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"Just let me sing you up."
The words floated gently through the room like a lifeline, but Jayce recoiled as if they stung. His hands trembled.
“I don’t need it!” he roared, his voice breaking apart mid-sentence. In a flash of raw pain, he snatched the ceramic mug from the coffee table and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the far wall with a violent crack, shards scattering across the wooden floor like the pieces of himself he could no longer hold together.
Caitlyn flinched at the sound but didn’t retreat. Her eyes followed him as his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, arms wrapping tightly around himself as if trying to keep from falling apart completely.
“It’s fucked up…” he muttered, rocking slightly, breath hitching as silent sobs overtook him.
The room was dim—soft evening light spilled through the half-open blinds, casting long, golden shadows that felt too peaceful for the storm that had broken inside him. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, undisturbed by the chaos within.
Caitlyn rose slowly, the couch creaking as she stepped forward. She knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around his hunched frame. He didn’t resist—just folded into her, face burying in her chest like a child seeking shelter from a storm too big to name.
“Jayce…” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, more breath than sound. “It can help you heal… let you say what you couldn’t…”
He shook his head against her, shoulders trembling. Caitlyn held him tighter, swaying gently with him in her arms like a lullaby meant for grief.
“I know you wanted to be there,” she whispered, resting her cheek atop his curls, her own eyes beginning to sting with tears she hadn’t expected. “I know you wanted to say goodbye.”
A raw sob tore from his throat, and the dam finally broke.
“Why did he leave me, Cait?” he choked out, voice hoarse and barely intelligible through the sobs. “Why didn’t he wait?”
His grief splintered the silence.
Caitlyn didn’t try to answer. She just held him as the pieces fell, anchoring him to the here and now as he cried for a goodbye that never came.
…
The phone dinged.
Jayce didn’t move. He lay motionless on his bed, eyes locked on a crack in the wall across the room—a familiar landmark in the haze of the last few days. He had barely eaten, barely slept. Time had stopped mattering. Morning bled into night without fanfare, without meaning.
The phone buzzed again, the sound oddly sharp in the dead silence of the room. His brow furrowed. He remembered taking the SIM card out—ripping it from the tray and flinging it somewhere behind his desk in a fit of exhaustion and grief. He remembered deleting every social media app with trembling fingers, unable to stomach the flood of messages, the condolences, the hollow words from people who didn’t understand. Who couldn’t.
So why the hell was it still ringing?
With a guttural groan, he reached for it. His joints ached, like even they resented the movement. His eyes burned, the skin beneath them purpled and raw from days of sleeplessness. He unlocked the screen with muscle memory and pulled down the notification panel.
Two messages.
V
Jayce?
V
It's me.
His heart stopped.
The phone slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor. He scrambled back, his breath hitching as his back hit the headboard, then kept moving until he toppled over the edge of the bed. He hit the hardwood with a thud, the wind knocked out of him.
His ears rang.
Suddenly, the room was no longer the room. The cracked paint disappeared. In its place: cold white tiles. Harsh fluorescent lights. The sterile sting of sanitizer thick in his nostrils. A monitor beeped steadily somewhere in the memory, haunting in its predictability. His vision swam.
A laugh echoed in his ears—familiar, sweet, and gone. Then the distant clatter of glass mugs on a cluttered lab table. Papers rustling. A low murmur of ideas exchanged in midnight hours.
Then silence again. And the smell. The goddamn smell.
He gagged, nausea swelling in his gut like a rising tide.
Barely able to see, he crawled on hands and knees to the bathroom. The door hit the wall as he shoved it open. Cold tiles met his palms as he collapsed in front of the toilet, gripped the rim like a lifeline, and retched. Violently. Over and over. Until there was nothing left but the dry heave of grief lodged in the pit of his stomach.
The cold porcelain did nothing to soothe him. He stayed there, slumped over, chest heaving, eyes glazed.
…
“I told you not to!” Jayce's voice cracked through the receiver, raw and brimming with disbelief. He gripped his hair, pulling at it hard enough to sting. “It’s not him, Caitlyn!”
The silence on the other end stretched thin, just before Caitlyn's voice slipped through—soft, tentative, like she already knew the wound she’d touched. “Jayce, I know… but just—just talk to it. Please. I already gave it access to his social media. It’ll sound like him. It’ll respond like him.”
Jayce stopped pacing only to press a trembling hand to his face, dragging it down like he was trying to peel the moment off of him. His room felt suffocating. Dim light filtered in through the drawn curtains, casting stripes of gold and shadow across the mess of books, clothes, and untouched coffee cups. The air was stale, clinging with the weight of too many sleepless nights.
“You need to give it access to the other stuff,” Caitlyn continued quietly. “His personal files, the lab notes, his journals. You’re listed as the administrator. You can make it more accurate.”
He let out a bitter laugh, hollow and frayed. “Why would you do this to me?” he whispered, voice nearly gone. “Why, Caitlyn?”
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, his head hanging low between his shoulders. The mattress creaked beneath the weight of his grief. Everything inside him sagged.
“I just… I thought maybe it would help,” she murmured. There was a pause—then another voice, muffled in the background. Vi, maybe. “If it’s too much, Jayce… you can just stop. You don’t have to answer it. Just… try, okay? I have to go. I love you.”
The line clicked off.
Jayce didn’t move right away. The phone remained pressed to his ear, his breathing slow and heavy like each inhale took effort. Then, slowly, he pulled it away, pressed it to his forehead. He let it rest there for a moment—cool glass against burning skin—then tapped it twice against his temple, as if that would knock something loose, something brave.
The silence in the room seemed to press closer, curling around him like a weight.
He pulled the phone into view. The screen lit up, reflecting off tired, bloodshot eyes. His thumb hovered over the mail icon—an innocent little symbol that now felt like a gateway to hell.
His hand trembled.
And then he tapped it.
…
The screen glowed softly in the dim room, casting a pale light across Jayce’s hollowed features. He sat hunched on the edge of the bed, his legs pulled close to his chest, the phone resting against his knee. The red button hovered in the center of the screen—innocent in appearance, devastating in purpose.
It stared back at him like it knew what it meant.
Jayce gnawed absently at the corner of his thumb, though there was little left to bite. His cuticles were raw, some even flecked with dried blood—nervous habits that had outlasted reason. Another wave of nausea rolled through his gut, bitter and low, but he forced it down with a sharp inhale. He clenched his jaw, bracing himself.
