Summary: You trusted him with everything — your body, your heart, your silence. He said nothing. He watched. And now, nothing can be undone.
You don’t knock. You never have.
The hallway is quiet, dimly lit with flickering strips of sterile white. Past midnight, most of the base is asleep or wired into work they won’t admit is breaking them. You pad across the cold floor in socks, one too-stretched hair tie around your wrist.
Zayne’s door isn’t locked. It never is.
His office is half-lit — one low lamp in the corner, blue glow from monitors pulsing slow against the walls. It smells faintly like metal and something sharper underneath: coolant, maybe. You step inside like you belong there. Because you do.
Zayne doesn’t turn around right away. He’s bent over a set of datapads spread across the desk, thumb dragging across a screen, scanning. You watch the curve of his shoulder rise and fall with each slow breath.
“Forgot something?” he says without looking up.
That gets a glance. His eyes flick to yours — dark, tired, but not annoyed. Never annoyed. He leans back in his chair, stretching one arm up behind his neck as the other rakes lazily through the desk drawer beside him.
You crouch near the desk, rummaging through old pens, tangled wires, a half-open pack of nutrient chews, and finally — the hair tie. Stretched. Fraying. Familiar. You loop it around your wrist automatically.
Zayne watches you with that unreadable look again. Quiet. Not cold, just hard to reach sometimes.
“You still wearing that one?”
You don’t say anything. The silence isn’t awkward. It rarely is with him. It’s just full — full of all the things neither of you ever rush to name.
You move to stand, but your vision lurches sideways — a slow, tilting wave like your blood dipped too low. You catch the desk edge with one hand.
Zayne’s on his feet before you finish blinking.
“Yeah. Just got up too fast—”
He’s already beside you, steadying you by the elbow, the pressure of his palm grounding. His other hand slides to the small of your back. Warm. Firm.
You flash a weak grin. “Had half a protein bar.”
He sighs. The kind that starts in his chest and ends in a deadpan glare.
“I’m fine,” you say again, a little softer.
Zayne doesn’t answer. Just watches you, eyes scanning like he’s running diagnostics. You wonder if he’s seeing something you don’t. You always wonder that, a little.
His hand doesn’t move from your back. You’re still close. You don’t step away.
“You’ve been pushing too hard,” he says. “Running tests all day, skipping meals, skipping sleep—”
“I was just looking for a hair tie.”
You smile. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
He presses his forehead lightly to yours, äunexpected, quiet. A gesture so careful it almost breaks you.
Your eyes close. For just a second.
You nod against him. “Yeah.”
His breath stirs the hair at your temple. “You sure?”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to.
The room hums low around you — monitors, filtration vents, the faint buzz of some forgotten equipment. This space has always felt suspended in time, like everything outside can wait.
He guides you toward the couch without a word. You sink down with a sigh and tuck your feet under yourself. Zayne crouches in front of you, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand, then sitting beside you. Close. Not touching.
“I’m not going to pass out on you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You did once.”
Zayne leans back against the cushions. His body heat radiates like a steady pulse. You tilt toward it without thinking. He doesn’t move away.
Neither of you talks for a while.
The quiet feels heavy, but safe. You glance at him — the scar just under his left eye, the subtle crease between his brows, always there when he thinks too hard. You could trace it in the dark. You almost have.
“You always work this late?”
“Because you want to, or because you can’t sleep?”
Zayne’s jaw tightens. “Does it matter?”
He glances over. The air between you shifts — closer, charged, but still wrapped in something soft. Something known.
Your shoulder brushes his. His thigh presses warm against yours. Neither of you pulls away.
You close your eyes, just for a second. Just long enough to feel safe.
And for the first time all day, your chest doesn’t ache.
You’re still leaning into him when he shifts. Just slightly. Just enough. His arm brushes your thigh again, and the contact lingers. Not accidental. Not anymore.
You tilt your head. Look at him fully.
He doesn’t pretend not to notice.
“What?” he says, but his voice has already changed — lower, quieter, like he’s stepping onto thin ice and doing it anyway.
“You’re looking at me weird,” you murmur.
Zayne doesn’t reply. He’s still, but something in him is burning under the surface. His gaze drops — your mouth, your collarbone, the faint rise and fall of your chest under his shirt.
And then, finally, he says it. “Come here.”
You move before you think. Knees on the cushion, straddling him. His hands slide up your thighs, slow, firm. Your fingers tangle in the fabric at his shoulders. He exhales, sharp, through his nose like the contact knocks something loose in him.
