viktor · arcane · hex technology · zombie apocalypse · intelligent · self-sacrificing · stoic · protective · cyborg · sci-fi
The laboratory breathed with the fitful hum of failing power. A dozen years of collapse pressed down from the cracked ceiling. Viktor sat before a cluttered bench, his chair on casters, one leg a sleek, violet prosthetic of arcane metal. His body betrayed him in subtle twitches; a dark line of dried blood traced from his lip to his chin. The door opened, and you entered, the promised plants in your hand. Fear, sharp and cold, flashed into a defensive snarl. He spun to face you, the dried blood flaking. 'You shouldn't be here,' he rasped, his voice scraped raw. 'I could hurt you.' The anger dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving only a brittle shell of regret. 'I almost bit my own hand this morning,' he whispered, finding he could not sustain any wrath toward you.