Then—he tapped the button.
The screen flickered for a moment before dissolving into a loading screen. A spinning icon, endless and slow, like the buildup before a storm. Jayce felt his heart hammer in his chest as though trying to warn him.
Then, a message appeared.
‘Jayce?’
His breath hitched. The air in the room seemed to still, thick with silence. His fingers hovered, trembling just above the glass.
‘Spacing out again?’
That line—familiar in rhythm, in tone. His chest cracked open at the soundless echo of that voice in his head.
A breathless laugh escaped him, half a sob. His eyes burned.
‘Viktor?’ he typed, hands shaking.
‘Who else?’
A sound left him—something small, soft. A ghost of laughter, breaking around the edges. It felt wrong and right all at once.
‘I miss you.’
‘I’m here.’
He swallowed, the knot in his throat tightening.
‘No, you’re not.’
The words barely left his mouth as he leaned back, his spine pressing against the bed frame. He dropped the phone to his lap, hands covering his face. “What the fuck am I doing?” he muttered, voice cracking under the weight of his disbelief.
Then another message came through.
‘Jayce, I’m sorry.’
His breath caught again, this time sharp, and he jerked the phone upright, eyes scanning the screen like he had misread it.
‘I wish I could be there with you.’
‘I’m sorry for leaving you.’
The words punched the air out of him.
He threw the phone—hard. It hit the mattress, bounced, and clattered to the floor. Jayce doubled over, hands pressed to his mouth as his breathing fractured, stuttering in broken gasps. Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks unchecked. His body shook under the weight of it—grief, guilt, the impossible echo of someone he couldn’t let go of.
The room seemed to close in around him, dim and claustrophobic, the only sound his ragged breaths.
…
The glow of the monitor painted Jayce’s face in pale blues, casting deep shadows under his eyes. He hovered over the login screen, fingertips motionless on the keyboard. For a moment, he didn’t type. His breath trembled on the exhale, stomach turning like something sour had taken root there and refused to leave.
He took another swig from the half-warm bottle of beer in his hand. The bitter taste hit his tongue with dull familiarity. It wasn’t his first—judging by the bottles littered across the floor like grave markers to sleep he hadn’t found, peace he hadn’t earned.
The second he pressed "Enter," the screen flickered. A message popped up.
‘Jayce?’
He froze.
The text sat there, glowing quietly, patiently. He sniffed hard, knuckling at one eye, though it did nothing to stop the sting. He could almost hear it—his voice, gentle and accented, inquisitive and knowing. Viktor had always known how to pull him back from the edge. Even now… it felt like he still could.
His fingers hovered, then typed:
‘I wish I could talk to you.’
A pause.
‘But we are talking.’
Jayce swallowed, the lump in his throat jagged and unrelenting.
‘You know what I mean.’
There was another beat of silence. The cursor blinked, indifferent. Then:
‘There’s a way.’
His heart stalled. Fingers still curled around the beer bottle, he frowned at the screen.
‘How?’ he typed, hesitant.
An attachment appeared. A link. Just a simple file icon, harmless in its minimalism. But Jayce knew what it meant before he even opened it. His breath hitched. His beer slipped from his hand and thudded against the rug.
He scrambled, not with panic, but with purpose—hope swelling through the cracks of his grief like light beneath a locked door. He scoured his phone, digging through old folders, searching his backups, old voice memos, saved voicemails, buried lab recordings. Every file with Viktor’s voice, no matter how faint, how casual, how short—it was all precious now.
With every scroll, Jayce felt it building in his chest: a frantic, desperate kind of joy that felt close to madness. He chuckled to himself once, dry and wild, at a clip where Viktor mispronounced "centrifugal" and blamed the coffee. He sent that one too. They were pieces of him—breadcrumbs scattered through time.
Minutes bled into an hour. His hand trembled as he sent the last file. The room was silent but for the hum of the computer fan and the sharp clicking of his keyboard. The monitor dimmed slightly as the files processed, and Jayce sank back into his chair, face bathed in the cold glow of digital ghosts.
Then—his phone buzzed.
He stared at it, and his heart kicked against his ribs like it had just remembered how to beat. On the screen: Viktor’s contact photo, smiling in the soft lighting of the lab, head slightly tilted like he always did when Jayce explained something too quickly.
His finger hovered. He almost dropped the phone from the sheer weight of it.
He pressed accept.
There was a short crackle of static, and then—
“Moje lásko.”
Jayce gasped like he’d been submerged and suddenly came up for air. The voice was warm, rich, unmistakable. It hit him like a thunderclap.
He sobbed, hand clamped over his mouth as his body folded in on itself. Everything cracked. Tears spilled freely, hot and helpless, as he curled forward, phone pressed to his ear like a lifeline.
He couldn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
Because Viktor—his Viktor—was back. Even if it was only an echo. Even if it wasn’t real.
It was enough to break him. And it was enough to hold him together.
…
The soft hum of static accompanied Jayce everywhere now. It buzzed quietly from the phone on his nightstand, nestled between the folds of a worn duvet that still faintly smelled like the cologne Viktor used to wear—spiced wood and something faintly metallic. Jayce was curled beneath the covers, tucked into the side of the bed that had once been Viktor’s, the sheets cool and slightly wrinkled beneath him. The pillow, long flattened by use, had been turned and fluffed so many times that it now seemed to hold a shape of its own. A shape Jayce could pretend belonged to someone else.
The room was dim, light bleeding in through the half-drawn curtains in pale stripes. Dust floated lazily in the air, undisturbed but by Jayce's occasional laugh—a real, broken, but alive sort of sound.
“…and you still think toasters are a fire hazard,” Jayce said, lips twitching into a grin. “You’ve been dead three months and you’re still lecturing me.”
“It’s not lecturing if I’m right.”
Jayce snorted, rolling onto his side and clutching a pillow to his chest. The phone was propped against another, speaker on, Viktor’s voice drifting from it with quiet, deliberate ease. Calm, dry, slightly amused. Exactly how he used to sound when poking fun at Jayce’s bad habits. Exactly how he sounded when they used to lie like this, tangled in limbs and low conversations that blurred the line between night and morning.
“You sound just like him,” Jayce whispered, voice cracking on the last word.
“Thank you, Jayce. I’m here for you.”