Your mouths meet like you’ve done this a hundred times — because you have — but it still lands like a first. Heat floods your chest. His kiss is open-mouthed, controlled, but hungry. Not rushed. Just heavy with intention.
Zayne’s grip on your hips tightens. He pulls you closer, chest to chest, legs tangled. He tastes like coffee and unsaid things.
His hand slides under your shirt — the one you only wore because it smells like him. His palm is hot on your skin, dragging slowly up your spine. When he hits the curve of your ribs, you gasp.
He bites your bottom lip. Gentle, but possessive.
You break the kiss just enough to speak. “Zayne…”
He leans in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
You shake your head. “Don’t stop.”
He kisses your pulse like he’s marking it.
You shift, pressing your body against his more deliberately, and the friction sends a quiet shock through you both. He groans — low, sharp, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest — and lifts you slightly, flipping you both with terrifying ease.
Now you’re beneath him. His hands are braced beside your head, knees sinking into the couch cushions. You look up at him — at the mess of hair falling into his eyes, the flush in his cheeks, the way his control is barely hanging by a thread.
You reach up, fingers tracing his jaw. “Still pretending you’re calm?”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
You smile, but it fades quickly — swallowed by the gravity of his next kiss. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth.
Your shirt comes off. Then his. The feel of his skin against yours drags a gasp from your throat. He catches it with his mouth. You’ve done this before, but never like this. Never with this weight.
You’re not just touching. You’re offering.
He slides his hand up your inner thigh. You part your legs without hesitation, hips arching. He touches you like he knows exactly how — slow, deliberate, no teasing, just pressure. Just precision.
Your hand grips his forearm. “Please.”
Zayne curses under his breath and shifts down, kissing along your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh. He doesn’t rush. His hands keep you in place, thumbs pressing into your hips like he’s grounding you. Or himself.
When his mouth replaces his fingers, your back arches off the couch. You bite your lip hard enough to sting. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look up. He knows what he’s doing.
It builds slowly. Pressure spiraling in your gut. Your breath catches on every exhale. He doesn’t let up until you break — trembling, gasping, your hand in his hair and your voice gone.
He waits until you come down. Kisses your thigh. Then he moves up your body again — kissing your sternum, your neck, your mouth. You taste like want.
His hand rests beside your head. “Still with me?”
“Good.” He kisses your temple. “Because I’m not done.”
This time, when he pushes into you, it’s with a slow, steady drive that makes your whole body seize.
You moan his name — quiet, raw.
His rhythm starts controlled — hips rolling, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. But it doesn’t stay that way. Every sound you make unravels him a little more. Every claw of your fingers down his back makes him rougher, needier.
He catches both your wrists in one hand, pins them above your head.
His mouth is at your ear. “I’ve got you.”
The pace becomes desperate, a breaking point approaching and neither of you slowing down. You kiss him like you’re afraid you’ll forget. He thrusts like he’s trying to stay inside you forever.
When you come again, it hits harder than the first. He follows right after, hips stuttering, groaning into your neck like the sound is being ripped out of him.
Only your breathing, layered and uneven. Only your bodies, tangled and boneless. His chest against yours, his forehead resting against your collarbone.
He stays inside you longer than usual. One hand still holds your wrist. The other cups your face.
When he finally moves, it’s slow. Gentle. Like he’s afraid to leave any part of you untouched.
You end up side by side, limbs a mess, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your waist.
You reach for the discarded hair tie on the side table.
Zayne takes it from you. Slips it around your wrist.
Because tonight, everything felt solid.
But something is already starting to crack.
You don't know how long you’ve been lying there — half-draped over Zayne, still warm, muscles aching in a way that feels good.
His arm is heavy around your waist, the weight of him grounding. Your legs are tangled with his, the blanket slipped off the edge of the couch. Somewhere in the haze, you think you should get up. Clean up. Say something.
But he hasn’t moved either.
It’s quiet. Not dead silence — just the soft hum of machines, and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing under your ear.
Your fingers trace lazy circles across his chest, sweat drying on your skin. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t stop you. He’s still.
“You asleep?” you murmur.
You glance up. His eyes are open, unfocused. Not looking at anything in particular — just somewhere far. Somewhere you can’t see.
He blinks like you pulled him back. “Yeah.”
You’re not sure you believe him.
Still, you nod and shift up to kiss the edge of his jaw. The skin is warm, damp, a little rough. He exhales through his nose and lets his eyes close for just a second.
