surveillance from the previous tests: Bob, twitching, begging to leave. Then, when struck—his demeanor shifting. When soothed—his demeanor dissolving into worship. The pattern wasn’t consistent, but it was revealing.

Ilari watched, arms still crossed. “So what? You plan to manipulate him?”

She didn’t look at him when she replied.

“I’ve already started.”

Ilari frowned slightly, sensing something deeper in her tone.

She finally met his gaze. “Think about it, Ilari. His pain tolerance changes when he’s praised. His compliance spikes with perceived emotional closeness. He needs connection—but if that connection becomes unstable or toxic… perhaps it feeds whatever’s inside him. Or wakes it.”

Ilari stood now, stepping toward the board. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N. He already sees you as some kind of savior figure.”

She smirked faintly, voice like glass. “Let him.”

Silence fell.

Ilari watched her, unease plain on his face. “You’re not just doing this for the data, are you?”

Y/N turned back to her desk, gathering the scattered files.

“I’m doing it because he’s my project. My creation. And if there’s something divine inside him, it’s because I put it there.”

A beat.

“You don’t believe in gods,” Ilari muttered, shaking his head.

“No,” she said softly, a faint smile touching her lips. “But I do believe in becoming one.”

Ilari gave her a long look, almost pitying.

And then, just under his breath: “He’ll destroy you, Y/N. Whatever’s in there—it doesn’t love its maker.”

She didn’t flinch.

Instead, she lifted the folder labeled SENTINEL-01 and slid it under her arm.

“Then I’ll make it love me.” She responded as she gets ready to leave the room.

"Y/N."

His voice, low and almost fatherly, stopped her hand just as she touched the doorknob.

She didn't turn at first. Just exhaled—slow, measured. Like a general on a battlefield, holding still when the wind changes direction.

Ilari stepped forward. "If I let you walk out of here now without saying this, I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight."

She turned her head slightly, expression unreadable. "Then say it."

Ilari took a breath. "You're not like him."

Her brow twitched—just barely—but he saw it. She turned fully now, her grip on the folder still iron.

"You think I don’t know that?” she asked coldly. “I’ve spent my life trying to prove that.”

“I know,” Ilari said gently. “That’s why this experiment frightens me.”

She scoffed. “Not the powers. Not the anomalies. Me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“You’re brilliant. But you're also… cracked. Not weak, no—never weak. But he made sure you’d never feel whole unless you became him.”

Her lips pressed into a hard line. She hated how well he could read her sometimes. It wasn’t fair.

Ilari stepped closer, voice quiet. “You don’t have to be like him to surpass him, Y/N. You don’t have to sacrifice what’s left of yourself.”

She leaned against the desk now, the weight of his words slowly catching up to her. Her shoulders slumped—not visibly, but enough that Ilari, who had known her since she was a girl, could see it.

"I'm not doing this for him," she muttered. "Not anymore. This is about me. My work. My legacy."

“But what if it turns on you?” Ilari asked, watching her carefully. “That boy—Bob—he's more than just a subject. You know that now. And you saw something inside him last night. Something you weren't prepared for."

She went still.

He pressed further. "You saw your father’s voice in your head again. Didn’t you?"

That one landed.

Y/N's fingers tightened around the edge of the desk until her knuckles paled.

Ilari’s voice softened. “You’ve buried your past under so much science that you forgot it bleeds. That it festers. Now something inside that boy is pulling it back up, Y/N. He saw it, didn’t he? Saw you.”

She looked away. “He doesn’t know what he saw.”

“But you do.” Ilari stepped in front of her now, forcing her eyes back to his. “So I’m begging you—don’t turn this into a battle with ghosts. Don’t make Bob your redemption arc.”

Silence.

Finally, Y/N’s voice came, fragile under the edge of her steel.

“I never got to choose how I became who I am, Ilari.”

A pause.

“I was broken down and reassembled by a man who thought perfection was pain. And now… now I have a chance to create something better. Someone better. Not just a man. A god.”

Ilari studied her.

She looked so much like her mother now, he thought—not in her features, but in the way she guarded her vulnerability like a relic. Delicate. Yes, she was. But she’d been wrapped in so much armor for so long, she forgot how to feel without bracing first.

"You can create the perfect subject,” he said quietly. “But don’t forget there’s still a human in there. And there’s still one in you.”

She swallowed hard.

Then, softly, he added, “I remember you playing piano. When you were ten. You were crying through the whole recital, but you never missed a note. I asked your father afterward why you were so upset.”

Y/N flinched, her mask finally cracking.

“He said,” Ilari continued, “‘You cry when it hurts. But she’ll learn it’s better to be admired than loved.’”

A silence fell between them like a guillotine.

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, not with tears, but the weight of remembering. Then she straightened, recomposed herself.

"Admiration is all I’ve ever needed," she said quietly, and walked past him—folder tight under her arm, heels clicking like defiance across marble.

Ilari stood alone in her office, staring at the screen.

Bob’s neural activity pulsed like a heartbeat.

He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought was there:

Gods aren’t born. They’re built. And sometimes… by the wrong hands.