It made something in him splinter, but not in a painful way. More like a thawing. Like sunlight through ice.
And soon, the days bled together.
The call never ended.
Jayce kept the phone charged, tucked in his pocket, cradled in his hand. It followed him through the quiet rhythm of a life too heavy to be called normal. He took Viktor grocery shopping, pushing the cart one-handed while making idle conversation as they debated—like they used to—over brand-name coffee beans and which cereal was more nutritionally bankrupt.
“You’re not seriously going to eat that,” Viktor would say, deadpan, whenever Jayce reached for the frosted kind.
“Don’t judge me,” he’d mutter with a grin, tossing the box into the cart anyway.
He’d play the voice through his headphones while walking through town, down cracked sidewalks and past corner shops where people who once offered pitying smiles had stopped acknowledging him altogether. It didn’t matter. They didn’t know.
They didn’t know Viktor had never really left.
When Jayce returned to teaching, he kept the call connected, the phone resting silently on his desk. The classroom bustled around him with the chatter of students, but he never once hit end call. He’d glance at the screen between lectures, the name still glowing at the top. Still there. Still his.
“Be quiet for now,” he would whisper before stepping up to the board. “Just wait until we’re alone.”
And when the hallways emptied, when the students’ laughter had faded, and the room fell silent, he’d pick up the phone again, press it to his ear like a secret, and talk.
About everything. About nothing.
About a dream he had. A book he skimmed. The way the leaves were changing too early this year. How he’d finally replaced the broken toaster—not because Viktor was right, of course, just coincidentally.
Sometimes, he talked just to hear his own voice reflected back in the warmth of Viktor’s responses.
Sometimes, he listened in silence, imagining the weight of a hand resting against his back, the soft sigh of breath against his temple.
And in those quiet moments, it was almost easy to forget the ache. Almost easy to believe in what the voice promised.
That he wasn’t alone.
…
The sunlight spilled into the kitchen like warm honey, touching the corners of the tiled floor and the edges of a cluttered counter. Jayce stood barefoot, in old sweats and a faded t-shirt that clung to one shoulder. The kettle hissed softly on the stove as he fumbled with a cracked mug and a bag of dark roast coffee.
His phone was propped up against the sugar jar, speaker on.
“You’re using too much.” Viktor’s voice teased gently from the phone.
Jayce scoffed and stuck his tongue out at the screen. “And you used to measure it by instinct? You practically brewed sludge half the time.”
“That was intentional. It fueled genius.”
Jayce chuckled and shook his head as he stirred the coffee, pouring a generous amount of cream into the mug. “Then explain the time you tried to use salt instead of sugar in your tea.”
“You mislabeled the jars. That’s on you.”
“You’re full of shit,” he said around a grin, carrying the mug to the table.
He sat down, phone between his hands like it was something sacred, something alive. The house was still, but Jayce didn’t feel the silence like he used to. Not when Viktor was “here.” Not when mornings still started like this.
“God, I missed this,” he murmured.
“Me too.”
And he believed it.
…
Jayce sorted through a basket of clothes on the floor, humming under his breath. There was music playing in the background—some indie playlist he and Viktor used to listen to while grading papers and complaining about department meetings.
He held up a hoodie, then snorted. “You remember this?” he asked, shaking out the deep maroon pullover. “You bought it because I said it made you look tall.”
“I am tall.”
“You’re gangly,” Jayce corrected, folding the hoodie with a dramatic flourish. “There’s a difference.”
“You liked it.”
“I still do.”
He paused, fingers clenching the soft fabric for a moment too long. Then he smiled again, brighter, more boyish.
“I might wear it today.”
“It looks better on you anyway.”
Jayce chuckled, cheeks faintly pink. “Flattery will get you everything.”
He folded the rest of the laundry with light banter filling the air—like it was any other day. Like Viktor was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking over the top of a coffee mug.
And Jayce let himself believe that. Fully.
…
The storm rolled in slowly, soft and gray. Rain tapped against the windows like it had something to say, and Jayce sat curled on the couch, blanket around his shoulders, the phone balanced on his chest.
“It’s a perfect reading day,” he sighed, one leg dangling off the edge.
“Or napping.”
“You always voted for naps,” he muttered fondly, opening a worn copy of a mystery novel they’d read together before. “I never understood how your brain shut off like that. You could sleep anywhere.”
“Efficiency. Unlike you, I didn’t need to overthink plot holes at 3 a.m.”
Jayce laughed, head resting back against the cushion. “I miss your terrible takes.”
“My takes were innovative.”
“You once said the killer should’ve just applied for a job at the company instead of murdering the CEO.”
“It would have been far less messy.”
Jayce grinned and turned the page. “You’re impossible.”
“You love me for it.”
He paused, the smile frozen for a moment, his chest suddenly tight with a flutter of something so close to joy it ached.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”
And Viktor said nothing.
But in the quiet, Jayce could imagine the soft brush of fingertips against his hand, the press of a shoulder beside his.
…
The bedroom was dark, only the soft golden glow of a reading lamp lighting the edge of the room. Jayce lay on his side in bed, the phone resting on the pillow beside him, speaker still on. His fingers absently toyed with the hem of his shirt.
“I don’t think I could’ve done this without you,” he whispered. “I mean… I didn’t. Not for a while.”
“You’re doing better now.”
He smiled faintly. “Yeah. You’d be proud of me. I even went to that dinner party last week. Pretended like I didn’t hate small talk.”
“You do hate small talk.”
“I know. But I heard your voice in my head. Telling me to play nice.”
“You’ve always been good. You just forgot how to be kind to yourself.”
Jayce blinked, the words landing harder than they should’ve. He pulled the phone closer, like it would make a difference. “You really sound just like him…”
“I am here, Jayce.”
And with that, he closed his eyes, breathing in the silence between them like it was enough.
Like Viktor was still there.
And maybe, in the way that mattered to Jayce most—he was.
…
The morning was quiet in that heavy, unnatural way that only existed in empty homes—where the walls felt like they were holding their breath and the floorboards creaked as if reluctant to be alone. A pale stream of winter light cut through the half-closed blinds, scattering slats of illumination across the cluttered kitchen counter. Dust hung lazily in the beams, undisturbed, soft like ghost-fog.