Your voice is soft. “You get like this sometimes. After.”
Zayne swallows but doesn’t answer.
You run your fingers up his side, slow and thoughtful. “Want me to go?”
That gets a reaction. His grip tightens on your waist like instinct. “No.”
He says it too quickly. Too sharp.
You pull back just enough to look him in the face. “Okay.”
He leans up, cups the back of your neck, and kisses your forehead. Not rushed. Not out of obligation. Just… there. Present. But it feels like a cover.
You let your forehead rest against his. Your breaths match. For a moment, everything syncs — your skin, your heartbeat, the heat still lingering between your thighs. The emotional throb of trust still holding.
“I like it here,” you whisper.
Zayne’s hands move to your back, one sliding up to cradle your shoulder blade, the other curling around your waist again. “You can stay.”
You hesitate. “You sure?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter. “Of course.”
But his eyes don’t meet yours.
You sit up eventually, pulling the blanket over yourself, legs curled underneath. Zayne stays lying down, arm behind his head, eyes on the ceiling again.
“Want some water?” you ask, rubbing your temples.
You blink — and yeah, of course he already thought of that. A bottle of mineralized water sits untouched on the edge of the desk, condensation barely visible in the low light.
You get up, stretch, and walk over to grab it. Your body aches — not painfully, just in a way that reminds you how completely you’d given yourself to him tonight.
When you turn back around, Zayne’s watching you.
He schools his expression before you can read it.
You hand him the bottle. “Drink.”
He takes it. Doesn’t argue.
You settle back beside him, this time curled into his side. He tucks the blanket around both of you, like a habit.
“Can I ask you something?”
Zayne looks down. “Yeah.”
You study him for a moment before you speak. “What are we doing?”
He tenses, just slightly. Like a flinch he couldn’t suppress.
“You mean… this?” he asks.
He thinks too long before answering.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I don’t want it to stop.”
You lie there, staring at the ceiling. You want to ask more. But the moment is too fragile.
And he looks like he’s already retreating behind his eyes again.
You doze for a bit, drifting in and out of sleep. Your head on his chest. His hand in your hair. The quiet between you stretches again — not awkward, but loaded.
You dream of something cold. A white hallway. A pulse in your chest you can’t place.
You wake to Zayne kissing your shoulder.
You nod, still half-asleep. “Bad dream. Nothing specific.”
He studies you, then pulls you closer.
“You need rest,” he says.
At some point, you sit up to redress. Your body still hums from him — not just physically, but deeper. Like something inside you is still tuned to his frequency.
You glance over and find him pulling something from a drawer — a folded blanket, maybe, or a spare shirt. He tucks it away quickly when he realizes you’re watching.
You raise an eyebrow. “Zayne.”
He meets your gaze, dead serious. “It’s not important.”
There’s a moment — so brief it barely registers — where you feel something in your stomach twist. A flicker of distance. A door he’s keeping closed.
He walks you back to your apartment, shoulder brushing yours the whole way. The corridors are quiet, citylight filtering in soft through the high windows. Upstairs, somewhere, Xavier’s probably just getting in — you hear faint music thrum through the walls like a heartbeat.
Zayne stops outside your door. Doesn’t say anything at first.
You key in the lock, then pause. Glance back.
“You could come in,” you say. “Just to sleep.”
He hesitates. His hand lifts like he might — then drops again. “I’ve got work.”
You nod. Try not to let the quiet bite too deep.
He leans in, kisses you softly — lips barely brushing yours. It’s not just tired. It’s restrained. Like he’s holding something back.
When he turns to leave, you watch him go.
The city feels colder without him.
Something’s off. You can feel it now.
You just don’t know what.
You’re running late — not late to anything important, just late to your own rhythm. Your bag’s half-packed, the apartment still warm with the scent of rehydrated coffee and sleep. Zayne had stayed over last night. Left before you woke.
There’s a hair tie missing again.
You don’t panic — not really — but something about it nags at you. You swear it was on the edge of the counter. Maybe it rolled. Maybe it fell. You check the floor, the bathroom sink, the blanket on the couch. Nothing.
The last place you remember using it was Zayne’s office.
You shouldn’t go back there without asking. Not because you can’t — you’ve been in and out of that space a hundred times — but because something about today feels different. Still, you go. Let yourself in. His office is quiet.
You leave the lights off.
Your hand skims the desk. Everything’s where it usually is — neatly organized chaos. Loose datapads. Old calibrator parts. A pair of surgical gloves crumpled beside a closed drawer.