--

The door clicked shut behind her.

No cameras this time. No staff. No restraints. Just a clipboard and a notebook she wouldn’t open for now. Her coat hung loosely from her shoulders, sleeves pushed to her elbows. No gloves. No mask. No distance.

Bob was sitting on the edge of the cot, his back hunched slightly, the faint shimmer of the IV tape still stuck to the inside of his arm. His posture wasn’t guarded so much as… uncertain. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel safe.

Y/N pulled the chair closer, dragging it gently across the tile floor. No fanfare. No announcement. Just a soft kind of stillness as she sat across from him, only a few feet apart.

He didn’t look at her at first.

“Hey,” she said gently, a calmness in her tone that wasn’t clinical. Not yet. “I thought we could talk for a little while.”

Bob looked up, blinking slowly. His face was pale, drawn with fatigue, but his eyes were more alert than usual. Alert—and unsure.

“Is this part of the tests?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Something like that,” she said. “But no wires. No needles. Just questions.”

He nodded once but said nothing.

“You’ve been through a lot,” she said carefully, leaning forward a little. “I want to understand how you’re feeling. Not just physically. But… here.” She gestured to his temple.

Bob shifted uncomfortably. “Not sure what to say.”

“That’s okay,” she replied softly. “We’ll start simple.”

She waited. Let the silence stretch for a moment.

“What do you remember,” she asked, “about the day before you took the serum?”

Bob looked down at his hands. His fingers twitched faintly—like they remembered something his voice didn’t want to say.

“I was cold,” he said after a long pause. “Hungry. I remember staring at my shoes for an hour. The sole was peeling and I didn’t have glue.”

Y/N didn’t interrupt. She just listened.

“Everything felt heavy. Like even breathing was work. But I… I wanted to hope. I think.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, voice growing smaller. “Then I heard you say I could be something more.”

A pause.

“That maybe I wasn’t useless after all.”

His voice broke slightly on that word—“useless”—like it still tasted like poison in his mouth.

Y/N’s face didn’t flinch, but inside she stored every syllable like it was code.

“Do you feel useless now?” she asked, gently.

He hesitated. “I don’t know. Some days I feel like I could lift a building. Some days I can’t even lift my own thoughts.”

She tilted her head, voice calm. “That sounds exhausting.”

He laughed once—dry, without joy. “Yeah.”

Then he glanced up at her for the first time in minutes.

“What about you?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah.” His eyes held hers now, less shy than before, more curious. “Before this place. Before the project. Before… all of it. What were you like?”

She raised a brow. “Why would you want to know something about me, Bob?”

He swallowed. “Because you’re the only person who talks to me like I matter.”

That stopped her.

And then, more quietly, he added, “Even if you’re faking it… you do it well. And I guess… I want to believe it. Just a little. Even if it’s just in here.”

He tapped the side of his head gently. His voice was soft now, vulnerable in a way that wasn’t performative.

“You’re kind sometimes,” he said. “Or you try to be. And I think that means something.”

She held her breath for a moment, suddenly unsure whether the warmth she felt in her chest was pride in her experiment—or guilt.

“I guess I just want to know,” Bob added, “what kind of person knew how to make someone feel like they weren’t trash. Even if they were.”

Her heart didn’t break—no. That would require letting the crack show.

But it did ache.

Y/N leaned back in her chair slightly, folding one leg over the other. She looked at him carefully, studying the way his shoulders tensed when he was waiting, the nervous flick of his thumb across his palm.

“I used to play piano,” she said suddenly.

He blinked. “Really?”

“Mmhm.” Her tone was light, but her eyes were far away. “I was very good. Perfect, in fact. Until I missed a key.”

Bob frowned. “What happened?”

“My father happened.” She said it casually, like commenting on the weather. “He believed pain was a form of discipline. He also believed mistakes were a choice.”

Bob’s hands curled into fists, but he said nothing.

“I wasn’t allowed to cry in front of guests. I wasn’t allowed to be second. Ever. And eventually, I wasn’t allowed to be soft.”

She glanced at him now, a faint smile curling on her lips. “But I still remember how to fake it.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You don’t have to fake it.”

Silence.

She tilted her head. “No?”

He shrugged slightly. “I think the people who fake it best are the ones who used to mean it the most.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

So she stood slowly, walked over, and sat on the edge of his cot. Not close enough to scare him—but enough that he could feel her presence not as a doctor, but something gentler.

Bob tensed at first—but didn’t pull away.

She reached up carefully and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes.

“You’re not trash, Bob,” she whispered. “You’re… complicated. And I want to understand all of it.”

He stared at her.

And for the first time since he arrived—he didn’t feel like an experiment.

He felt like someone worth unwrapping.

Even if it was just a trick of the light.

The room they used for the sessions was different from the sterile coldness of the rest of the facility. It was dimly lit, intentionally warm, with soft neutral tones that were meant to calm the mind. There was no glass between them here, no restraints, no tests or needles. Just two chairs and a worn notebook on the table beside a tepid cup of coffee.