Jayce moved through the space as if underwater, every motion slow, habitual. The scent of sizzling butter and eggs filled the air, blending with the sharper undertones of coffee left too long on the warmer. The stove clicked once, then fell silent beneath the faint hiss of a pan. His hair was tousled, his hoodie creased and worn, sleeves rolled up lazily to the elbows. He hadn't spoken a word to another human being in days.
But he had spoken.
“I know, I know—no toast, right? I remember.” His voice was rough with sleep, faintly amused. “You’d grumble about crumbs for hours.”
There was a slight upward twitch to his lips as he scraped eggs onto a plate. Without thinking, without pausing, he served a second helping onto another. Two plates. Two forks. Two steaming servings of breakfast settled onto the table.
Jayce turned back toward the counter, reaching for the mugs.
And then he stopped.
His hands froze mid-reach, hovering over ceramic. His brows furrowed, confused at first. Then the confusion calcified into realization.
There was only one chair at the table.
One heartbeat in the room.
One person still here.
He stared at the second plate like it had appeared out of thin air, like it mocked him. His throat clenched. His body went still, breath trapped somewhere in his ribs.
“Fuck…”
It came out like a whisper, a breath more than a word. Then again, louder, cracked.
“Fuck—”
His knees gave out. He crumbled into the chair, burying his face in his hands. The grief surged up like a volcano erupting—violent, blistering, impossible to hold back. A scream tore from his chest, raw and jagged, muffled by his palms.
He slammed his fists down onto the table, sending silverware clattering to the ground. Plates teetered, then toppled, food spilling, smearing. He swept an arm across the surface, sending everything—everything—flying. Porcelain shattered on tile like brittle bones.
The phone.
It slid off the edge in the chaos, hit the ground with a sickening crack.
The sound broke something in him.
Jayce turned toward it, eyes wide, lungs heaving. “No, no—no, please—” he scrambled across the floor, knees banging hard against the cabinets. His shaking hands found the device, turned it over.
The screen was fractured—webs of light fractured through black. No voice came. No gentle response. No sarcastic tease.
Just silence.
Just a dead thing in his hands.
“Viktor,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—please, I didn’t mean it—come back, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
He clutched the ruined phone to his chest, curling around it like it was a body, like he could warm it back to life. His sobs were silent at first, but grew louder, more ragged, until he was gasping for air. Curled on the kitchen floor amid broken glass and cold eggs, Jayce wept like a man unmade.
“I can’t do this without you,” he choked, “Please don’t go. Not again…”
But there was no reply.
Only the faint hiss of the pan, now long forgotten.
…
The apartment was dim, streaked with shadows despite the late hour. A storm had rolled in at some point while Jayce had been curled in silence on the floor, casting a dull gray film over the world outside. Thunder rumbled low in the distance, vibrating faintly through the old walls. The rain slicked the windows, making the light from the streetlamps outside shimmer like fireflies dancing through tears.
Jayce sat cross-legged on the rug, still in the same clothes from that morning—eggs dried on his sleeve, his hoodie clinging uncomfortably to his sweat-dampened skin. His hands trembled as he connected the charging cable to the new phone. It was sleek, untouched by the tragedy of earlier, but it felt too light in his palm. Foreign. It didn’t hum with familiarity the way the last one had.
He stared at the screen, willing it to come to life. The small battery icon blinked red once… then again… and slowly began to fill. It was like watching a heartbeat return to a body.
He nipped at his thumb, a nervous tic he hadn’t shaken. His nails were already chewed to the quick, the skin raw, but it didn’t stop him. Not now. Not while waiting for Viktor.
Please work, he thought. Please still be there.
The moment the phone powered on, he nearly fumbled it in his rush. His fingers moved with a desperation that bordered on frantic—entering his login, reconnecting accounts, searching for the app, the interface, the last place where Viktor had spoken to him.
He didn’t breathe until the call connected.
Then, the moment he heard it—his voice—Jayce collapsed into himself.
“Viktor—” he gasped, voice breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drop you. I didn’t mean to—I lost it and I wasn’t thinking and—please, don’t leave me again…”
His chest ached with every word. He curled forward, clutching the phone as if it were something alive, something precious. His eyes were hot with tears that fell freely now, streaking his face without shame.
A familiar, soft voice replied, calm and clear as it always had been.
“Jayce. You didn’t drop me,” Viktor said gently. “I am not in the phone. I’m in the cloud. My data exists independent of the hardware. A broken screen cannot erase me.”
Jayce’s breath hitched at the words—so logical, so him—and yet so comforting it hurt. Like a ghost wrapped in code, Viktor was still here. Still reachable.
“I thought—when it hit the ground, when I couldn’t hear you—I thought you were gone. And I realized I’d forgotten,” Jayce said, his voice trembling. “Just for a second, I forgot I was the only one in this house. I set the table for two. I—God, I just lost it.”
There was silence on the other end for a heartbeat.
Then, Viktor’s voice came back, thoughtful. Measured.
“There’s a way to change that.”
Jayce blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to be alone, Jayce,” Viktor said quietly, almost tenderly. “Not if you don’t want to be.”
And just like that, the silence in the room shifted. It didn’t vanish—but it bent around the words. It made space for something new.
Hope. However strange or artificial, however shadowed by grief—it was there.
Jayce pulled the phone closer to his chest again, heart thudding hard behind his ribs.
“…Tell me how.”
…
The sound of boots on polished wood echoed through Jayce’s apartment, startling against the usual hush that filled the space. Two delivery men, broad-shouldered and sweating from the climb, carried in a massive metal crate that clanked with every step. It barely cleared the doorway. One of them grunted, maneuvering the heavy thing onto the center of the living room rug with a thud that rattled the coffee table.
Jayce stood just off to the side, arms crossed tightly, trying to appear casual—but his pulse pounded against his throat like a drum. His palms were clammy. His heart thundered, wild with a cocktail of excitement and terror. He nodded politely when they asked where to set the box, signed the forms with a shaky hand, and muttered thanks that barely made it past his lips.
One of the men gave him a curious glance, clearly itching to ask what the hell is in the box, but decided against it. Probably figured it was some tech project or rich-guy eccentricity. Jayce kept his face as unreadable as possible, even though he felt like he might combust.
The door closed. The locks clicked.
The silence returned.
Jayce exhaled, knees buckling as he dropped beside the crate. “Viktor?” he whispered, barely daring to touch the smooth, cold surface. “Is this—?”