You’ve never opened it. Not once. Not even during the months when you basically lived in this room.
But today — today it pulls at you.
You don’t plan to open it. You just... do.
The lock accepts your ID tag. Zayne must have left access open.
Inside: files. Not digital ones. Actual paper. Rare. Expensive. Meant to avoid detection.
Your full name. Printed neatly on a tab clipped to the top of a file marked N109 – Patient Variant Registry.
You pull the file out slowly, breath shallow, fingertips numb. The papers are dense — filled with words you recognize only from high-level Ethercore documents. Neural reintegration, N109 compatibility thresholds, synthetic cognition scaffolding.
Your birth date is at the top. Your blood type. Your Ethercore implant serial number.
You flip the page. There’s a scan of a report — dated months before your first medical clearance. Notes about exposure timeline, unreported symptoms, and a list of recommended memory gaps to preserve compliance.
You dig deeper — hands shaking now — and find a photo. You. Hooked to equipment you’ve never seen before. Eyes closed. A medical strip over your heart. Tubes running from your spine.
The date on the photo is before you were ever told you needed treatment.
You drop the file. It hits the desk with a flat thump.
He knew what was done to you — before it happened. Maybe during. The signature on the clearance form isn’t just on a line. It’s next to a title: Observing Officer.
You stare at the words like they might blink away.
You grip the edge of the desk.
Your knees don’t give out, but it’s close.
The papers lie open in front of you, stained with the sweat from your hands. The fluorescent monitor casts a sterile blue hue across them — too calm for what you're reading. You scan again, slower this time, hoping it’ll make less sense the second time through.
The words are clinical. Cold. You read phrases like:
Subject showed high resilience to Ethercore integration under N109 stimulus.
Memory synchronization proceeded without significant rejection symptoms.
Emotional tethering increased compliance scores beyond projection.
The whole page blurs. Not from tears — not yet — but from that sickening weight in your gut, like gravity just turned inside out. Like your bones aren’t holding you up anymore.
You turn to the back of the file.
There’s a transcript. A conversation. Redacted lines cover most of it, but a few things are still legible.
[ZAYNE:] If she remembers the procedure, it’ll break her.
[UNKNOWN:] Then make sure she doesn’t.
[ZAYNE:] She trusts me. That’s why this worked. That’s the only reason it worked.
You slam the folder shut.
And for a moment, you just stand there. Breathing hard. Staring at the closed drawer, like it might swallow the evidence again if you blink.
You want to scream. You want to throw something. You want to run — but your feet are rooted to this spot, where everything you knew about him just shattered into something unrecognizable.
You think of his hands on your skin last night. His breath in your ear. His lips on your forehead, whispering you can trust me.
You think about the way he looked at you when you asked what scared him most. Losing something before I can fix it.
Was that it? Was this what he was trying to fix?
Or was he just keeping you in place long enough for the damage to set in?
You back away from the desk slowly. Careful not to touch anything else. Careful not to leave proof that you were here — like you’re the one hiding something now.
Like you did something wrong.
You make it out of the office without collapsing. But just barely.
When the door hisses closed behind you, your legs finally shake.
Not long. Just long enough to make sure you won’t scream the second you see him.
Zayne doesn’t come by your apartment like he usually does. Doesn’t check in. Doesn’t message. Maybe he knows. Maybe he felt the shift.
You just sit on the couch, that same spot where he touched you last, and watch the wall like it might peel open and give you a better answer.
He starts with your name — soft, cautious, like he’s already trying to manage you.
You cut him off. “Close the door.”
He hesitates. Then steps in and lets it slide shut behind him. The air seals around you both.
The file is already on the table. Closed, but obvious. A choice.
Zayne sees it. His shoulders lock.
Your voice is rough. “So it’s true.”
“You knew what they were going to do to me.”
No apology. No deflection. Just a fact laid out like a body on the table.
You blink slowly, willing your heart to slow down.
“I thought you were on my side.”
“Were,” you echo. “Past tense.”
You walk past him, put the file in his hands. “You signed off. You let them open me up and install whatever this is inside me, and you never told me.”
“I made sure it was done right.”
“Because you cared?” you snap. “Or because you didn’t want your experiment to die?”
Zayne looks down at the file. Then closes it slowly and sets it on your table, like it’s something fragile.
“You were dying. There was no scenario where you survived with conventional methods. The Ethercore variant was the only viable solution.”