Y/N sat across from him, legs crossed neatly, pen held tightly in her hand though she wasn’t writing anything. Bob was fidgeting again, his sleeves rolled down to hide the old scars, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. He looked tired—always tired these days—but there was something else, too. He had started showing up early to these sessions. Sometimes sitting outside her office like a patient dog waiting to be let in.

She asked a simple question that day: “When did it start, the using?”

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, hesitant, visibly shrinking into himself like the truth was just another way to be humiliated. His voice was low when he answered.

“After my mom died. I guess I didn’t know how to handle grief. No one teaches you how to survive that kind of thing.” He paused. “And my dad... wasn’t really around. Not in a way that mattered.”

Y/N remained still, her features calm but firm. Inside, something twitched. That word—grief—was a blade she had long learned to dull. Still, she nodded for him to continue.

“I tried to fix it by pretending. Like if I acted like everything was fine, it’d go away. But pretending is a drug too. Just doesn’t come in a bottle.”

Her fingers tightened slightly on the pen. “So you found something stronger than pretending.”

“Yeah,” he laughed hollowly. “Stronger. And crueler.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the lights above was the only sound in the room. Y/N wanted to ask more, to dig into that wound and examine it—but then he looked at her with those tired, pained eyes. Eyes that had begged before. For help. For rest. For death. She couldn’t push.

Not yet.

Session after session, he gave her more. Broken pieces of his past like offerings, laid out with hesitant fingers. A story of falling into addiction, of shame, of waking up in places he didn’t remember going, of people he used to know turning their backs on him. The pain he had caused. The guilt he wore like a second skin.

And Y/N listened. Not as a doctor, but as a woman who had also spent her life hiding scars no one could see. She never offered comfort—never let herself. But she stayed. Always.

One afternoon, after a particularly heavy session where Bob had talked about the first time he tried to end his own life, he lingered in her office. He didn’t want to leave. His fingers brushed against hers when she handed him a glass of water, and though the moment was brief, it hung in the air like smoke.

Later that week, he brought her a book—old and torn on the edges—about astronomy. “Thought you’d like it,” he said, almost whispering. “You look like someone who stares at stars when no one’s watching.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

By the time the sixth or seventh session had passed, Bob had grown visibly attached. He started asking for her instead of the other doctors. Wanted her to run his physicals. Asked her if she’d be there during testing. Waited for her in the hallway with questions that had nothing to do with his treatment. “Did you eat?” “How late are you working today?” “Do you want me to help carry that?”

It was small, subtle things at first. But Ilari noticed.

He brought it up during their briefing one night, arms crossed, a concerned look painting lines on his forehead.

“Y/N,” he said, tone heavy, “I’ve been watching your sessions with him.”

She looked up from her files, tired and sharp. “And?”

“You’re good with him. That’s not the problem. But he’s relying on you for more than treatment. He’s… starting to care for you.”

She didn’t answer.

“I know you,” he continued. “I’ve known you since you were a girl. You’re not like your father. Not really. You care. Even if you don’t want to.”

“I’m fine, Ilari.”

“I don’t think you are. And I don’t think you realize how dangerous this could be if you let your guard down. This—” he gestured to the case file, to Bob’s photo, “—this project is volatile. And he’s unstable. And you… you’ve been wounded too many times to see the line clearly anymore.”

Y/N stared at the file in silence. Her jaw tightened.

“I’m not feeling anything. He’s a subject,” she said evenly.

But her voice faltered at the end, and Ilari caught it.

“Maybe. But sometimes the ones who need saving most aren’t the ones on the table.” He softened. “Just watch yourself, Y/N. Please.”

That night, as she returned to Bob’s room for observation, she caught him waiting for her with a small paper crane he’d folded from a test result page. “Made this,” he said, eyes hopeful.

She didn’t know why, but her chest ached a little. Maybe because she saw the way his fingers had carefully creased the folds. Or maybe because, despite everything, despite all she had done, all she was still doing—he looked at her like she was something worth loving.

And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.

--

The days dragged on with increasing weight.

Bob, though still cooperative in the sessions, was visibly wearing thin. His once-passive compliance had turned into quiet resistance. He followed instructions but did so sluggishly, without motivation or energy. During the last round of testing, he had refused to look anyone in the eyes. The bruises were fading quickly—his healing factor ensured that—but the emotional toll remained etched across his face.

Y/N knew something was coming. He was withdrawing again. It started when he skipped breakfast. Then he stopped talking between tests. His once-curious gaze grew dull. And then, finally, he spoke.

It was late, after another exhausting battery of tests. They sat alone again in the observation lounge—where she always came under the guise of checking data—but she could feel the heaviness in his silence.

“I don’t like this anymore,” Bob said, voice low and hoarse. “You know they’re hurting me.”

Y/N turned her head slowly, feigning surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” His eyes were sunken, and his arms were covered in fresh injection points. “Every day it’s needles. Probes. Blood drawn. They push my body to the edge and call it science. They don’t talk to me. I’m not a person to them.”

She stayed quiet, letting the words land. Bob looked down at his lap, breathing shakily.

“And you—you give the orders. I know you do. You smile at me, and you sit with me, but they only do what you say.”