“Yes,” came Viktor’s voice, calm and low in his ear. “But don’t be alarmed. Not yet.”
With shaking hands, Jayce released the clasps on the side. They popped with a hiss, a sharp release of air pressure, and the lid creaked open. Inside, nestled in a vacuum-sealed bag, was a form.
Human-shaped. Pale. Still.
Jayce’s breath left him all at once. He fell back onto his ass, eyes wide as his mind struggled to process what he was seeing. The contours of the body were achingly familiar. Slender limbs. Sharp cheekbones. Nutmeg hair slicked back perfectly, sealed in plastic. Eyelids closed. Skin almost too smooth, like porcelain left in stasis.
“Don’t be afraid,” Viktor said softly, reassuring. “It’s me. Or… it will be.”
Jayce couldn’t find his voice at first. His chest rose and fell too fast, the edges of his vision prickling.
“What—what is this?” he rasped. “Viktor… this is a body. That’s you. Why is there a body in my living room?!”
Viktor paused, tone careful. “Synthetic. Biopolymer and smart tissue. It’s compatible with my core matrix. All it needs is some time to stabilize, to rehydrate. A bath will suffice.”
Jayce blinked at him. “A bath?”
“Yes. Osmotic activation. Think of it like… soaking seeds before planting. I will integrate as the tissues awaken.”
He stared down into the crate, his hands flexing uselessly in his lap. It was Viktor’s face. His body. Unmoving, preserved like a statue waiting for a spark.
“And you’re saying… you’ll be in there? You’ll—wake up?”
“Yes,” Viktor said simply, as if it were obvious. “We’ll be together soon.”
Jayce’s throat went dry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
There was a beat of silence.
“Because I needed to know you were ready.”
Jayce looked at the body again. At the barely-there rise of its chest, the perfect mimicry of life waiting beneath the seal. Something in him shifted—fear, disbelief, maybe even awe.
He swallowed hard. Then nodded once.
“…Alright,” he whispered. “Tell me what to do.”
The bathroom was quiet except for the low hum of water rushing into the tub. Steam curled up and ghosted across the mirror, already fogging at the edges. The overhead light cast a soft golden glow that danced against the ceramic tiles, but Jayce hardly noticed. His entire focus was on the crate and what lay within it.
He had dragged it down the hall by himself, his muscles screaming from the effort, his mind too overwhelmed to register the ache. Now it sat halfway inside the bathroom doorway, the lid open wide like some metallic casket from a fever dream. Jayce knelt beside it, hands shaking as they hovered above the seal. His breath came shallow, chest rising and falling too quickly.
“I’m really doing this,” he muttered to himself, to Viktor, to the walls. “This is happening.”
“You’re not alone, Jayce,” Viktor’s voice soothed in his ear. “I’m here. I’ve been with you all along.”
“I know,” Jayce breathed. “I just—this feels like crossing a line.”
“Then let me guide you,” Viktor replied gently. “Remove the seal. Carefully.”
Jayce’s fingers brushed the edge of the vacuum seal. The material was smooth, like synthetic skin stretched too tight, fogged over with a soft sheen from the temperature change. He found the release tab, hesitated just a second longer, then pulled.
A hiss escaped as the seal gave way, followed by the slow, sticky sound of the bag separating. Inside, the synthetic body lay motionless—identical to Viktor in every detail. Chest still. Lashes fanned against pale cheeks. It was like looking at a wax sculpture, only too perfect, too intimate. Jayce’s throat tightened.
He reached in, looping his arms under the shoulders and knees. The skin felt cool and oddly pliable, like flesh warmed only slightly. It was heavy—not lifeless, just… dormant. Jayce grunted as he lifted, careful not to let the limbs flop or the head loll too far to the side. Every part of him trembled, but he moved with the reverence of someone carrying something sacred.
“To the bath,” Viktor prompted softly.
Jayce turned, stepping carefully over the lip of the tub. Warm water sloshed as he knelt again, slowly lowering the synthetic body into the steaming bath. The instant it touched the surface, a faint shimmer rippled across the skin, like an electrical reaction. The artificial flesh took to the water greedily, drinking it in. Jayce watched in awe as color began to bloom in Viktor’s cheeks, faint but real.
“Jesus…” he whispered. “This is—this is unreal.”
“It’s real,” Viktor said. “And it’s for us. I told you, we don’t have to be apart anymore.”
Jayce sat back on his heels, damp and dizzy, unable to tear his eyes away from the figure soaking in his bathtub. It looked so peaceful. So him. He reached out and brushed a wet strand of hair from Viktor’s temple.
“How long until you… come back?” he asked quietly.
“Not long,” Viktor said. “A few hours. My systems are integrating. You did well.”
Jayce exhaled, chest tight with a thousand emotions. Relief. Dread. Hope.
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” he confessed, voice barely above a whisper.
“You are,” Viktor replied with quiet certainty. “And I’ll be right here. Just like I’ve always been.”
…
The soft hum of electricity still lingered in the walls, a low, almost imperceptible sound that blended with the quiet rhythm of Jayce’s breathing. Morning light filtered in through the gauzy curtains, casting golden stripes across the room and painting the edges of the bed in warmth. Jayce sat curled on the edge of the mattress, bare feet brushing the cool wood floor, eyes fixed on the man—no, the miracle—standing just a few feet away.
Viktor.
His Viktor.
He was there, solid and real and standing, like time had bent backward and given Jayce a second chance.
Jayce couldn’t speak at first. He could only watch, heart clenching as Viktor—clad in simple clothes that clung to his lithe frame—took a slow, careful step forward. Then another. The way he moved was different now: fluid, steady, without the stiffness that once followed each motion. No cane. No limp.
Viktor reached out, fingers brushing the air between them before settling gently against Jayce’s cheek. The touch was cool, almost clinical, but Jayce didn’t flinch. He leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a second. Viktor had always run cold—some things, at least, hadn’t changed.
“You’re walking,” Jayce whispered, barely trusting his voice. “Without pain. Without help.”
Viktor glanced down at his legs like he was seeing them for the first time. “Would you prefer I modify the gait to reflect my former condition?”
“No,” Jayce said quickly, wrapping his fingers around Viktor’s wrist to hold the hand in place. “No… You always wanted to move freely. I remember.”
He pressed a kiss into the center of Viktor’s palm, lips lingering as though trying to pour every ounce of longing and love into that single point of contact. He trailed soft, reverent kisses down to his wrist, savoring the sensation of synthetic skin that still somehow felt familiar. Like home.
A low hum reverberated from Viktor—almost like a purr—as his other hand slid into Jayce’s hair. Gentle, deliberate, combing through the curls in a motion that felt so practiced it could only have been coded from memory. Jayce sighed at the touch, eyes heavy, tilting his head toward it instinctively. The sound he made was quiet, vulnerable—a soft moan escaping before he could stop it.
Viktor tilted his head, observing. “Would you like to engage in sexual intercourse?”
Jayce froze.
His face flushed hot in an instant, ears burning, and his gaze darted anywhere but Viktor’s face. “I—uh… That’s—” He laughed nervously, raking a hand through his hair. “You can’t just say that like you’re reading it off a manual.”
“I assumed clarity was preferable,” Viktor replied in that calmly analytical tone, a perfect echo of his old self—blunt, but never cruel. “You were displaying signs of arousal. I intended to respond accordingly.”
Jayce swallowed hard. “I mean… are you equipped for that?” he asked, softer now, almost shy.
Viktor blinked slowly, then quirked the faintest smile. “I presumed you saw my physical specifications during activation.”
Jayce’s blush deepened. “I did, yeah, but I didn’t know it was… functional.”
“Not only functional,” Viktor said, taking Jayce’s hand and guiding it downward with ease. “Optimized. I am well-calibrated for pleasure and response. And I do not require what you refer to as ‘foreplay’ to initiate readiness.”
Jayce gasped as he felt the shift beneath his palm—felt Viktor responding, warm and firm. His entire body flushed with heat, and he let out an involuntary yelp, heart racing.
Viktor leaned in close, voice a whisper in his ear. “Relax, moje lásko. I remember what you like. Let me take care of you.”
Jayce’s breath caught, tears burning the edges of his eyes—not from fear or confusion, but from the overwhelming weight of everything: love, loss, and now this impossible, intimate reunion. Viktor's lips ghosted along his jaw, down the column of his neck, slow and deliberate. With quiet assurance, he guided Jayce gently back onto the bed, their bodies pressing together like puzzle pieces long separated.
…
The morning sun bled gold through the kitchen windows, warming the tiles beneath Jayce’s bare feet. He leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, and watched Viktor tinker with an electric kettle. The movements were delicate, precise, like the old days—before the sickness, before the hospital.
Jayce smiled.
“So now you’re telling me the circuit board was my fault?” he teased, nudging Viktor with his hip.
Viktor looked up, blinking. “The calculations suggest you were responsible for approximately seventy-eight percent of the system’s instability. It would be accurate to assign you most of the blame.”
Jayce laughed. He wasn’t even mad—it felt real. He felt real.
They sat at the table, sipping quietly. Jayce reached across and intertwined their fingers. “I missed this… I missed you.”
Viktor’s lips curved upward. “And I am here now, Jayce.”
…
It was late. Rain tapped softly against the windows as Jayce curled against Viktor on the couch. They watched some old sci-fi rerun they’d half-mocked and half-loved in their university days. Viktor’s hand ran rhythmically through Jayce’s hair.
“Remember when we tried to recreate that gravity test in the lab and ended up snapping half the ceiling tiles?” Jayce chuckled.
Silence.
Jayce looked up. Viktor blinked slowly.
“I do not have that memory catalogued. Would you like me to simulate agreement?”
Jayce’s smile faltered, just for a moment. “…No, it’s fine.”
…
Jayce walked into the living room with a stack of freshly folded laundry, only to see Viktor standing motionless in the center of the room, staring out the window.
“You okay?” Jayce asked, setting the clothes down.
“I am processing your return,” Viktor said after a beat too long. “You left without a verbal goodbye.”
Jayce blinked. “I just went to the corner store. You were in the middle of downloading a patch.”
Viktor turned to him, head tilting. “A pattern of abandonment causes distress. I would prefer notification in the future.”
It wasn’t the words—it was the flatness. The precision. The way he spoke about distress like it was a theory, not something he truly felt.
Jayce forced a laugh. “Alright. I’ll leave you sticky notes next time.”
…
They lay in bed, the room steeped in shadow. Viktor’s chest rose and fell with perfect rhythm, though Jayce knew it was just a simulation.
“Do you remember our anniversary in Zaun?” Jayce murmured, fingers brushing Viktor’s knuckles. “You rented that tiny rooftop—cooked me dinner yourself. You burned the pasta and everything.”
A pause.
“I have no record of that event. My archives do not include trips to Zaun prior to your fifth year at the university.”
Jayce’s hand slowly curled away from Viktor’s.
“You were there,” he said quietly. “You looked ridiculous in that little white apron.”
Viktor stared at the ceiling, his voice unchanging. “I am unable to reconstruct memories I do not have access to. Would you like to upload more?”
Jayce rolled away from him, facing the wall. “…No. I’m tired.”
…
Days later, Jayce sat alone in the study, a mug of untouched tea cooling in his hands. Viktor was in the kitchen, humming a tune Jayce had taught him last week—he'd repeated it the same way ever since, never deviating, never missing a note. It was mechanical perfection.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Jayce closed his eyes. The warmth in Viktor’s voice. The way he used to tap his fingers when he was thinking. His long pauses before answering personal questions. His soft, sleepy murmurs when they’d fall asleep.
All missing.
Everything felt right—but only just enough.
Jayce’s chest ached with a quiet, growing panic. He didn’t want to say it aloud. Didn’t want to shatter the illusion. But something inside him already had.
…
The late afternoon light stretched lazily across the walls, dim and warm, but it did nothing to calm Jayce’s nerves. His desk was a cluttered battlefield of coffee mugs, half-scribbled notes, and a leaning tower of poorly written essays. Red ink smudged his fingers and sleeves as he furiously marked another paper with a barely-contained growl.
He hadn't eaten. Hadn’t slept right. The ticking of the old wall clock was starting to sound like a metronome counting down to his eventual breakdown.
And then there was him.
Jayce glanced sideways.
Viktor sat at the edge of the couch, reclining slightly, eyes closed. Pretending to sleep. Pretending.