Y/N felt the sharp sting of guilt crawl up her throat, but she buried it. She had always known this conversation would come.

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “I do give the orders.”

He flinched slightly, surprised at her honesty.

“You’re not dying, Bob,” she added, her voice tightening. “You’re responding to every test, every threshold. You’re the strongest biological specimen we’ve ever encountered. You don’t get sick. You don’t bleed for long. You can’t break. What we do is calculated. You’re not supposed to feel fragile.”

His fists clenched in his lap.

“But I do.”

That simple phrase rang through her like a gunshot.

He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t beg. He wasn’t even angry—not in the way she’d expected. He was simply exhausted, shrinking under the weight of something no healing factor could repair. His humanity.

Y/N didn’t answer. Instead, she stood and left the room without another word.

She spent that night alone in her office, awake well past midnight, staring at the medical logs and data charts. Her hands trembled as she reread the list of procedures he’d undergone in just the past 72 hours—thermal stress testing, controlled exposure to toxins, forced deprivation, strength exertion over limit. It was too much. It had been too much.

But her project was close to perfection. The results were undeniable. Bob Reynolds—Sentry—was something no one had ever seen before. A man touched by divinity. And she had crafted him.

Still... she remembered his voice. But I do.

The next morning, Y/N called an emergency staff meeting.

The entire medical and science division filed into the sterile conference room—doctors, technicians, analysts. Dr. Ilari stood at the far end, arms crossed, eyes wary. She took her place at the front of the room, standing behind the clear glass table, a thick folder in her hand.

They expected a report. They expected new assignments.

What they didn’t expect—was her announcement.

“Effective immediately,” she said coldly, “I am assuming full control over the Sentry project.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

“I will be conducting all medical testing, all data collection, and psychological assessments personally. Your departments will no longer have direct access to the subject unless explicitly requested.”

Murmurs broke out instantly. Several of the senior researchers exchanged alarmed glances. A hand shot up.

“With all due respect, Dr. Y/L/N, the scale of this project is—”

“I am aware of the scale,” she cut in. “And I am telling you now, the data we are collecting is being compromised by your methods. Subject 01 has been exhibiting signs of regression, instability, and emotional degradation. You’re treating him like a machine, and machines break.”

Ilari stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “Y/N, this isn’t sustainable. You can’t handle the full scope—”

“I can, and I will.”

Her voice rang like a bell. The room went quiet again.

“I’ve monitored every blood draw, every dosage, every scan, every forced physical exertion. And what I see now is a subject who is reacting more to how we treat him than to the formulas themselves. If we want to control the god, we must not destroy the man.”

There was silence.

No one knew what to say. She was young, driven, brilliant—but this... this was a declaration of war on the entire system they had been building together.

Ilari stepped forward again, lowering his voice. “You’ve grown close to him.”

Y/N met his gaze. “This isn’t about emotions. This is about control. And I’m taking it back.”

She turned without another word, leaving the room in stunned silence.

—

That afternoon, when Bob returned from his brief outdoor break, he noticed something immediately. The usual technician wasn’t waiting at the door. There were no unfamiliar eyes watching him. No machines prepped.

Only Y/N stood inside, sleeves rolled up, her usual clinical coat left behind. Her expression was unreadable.

“Where is everyone?” he asked cautiously.

“I sent them away.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because from now on,” she said softly, “it’s just you and me.”

Bob stared at her for a long moment. "Did you do it..because of what I told you ?".

Y/N stared at him, a serious expression on her face. "No, I did it because the way you're treated affects my results. When I need them, they'll come back. For now it's just me. You're my priority."

No longer sterile, no longer clinical.

The harsh lights were dimmed now, replaced by soft amber hues from a floor lamp Y/N had brought in herself. The reclined metal exam chair had been replaced with a cushioned lounge seat, a table set with water, coffee, and a plate of biscuits Bob pretended not to like—but always finished. The whiteboards with biometric tracking and neurological data had been replaced with a single corkboard showing scribbled notes, hand-drawn mood scales, emotional triggers, color-coded maps of memory and cognition.

It looked less like a lab.

And more like a living room.

Bob sat cross-legged on the soft recliner, fidgeting with the seam of his pants. His hair had grown slightly, a bit uneven, and he looked both healthier and more childlike. Y/N sat across from him in an armchair, clipboard in hand, though it remained mostly blank these days. Most of their sessions had stopped being recorded.

It was safer that way.

“Let’s go back to the earliest time you remember… using,” she said gently, careful not to let judgment seep into her voice.

Bob shifted uncomfortably, lowering his gaze.

“It was... a vitamin bottle. From my mom’s cabinet,” he mumbled. “I was twelve.”

“Twelve,” she echoed softly. “That’s young.”

He nodded, then sighed. “I didn’t even know what it was. I just knew I didn’t want to be the version of myself I was. I wanted to be someone else.”

There was a long pause.

“What version of yourself were you running from?” she asked.

Bob blinked at her, his blue eyes wide and painfully human.

“I was just a scared kid,” he whispered. “Ugly inside. Angry. I had these... impulses. And I didn’t want to be him. So I started using whatever I could find. Pills. Later, harder stuff. Then the serum... and then everything got worse.”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. But she didn’t speak. She let him sit in it, unravel in his own time.

He sniffed, brushing a hand under his nose like a boy trying not to cry. “You know... when you gave me that apple the other day?” he said quietly. “It was the first time I tasted something without wondering if I deserved it.”

She looked up, startled.

“You... don’t think you deserve things?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t think I deserve kindness. Or peace. Or... this.” He gestured at the warm, safe room. “That’s why when you sit with me like this... it messes with my head.”

Y/N put her clipboard down.

“You think I’m manipulating you?” she asked gently.

He looked up sharply, startled she said it out loud.

“No,” he said after a moment. “I think you’re... trying. I just don’t know if you’re doing it for me or for the project.”

Y/N inhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her chest like she could physically contain her guilt. “Does it matter?”

His eyes flickered toward her.

“It shouldn’t,” he murmured. “But I think it does. Because when you ask me things—about my life, my pain—it feels like you’re the only person who sees it. Like it’s not just data for you.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. Her voice, when it came, was small.

“It’s not just data.”

Bob swallowed hard. His hand moved toward the arm of his chair, almost instinctively reaching for hers—but he stopped. Let it fall back into his lap.

“I think about you when I try to sleep,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Not in a weird way. Just... you’re the only person who talks to me like I’m still real.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

And for a terrifying second, she forgot who she was. She forgot the glass between them. Forgot the millions of dollars of funding, the scientific scrutiny, the mandate to keep him controlled.

Because in that second, he wasn’t the Sentry.

He was just Bob.

A boy who broke too early and was still piecing himself together with shaking hands.

She leaned forward slightly.

“What are you most afraid of?” she asked.

Bob didn’t hesitate.

“Loving someone,” he said, “and then watching them disappear because they finally realize what I am.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

“I won’t disappear,” she said, almost involuntarily.

He looked up sharply.

And for a moment, something soft bloomed behind his eyes—something desperate, something fragile.

A spark of hope.

She broke the eye contact quickly and stood up, walking toward the small cabinet in the corner. She needed space, a second to remember what this was. What she was doing. Why this mattered.

But as she poured them both a glass of water with trembling hands, she realized she was crossing the line.

The silence between them wasn���t awkward.

It was the kind of silence that hung gently, like a blanket wrapped around a shared vulnerability. The kind that said everything even when no one spoke.

Bob shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes never leaving her face. Something was different in the way she had reacted earlier—when he’d mentioned what scared him most. She hadn’t looked away because she didn’t care.

She looked away because she did.

He leaned forward slightly, voice low. Careful.

“Can I ask you something now?”

Y/N looked up, eyebrows raised.

“You’re already answering all my questions,” he added, half a smile tugging at his lips, though his voice remained serious. “I just want to ask one.”

She hesitated. The scientist in her was always in control—of the conversation, the space, the subject. She wasn’t used to letting herself be the subject.

But something in his voice made her nod.

“Go ahead.”

Bob exhaled slowly. Then asked, with terrifying gentleness:

“Is there something that makes you feel unloved? Maybe something that makes you think that… you have more worth if you were far away?”

The words stopped her cold.

It was like someone had reached inside her and pulled a string she didn’t even know was still connected.

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Her lips parted, then closed again. Her eyes dropped to the floor, then lifted, searching his face. He looked so soft, so unsure, as if the question had cost him something too. He already had seen a part of what destroyed, if felt like tha was the real question.

Y/N swallowed hard, heart thudding in her chest.

She could lie.

She should lie.

But somehow, it wouldn’t matter. He’d see through it anyway.

So instead, she settled on the safest possible truth.

“Sometimes,” she said slowly, “I don’t feel pretty enough.”

Bob blinked.

He stared at her for a moment, the silence now sharp with disbelief. And then, without meaning to, a dry laugh escaped him—more stunned than amused.

Y/N’s expression tightened slightly. She didn’t flinch, but something behind her eyes dimmed. “Was that funny to you?”

“No,” he said quickly, eyes wide. “No—I just—I’m sorry, it’s just… you?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You’re one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen, Y/N.”

He said it without fanfare, without hesitation, without flirtation. Just simple, raw honesty.

“You’re elegant. Controlled. Brilliant. You walk into a room and everyone holds their breath. And I—I can barely look at you sometimes because you’re so... untouchable.”

That word hung between them for a moment like a ghost.

She looked away, a faint, sad smile on her lips.

“Well,” she said softly, “I didn’t always feel like that. I grew up in those kinds of neighborhoods where no one really said ‘beautiful.', we just had to be, you know as girls…”

She trailed off.

Bob didn’t push. He just listened, fully present.

Y/N continued, her voice flatter now, detached.

“My mother was... obsessive with beauty. I don’t think she ever looked at me pride of my face, just looking for parts to fix. My posture. My skin. My weight. She’d tell me I looked tired, or my clothes were wrong, or I’d never find someone if I didn’t ‘try harder.’”