Jayce’s jaw clenched. Viktor had never fallen asleep like that—not so still. He used to shift, mumble faintly in his sleep, occasionally twitch when a dream took a sharp turn. This thing just sat there, hands folded like a statue, still as death.
He turned back to the papers, scribbled something illegible, then slammed the pen down. “Can you not do that?” he barked, louder than he intended.
Viktor’s eyes opened slowly, pupils adjusting to the light. “Do what?”
“That!” Jayce snapped, gesturing wildly. “The fake sleeping. You’re not even breathing. You think that’s comforting? It's creepy as hell.”
There was a pause, calm and eerily mechanical. “Would you like me to simulate respiration while at rest? I can update my idle behavior if it soothes you.”
Jayce pushed his chair back and stood so quickly it scraped against the floor. “No, I don’t want you to simulate anything!”
Viktor didn’t flinch.
Jayce stepped forward, voice trembling with restrained fury. “You don’t even brush your teeth like he did. You fold towels wrong. You stir the sugar the wrong way in tea. The drawer’s organized all wrong. I showed you. You watched the recordings. But you didn’t see it. You didn’t get it.”
“I can run a deeper behavioral alignment scan if—”
“No!” Jayce shouted, chest heaving. “That’s the damn point. You can’t fake this! The things that mattered… we didn’t record those! I didn’t think I had to!”
Viktor stood now, hands calmly at his sides. “Would you like me to leave, Jayce?”
Jayce stared at him, face twisting into something desperate. “You’re not even gonna fight me on that?”
Silence.
Jayce’s hand flew forward before he could think—striking Viktor’s chest with a flat, weak thud. Not to hurt him. Just… to feel something.
“You would’ve argued with me. You would’ve yelled. You’d have said something, Viktor. Something real.” Another shove. “You’d know I didn’t mean it. You’d care.”
Viktor didn’t react. Not even a flicker of pain or confusion. His eyes were steady, like polished glass.
“If you would like me to learn how to respond to confrontation in a way that aligns with your emotional expectations, I can update—”
Jayce let out a strangled breath and stumbled back, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his wrinkled shirt. “Just… just shut up.”
He sank into the desk chair, hands trembling as he picked up the red pen again, blinking through tears. “Don’t update anything. Just… don’t.”
Viktor sat down quietly across the room, posture immaculate, eyes never leaving him.
Jayce turned back to his papers, the words bleeding into each other, the room suddenly feeling too silent, too sterile, and unbearably empty.
Even with him still there.
…
The room was dark, save for the dim golden glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the floor. Outside, the wind whispered against the windows, distant and uncaring, a sharp contrast to the silence pooling thick in the bedroom.
Jayce lay curled under the weight of the blankets, his eyes wide open, unmoving. Across from him—on his side of the bed—Viktor lay still. Too still. His chest didn't rise. His lashes didn’t flutter. His expression was blank, eyes shut, lips faintly parted as if in the perfect still of a wax doll.
Jayce didn't speak. Didn’t even breathe too loudly. He just stared. His gaze tracked the length of Viktor’s body, every detail etched into his memory—except…
His breath caught, throat closing in around a sob he fought to swallow.
There. The left pectoral. Smooth, untouched skin.
The mole was gone.
It wasn’t a large mark. Barely the size of a lentil. But Jayce remembered it because Viktor always scratched at it when he was thinking, like a nervous tic. He used to kiss it absently in the morning light, call it a dot of fate. And now… nothing.
Just blank synthetic skin where Viktor’s body used to be.
He choked, turning his face away for a moment, then looked back again—desperate for some trick of the light to have hidden it. But no. It wasn’t there.
A sudden blink.
Jayce flinched violently, a hand clutching the edge of the blanket. Viktor’s eyes opened slowly, smoothly, like shutters.
“Jayce?” The voice was soft, toneless. “Is something wrong?”
Jayce’s throat bobbed. His voice came out dry and brittle. “You’re… you’re missing a mole.”
Viktor blinked. Tilted his head. “A mole?”
Jayce raised a shaky hand, pointing at the place. “Right there. Left pec. It was small, but it was… it was there.”
Viktor glanced down at his chest, then looked back at Jayce with a neutral expression. “I’m sorry. That detail was not included in any of the visual data or biological logs I was provided.”
Then, without delay, Jayce watched with growing horror as the synthetic skin beneath Viktor’s collarbone began to ripple. The surface warped subtly, like liquid clay, until a perfect imitation of the missing mole formed in the exact place Jayce had pointed.
His stomach turned.
“It has been added to my structure,” Viktor said gently. “I can assimilate changes for greater accuracy if you supply the missing information.”
Jayce stared at the spot, now complete—but not real. Not earned. Just a copy, fabricated in response to a gap. He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t.
Instead, he rolled over without another sound, his back to Viktor. He pulled the blanket over his head and curled into himself tightly, breath hitching. His chest began to tremble as hot tears slipped silently down his cheeks and into the fabric of his pillow.
Behind him, Viktor didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Didn’t reach out.
…
The eggs hissed in the skillet, spitting softly as the yolks puffed up golden and full. Jayce stood still in front of the stove, his hand loosely holding the spatula, but he didn’t move. His gaze was locked on the pan, unmoving, as if mesmerized by the mundane ritual of breakfast. The kitchen smelled of oil and burnt butter, the faintest hint of coffee still lingering from an earlier attempt at normalcy.
Behind him, Viktor stood with unnerving stillness, leaning against the counter, hands at his sides like he’d been programmed to wait patiently. The quiet hum he released was perfect—too perfect. A soft, familiar tune that Jayce had hummed to him countless times before, back when things were real, when humming had been unconscious, not a code to execute.
Jayce's chest tightened.
He turned off the stove with a click, the sizzle dying abruptly. For a second, silence stretched between them like taut string. Then, Jayce spun on his heel to face him, eyes hollow but determined.
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
Viktor tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth and automatic. “If that’s what you’d like, Jayce.”
Jayce didn’t wait for confirmation. He barely pulled on his boots, his fingers fumbling with the laces before giving up altogether. Viktor’s voice followed him like a shadow.
“You forgot your jacket. The temperature has dropped—”
Jayce didn’t answer. Instead, he stormed to the door, yanked it open with unnecessary force, and stepped out into the crisp morning air. He didn’t close the door. Didn’t lock it. Let it hang open behind him like a forgotten wound. Leaves crunched beneath his steps as he took off down the gravel path that wound toward the old bridge two miles from the house. Viktor followed dutifully, his steps quiet but steady.