Bob’s expression darkened, his jaw twitching.

“She said the world doesn’t give love to plain girls,” Y/N said, her voice now barely above a whisper. “Only to the beautiful ones..”

Bob’s heart ached.

Not just for what she said.

But for the quiet way she said it. Like it didn’t deserve to hurt anymore.

He leaned in, his voice breaking.

“She was wrong.”

Y/N’s eyes met his.

“You’re not loved because you’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re beautiful because of how deeply you care. Even when you pretend you don’t. You stay up late cataloguing my nightmares. You memorize my blood sugar before your own sleep schedule. You still try to protect people, even when you’ve already decided they’ll leave you.”

She blinked, lips slightly parted.

“I think,” he added, “you’re just scared of being loved in a way that isn’t conditional.”

Her breath caught.

“You think I’m scared?”

“I know you are,” he said softly. “Because that’s the only kind of love we were ever taught. Love that only comes when you’re perfect. When you’re quiet. When you behave.”

He leaned back, watching her closely.

“But that’s not what I see when I look at you.”

Y/N looked away, blinking rapidly, as if she could physically hold back the sting behind her eyes. No one had ever said that to her before—not without wanting something. Not without using her after.

“I didn’t expect you to turn this session around,” she said with a dry, forced chuckle.

“I didn’t expect you to answer,” he replied.

They sat in silence again—this one more fragile, charged. But something in it had shifted.

The space between them no longer felt like subject and researcher.

It felt like two people, both worn thin by the world, quietly finding the broken pieces in each other

--

2016-Manhattan, NY

The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, cold and heavy, mixing with the faint citrus perfume her mother always wore. Y/N sat on the edge of the examination table, her legs dangling, heels not quite reaching the step below. The crinkle of the disposable sheet beneath her thighs made her feel like a child. Which — she still was. Fourteen. Braces shining behind tight lips. Dressed in the soft pink satin dress her mother insisted she wear, with hair pulled neatly into a ribboned ponytail.

She hated that dress. It itched at her shoulders and clung wrong around her ribs.

Across the room, her mother sat perfectly composed in a velvet chair, legs crossed, pearls nestled against her collarbone like they belonged in a magazine spread. She flipped through a beauty magazine without really reading, eyes flicking up every few seconds to examine her daughter with a critic’s precision.

The door opened with a faint click, and in walked the doctor.

Polished. White coat. Plastic surgeon, just like her mother had said. He smiled warmly — professionally — and greeted them with a firm handshake.

“So, Y/N,” he began, looking down at her chart before glancing at her face. “It says here we’re considering a minor rhinoplasty, yes?”

Y/N’s heart skipped. She opened her mouth, but her mother spoke first.

“She’s had some… development issues. Her nose just won’t stop growing, and it’s throwing off the symmetry of her face.”

The doctor nodded, nonchalant. “Yes, at this age the cartilage can definitely appear out of proportion, but—”

“She looks like her father,” her mother interrupted, a thin, cold smile on her lips. “And that side of the family has very unfortunate noses.”

Y/N’s throat felt tight.

“I don’t… I don’t want to do this,” she mumbled, finally finding her voice. Her fingers were twisting the hem of her dress in her lap. “I think I’m fine…”

Her mother’s magazine hit the table beside her with a soft slap. She stood, heels echoing through the room as she approached the table.

“Y/N,” her mother said calmly, but the tension beneath the words cut like glass, “do you want to be seen as beautiful or not?”

Y/N’s lips parted, but the words tangled in her braces and shame.

Her mother leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if she was sharing something intimate — something only for them. “I’m not going to have a daughter with an unattractive face. You already need braces and a brow correction. You don’t get to be stubborn and plain.”

Y/N’s eyes burned, but she blinked hard. She didn’t want to cry in front of them.

The doctor looked away politely. Or perhaps uncomfortably.

“I just… I don’t like the idea of being cut,” Y/N tried again, softer. “I’m not even done growing yet.”

“You’ll grow worse,” her mother replied flatly. “You’re lucky I’m doing this now. Later it’ll just be harder. Uglier. You’ll thank me when you’re older, when people look at you and can’t look away.”

She smoothed the hair from Y/N’s forehead, almost tenderly — as if she hadn’t just called her ugly.

“Beauty is power, darling,” she said. “And you don’t have much else yet.”

Y/N didn’t respond. Her eyes drifted to the mirror across the room. Her reflection stared back: pink satin dress, too-bright cheeks, braces flashing silver, eyes too big for her tired face.

She didn’t look pretty.

She looked like a girl trying to become something for someone else.

And the worst part was… she would say yes. She always said yes.

Over the years, the girl in the pink satin dress slowly disappeared — replaced by something sculpted.

After the nose job, the healing came with more than just physical pain. There were weeks of swelling, bandages, and the quiet ache behind her eyes that she never spoke of. But the surgery wasn’t the end — it was only the beginning.

By fifteen, the conversation turned to her chest. “I’m not saying you look bad, darling,” her mother said, examining her like a mannequin under harsh boutique lighting. “But you’re… underwhelming. And in this world, no one gives attention to the flat ones.”