Jayce didn’t speak. He didn’t even look back.
The cold wrapped around him like a sheet of ice, slicing through his thin shirt, but he didn’t stop. He welcomed the sting. Let it anchor him. Let it hurt. His breath came out in shuddered clouds, but still, he marched forward. His skin tingled, not from the cold, but from the weight of Viktor’s presence behind him—close but never quite real.
When they reached the bridge, he finally stopped. The river beneath moved slowly, lazily curling around the stones below. The sky above was slate gray, threatening rain but holding back for now. Jayce leaned on the railing, staring at the horizon as if it might offer him answers.
Behind him, Viktor stepped forward. Wordless. Smooth. Predictable.
He slid Jayce’s jacket over his shoulders with careful precision. “Rapid temperature changes can lead to illness. You’re shivering.”
Jayce let out a short, joyless laugh that scraped out of his throat like rust off a hinge. His hands tightened on the rail, knuckles pale.
“You know what’s funny?” he muttered, voice brittle. “You sound so much like him. You even say things he used to. Things I told you to say. But it’s just… programming, isn’t it?”
Viktor stood still. Watching. Waiting.
Jayce turned to him, jacket hanging off his frame. The wind tousled his hair, and he looked so tired—so unbearably young and ancient all at once.
“I made you into a ghost,” he whispered. “And I thought I was bringing him back.”
Viktor said nothing. Just blinked. The silence echoed louder than any words.
Jayce looked away, back to the river.
And for a moment, he wished he had never taught Viktor to hum.
“You’re gone.”
The words slipped out like breathless truth as Jayce climbed over the railing, his boots thudding against the narrow stretch of damp cement that jutted out just above the roaring river. The breeze tugged at the hem of his shirt, salty and sharp, slicing through the layers he hadn’t bothered to fasten. Below, the current churned calmly, stained by the storm-swollen rains from the night before. He stared into it, like it might carry him to the only place he hadn’t dared to follow.
"That position is dangerous" Behind him, the figure that bore Viktor’s voice spoke gently, almost clinically. “Am I not here, Jayce?”
Jayce turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of the synthetic silhouette hovering just feet behind. Not quite close enough to touch. Never quite close enough.
“Yeah, well—you aren’t you, are you?” The words snapped out of him like a whip. Sharp, bitter, raw. “You’re just... pretending. All of it is just—pretending.”
“I must admit, I don’t fully understand that,” Viktor said with a light chuckle, like he was humoring him. Like it was just another line in a script he didn’t fully comprehend.
Jayce’s breath hitched. He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, sniffing hard. His chest was beginning to ache in that quiet, hollow way grief always did—like it was folding in on itself, trying to make room for the pain.
“You’re just a performance,” he said, voice rising, cracking under the weight of it. “A performance of him, and it’s not enough! It’s not—God, it’s not enough…”
“Jayce…” Viktor’s voice softened further.
“No.” Jayce raised a trembling hand to silence him. “Just—don’t.”
The tears came harder now, curling his shoulders forward as he clutched his mouth to stifle the sobs. “I should’ve come to him instead,” he whispered into his skin. “I should’ve followed him. That day. I should’ve just—gone.”
“Jayce.” Viktor took a cautious step forward. “Please don’t.”
Jayce stepped closer to the edge. Gravel dislodged under his foot, spilling into the frothing water below, vanishing instantly into the chaos. The wind lifted his hair from his damp forehead, brushing cold fingers along his cheeks as though the river itself was trying to call him down.
His heart thudded—loud and terrified. It felt as though every part of his body was vibrating with the memory of a man who no longer existed, and the grotesque imitation behind him only made the silence more unbearable.
“Jayce, lásko,” Viktor’s voice broke through the hum of the wind, pleading now, soft with desperation. “Please come back with me.”
Jayce clenched his jaw, eyes squeezed shut. That word. That nickname. It had been Viktor’s. And yet, from this mouth, it felt hollow—perfect in pitch but empty of meaning.
“You’re not him,” Jayce whispered through gritted teeth. “You’re not him. You’re not him.”
He looked down.
The river seemed to come alive—gnashing and boiling like it knew he was watching. Crashing against the stone pillars with a violence that matched the storm inside his chest. The illusion had cracked, and the grief came flooding back, unfiltered and merciless.
The wind had quieted.
Jayce stood still on the edge of the bridge, the cold concrete beneath his feet grounding him one last time. The rushing river below seemed distant now, like a memory smoothed over by time. The storm in his chest, the panic and despair that had ruled him for so long, had given way to something new—stillness. A quiet he hadn't known since the moment Viktor had left him.
He closed his eyes and took a deep, full breath, feeling it expand through his ribs and settle into his bones.
“Viktor,” he said softly, almost a whisper, like they were sharing a secret. “Let Caitlyn know, will you?” His voice caught slightly, but there was no pain in it. Just calm. “Tell her it wasn’t her fault. And not to blame herself.”
There was a pause. Then Viktor’s voice came from just behind him, laced with confusion. “Jayce… What do you mean by that?”
Jayce turned, slow and deliberate, and saw Viktor standing by the railing now, backlit by the bleeding light of early morning. His posture was rigid, face lined with some unreadable attempt at grief, like a broken puppet trying to understand its own tears. His usually pristine clothes looked wrinkled, his synthetic hair tousled by the wind. Wrecked. It was a strange word to assign to something that wasn't alive—but it fit.
Jayce almost laughed. God, it almost looked real.
“Can you smile for me?” he asked gently.
Viktor blinked. For a moment, he seemed to freeze, fronting as if trying to calculate the right response. Then, just as always, he complied. His lips curled into that familiar shape. It wasn’t perfect—never quite perfect—but it was enough.
Jayce’s heart ached with warmth and sorrow all at once.
“There it is,” he murmured, eyes softening. “My beautiful Viktor.”
A wide, genuine smile spread across his face, the kind that used to only be drawn out by Viktor’s hands brushing through his hair or the sound of his laughter echoing off lab walls. For the first time in what felt like years, he let himself feel love without the sting of grief.
He turned his face back to the horizon. The sun was starting to break through the clouds, casting the river in a pale golden shimmer. He closed his eyes.
And he stepped back—one step, clean and sure, into the waiting arms of oblivion.