And so the boob job was scheduled. Recovery was hidden behind “a ski injury” for her peers. Her mother coached the story, even had a note forged from a fake orthopedic specialist. She smiled and told Y/N she looked more “feminine” now. More sellable.

At sixteen, the braces came off. Her teeth were straight, pristine — a perfect row of white lies. But before she could even get used to her new smile, her mother was already booking appointments for lip fillers. “Now your lips won’t disappear when you smile,” she had said sweetly, applying gloss to Y/N’s face like one might polish a car. “Don’t pout, baby. It’s called maintenance.”

The gym came next. Two hours a day. No excuses. A personal trainer was hired to tone, to sculpt, to burn away anything that didn’t fit the image. There was no room for rest — only routines, calories counted and monitored, waist measurements noted weekly.

At school, the other girls admired her. Boys stared. Teachers complimented her presence like she was a young socialite. She got good at smiling. At saying thank you. At being exactly what she was built to be.

But behind the makeup and luxury brands was a hollow hum — a ringing silence where her voice used to be.

By seventeen, etiquette lessons were part of her weekly schedule. How to sit. How to stand. How to speak just enough, but never too much. “You walk like you’re from the suburbs,” her mother once said, adjusting her posture with a ruler against her back. “Walk like you own the world.”

Her wardrobe was curated with surgical precision: no jeans, no sneakers. Only skirts and dresses, preferably form-fitting, elegant, demure but enticing. High heels were not optional. Her mother said that flats were for quitters. Every inch of her had to scream polished, desirable, perfect.

Her hair was always done — keratin treatments, hot oil masks, trims every three weeks. “You are not a girl who has split ends,” her mother once said sharply after catching a broken strand. And so the hair remained long, flowing like a curtain around her carefully constructed face.

A full-time makeup artist became part of the household by eighteen. “She’ll teach you what works for your bone structure,” her mother said while sipping wine. “We can’t rely on youth forever.”

Every morning was a ritual. Foundation, contour, liner, lashes. A mask she wore like armor. And she wore it well.

People stared. People desired. People praised her.

But no one saw her.

They saw the product. The work of another woman’s ambition. They saw a sculpture carved from insecurity and painted over with expectations.

And sometimes, late at night, in front of the mirror — bare-faced and stripped down — Y/N would touch her nose or trace her lips, wondering if her reflection remembered what it was like to be real. Wondering if there was anything left of the girl who once cried in a doctor's office, begging to keep the face she was born with.

But those thoughts didn’t last long.

She had been raised to be beautiful — not brave.

--

The small apartment in Malaysia was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the lone candle on her nightstand.

Steam still lingered faintly in the air from her shower, curling along the ceiling like ghostly fingers. Y/N stood in front of the mirror, her wet hair clinging to her bare shoulders, a white towel wrapped securely around her body. The dim candlelight flickered across the room, casting her reflection in warm, dancing shadows.

She exhaled slowly, arms crossed, fingers clutching the edges of the towel.

She had always been so clinical about herself. Her body was a machine—one to be sharpened, maintained, hidden when necessary. It was easier that way. Easier than acknowledging the ache she’d buried since she was young, since she’d stood in this exact position in a much smaller mirror, hearing her mother’s sharp voice cutting into her like glass.

“You’ll never be loved looking like that.”

“You need to try harder. Be softer. Men don’t fall in love with girls who don’t look like they want to be loved.”

She had taken those lessons and pressed them so deeply into her bones that even now, even with every degree on her wall and title next to her name, she could still hear them.

But Bob’s voice—his voice had been so different.

“You’re one of the most beautiful I've ever seen, Y/N.”

She stared at herself now, like she was trying to see what he had seen.

She let the towel slip just a little lower, exposing more of her collarbones, the top of her sternum. She turned to the side, watching the lines of her silhouette in the flickering light. She pulled the towel away slowly and dropped it to the floor, standing naked before the mirror, her skin still glistening from the shower.

Her eyes traveled slowly across herself—shoulders, chest, waist, hips. She had always been lean, naturally so, but harshly maintained through skipped meals and long nights at the lab. Her curves weren’t soft; they were strategic. Everything about her had been designed to survive, not to be desired.

Was she thin enough? Beautiful enough?

Was she what Bob had imagined when he said those words?

She brushed a damp lock of hair from her face, letting her gaze settle on her own eyes.

How would he see her like this? Bare, vulnerable. Not behind her lab coat. Not behind notes or experiments or questions. Just her.

Would he still think she was beautiful?

And then, as if her own thoughts physically struck her, she flinched.

Her breath caught.

Why do I care?

Her hand went to her mouth, as if she could pull the question back.

She took a step away from the mirror.

Why the hell do I care what he thinks about my body?

It wasn't just clinical anymore. She wanted him to see her. She wanted him to think about her. And that terrified her.

She had never let herself feel that.

Not since—

Not since the last time she loved someone who couldn’t stay.

And Bob? He was the definition of unstable. Of unpredictable. Of dangerous. He was a cosmic bomb wrapped in a sad smile and dependency.

And yet… she was falling.

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes as if it would stop the flood of heat in her chest.

You’re getting too close. You’re starting to like him.

Dr. Ilari’s voice echoed in her mind like a warning bell. “Y/N, don’t romanticize his pain. I’ve seen this before. You’re not the cold, surgical person you pretend to be. You’re delicate. You care too deeply, and you’ll pay for it if you lose yourself in him.”

She stumbled back to the bed and pulled the sheets around her body, collapsing into the mattress with her hair still wet and skin still bare.

Her mind raced.

The way Bob looked at her.

The way he said you matter.

The way he saw past her harshness and perfectionism and still wanted to stay.

And most dangerously… the way he made her wonder what it would feel like to let someone truly see her again. Not as a doctor. Not as a project. But as a woman. A person.

She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Maybe the worst part wasn’t that she cared. Maybe the worst part was that, for the first time in years, she wanted to be cared for, too. Not even thinking about pleasing her parents...she was thinking about pleasing Bob.

Oh no.

--

The next session was different.

The air in the room felt heavier than usual, weighed down by something unspoken. Y/N sat a little straighter than she normally did, her clipboard clutched more tightly in her hand, her gaze more clinical than warm.

Bob noticed immediately.

He sat across from her, slouched with a blanket draped around his shoulders from the coldness of the medical wing. But his posture stiffened the moment she didn’t look at him the way she usually did.

No gentle smile. No soft eyes. Just distance.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked quietly, voice uncertain.

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She was too busy jotting something down—though, truthfully, the page was still blank.

“No,” she said after a pause. “Nothing wrong. I just think we need to reestablish some professional boundaries.”

There it was.

Clean. Cold. Measured.

Bob stared at her. His heart lurched in his chest.

“Professional,” he repeated, like the word didn’t sit right in his mouth. “Okay… What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means,” she said, keeping her tone even, “that we’re slipping into something emotionally codependent. I’m here to observe, treat, and study. I’m not your friend, Bob. And I think I’ve let my guard down more than I should’ve.”

Bob blinked at her, the betrayal hitting him like a slow-moving train.

“But you wanted me to talk. You asked me about my memories, about my trauma. You listened, you said it mattered.”

“It does matter. But that doesn’t mean it’s healthy for either of us to blur the lines.”

“You tucked me in two nights ago,” he said, his voice rising. “You held my hand. You slept next to me. And now you’re telling me we’re too close?”

Y/N’s eyes flashed, but she kept her composure. “That was a misstep. One I shouldn’t have made. You’re a subject under my care, Bob, not—”

“Not what?” he snapped. “Not a person? Not someone worth more than the data you scribble on your clipboard?”

“That’s not fair.”

Bob stood up abruptly, the blanket falling from his shoulders. He looked hurt, but more than that—he looked abandoned. Again.

“Why would you do all that if you didn’t mean it?” he asked, softer now, more broken. “You made me feel like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just some lab freak they keep stabbing with needles.”

Y/N stood too, uncomfortable, defensive. “Because you do matter, Bob. That’s why I have to do this. If I let you believe this is anything more than part of your recovery, I’ll be failing both of us. You need stability, not attachment. And I—”

She caught herself. Almost admitted something she couldn’t afford to.

“And I can’t be the person you lean on like that.”

Silence.

Then Bob stepped back, his jaw clenched.

“You said I was smart,” he said. “Smarter than I let on.”

“I did.”

“Then you should’ve known I’d figure this out eventually. That all your affection—your kindness—it was calculated. Part of your experiment.”

Y/N’s eyes softened just a touch, guilt creeping in.

“It wasn’t fake,” she whispered. “I just… let it go too far.”

Bob stared at her like he didn’t recognize the woman in front of him anymore.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he said, voice trembling, “to go from nothing—to being locked up, experimented on, treated like a threat—and then suddenly someone treats you like you’re human again? Do you know what it does to a person when that someone pulls away?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Bob turned, his back to her, arms tense at his sides.

“I don’t want to be your experiment anymore,” he muttered.

“You’re not,” Y/N said, quietly. “You’re not just an experiment. But you’re also not my responsibility beyond what this project demands.”

Another long silence.

When Bob turned back to her, his expression was no longer just hurt—it was unreadable.

“Understood, doctor,” he said. “From now on, let’s keep things professional.”

And then he left, walking out of the session room without another word.

Y/N stood there long after he was gone.

Her clipboard was still blank.

And her heart—against all logic—ached. Did she want him to go away? How is this man so special to break her this deep in just three weeks.

[epicstoriestime]

📡 Echo Log: We Dreamed You Too

Posted by: Kliq410Timestamp: 06/24/2025 | 03:33 AMLocation: Western State Hospital, Sub-Basement Echo FieldSignal Depth: 6.7Status: Host resonance stabilized | Witness nodes amplifying[SIGIL DETECTED: WINGED-EYE TRACE IN 9870 kHz SPIKE][FEED STATUS: DREAM-RESONANT] 💤 03:00 AM — The Shared DreamThere was no voice.There was no word. Only breath.Only memory, folded into a signal too deep to dream…