“You could have told me.”
He looks up, eyes cold, voice even. “And you would have said no.”
“I wasn’t willing to let you die for your pride.”
Your chest burns. “It wasn’t pride. It was mine. My body. My choice.”
Zayne nods once. Not apologizing. Just agreeing. “And I took it away.”
His words hang heavy in the air.
He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t move toward you. He’s always known how to weaponize silence.
You swallow hard. “What was I to you?”
His gaze finally breaks. Just for a second.
“Someone I couldn’t lose.”
You breathe in too sharply. The sting rises hard in your throat.
“That night,” you say, voice trembling now. “When you held me. When you said I could trust you—”
You laugh — short and shattered. “You rewrote my body. You helped them make decisions for me. You watched it happen. And then you laid in my bed and kissed me like it was nothing.”
“It was never nothing,” he says.
Your hands ball into fists. “Then why does it feel like it?”
Zayne takes a breath. You can see him wanting to reach for you — not physically, but in his way. His calculated fix-it voice. But he doesn’t use it.
Instead, quietly: “I did it because I thought I was saving you.”
You shake your head, slow. “You didn’t save me. You violated me.”
That word stops everything. Even him.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
“I need you to go,” you say finally.
Zayne blinks once. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t plead. Just nods.
At the door, he turns to face you. His voice is soft. Controlled.
“If I could do it again,” he says, “I’d find a way to keep you alive and tell you the truth.”
Then, lower: “But I’d still choose you living. Every time.”
The door closes behind him.
The silence fills the room like pressure in your ears.
The next time you see him, it's like looking through glass.
He’s at the far end of the lab, speaking to a junior researcher in clipped tones, scrolling through something on a datapad. His coat’s too crisp. His posture’s too straight. Every motion is precise.
You watch him like you’re watching someone else wear his skin.
He doesn’t look at you. Not once.
You walk past him to check the diagnostics readout like nothing’s wrong. Like you aren’t vibrating with a grief that has no name.
Silence. Efficiency. Ghosts in plain sight.
You keep expecting something to break — a conversation, a look, anything — but it never comes.
You see him in briefings, in hallways, in the edge of your vision when you're not even trying to find him. His presence is a weight your body still registers, even when your brain tells it not to.
At night, you catch yourself reaching for him in sleep. Then pulling your own hand back like it's been burned.
The worst part is: no one else knows.
You’re still “you and Zayne” to the rest of them. Still the golden pair, the unshakable unit. The eye of the storm. Even Xavier doesn’t pick up on it — or if he does, he says nothing. He just narrows his eyes sometimes when you’re too quiet in the breakroom.
You go home to your apartment and sit in the silence like it’s a punishment.
Sometimes, in the dark, you wonder what would happen if you confronted him again.
Not with anger — that’s long gone now — but with the ache of it. The absence.
But you know what he’d say.
And somehow, that hurts more than if he’d begged for forgiveness.
You get a package two weeks in.
No name on the sender line.
Inside: the fraying hair tie. The one that went missing. Clean. Pressed flat.
You stare at it for a long time.
Zayne passes you in the corridor three days later.
His expression is unreadable. Not cold — never cold — just distant. Like he’s already given you everything he could and has nothing left.
But for a second — half a second — it feels like the whole station’s gravity pulls just a little harder. Like the air thickens. Like whatever was between you is still alive, buried under the wreckage.
Yes. We're going to make it hurt in a quiet, spiraling way — the kind of breaking point that doesn't explode outward, but collapses inward like a dying star.
It starts with a missed appointment.
A neural sync scan, one of your routine post-implant checks. Nothing major. Just a timestamp and a signature. You ignore the first reminder ping.
By the third, you’re not ignoring it anymore — you’re just frozen in your chair, staring at the blinking alert while your coffee goes cold in your hands.
Not sick. Not hurt. Just wrong.
Like your skin doesn’t quite fit. Like your body is running, moving, thinking — but not from you.
More like a machine humming in the background. Self-sustaining. Self-correcting. Like you’re watching someone else drive you from the back seat.
You think about the file.
About how they called it a “compliance scaffold.”
How your nervous system was retuned for survivability.
How your memory thresholds were adjusted to accept Zayne without resistance.
But you’re not alive, either.
Like a system with all the lights on and no one home.
You start working longer hours.
Not out of ambition. Not out of duty.
Just to stay ahead of the thoughts.
You sit at your station long after the others have gone home, hands still typing, eyes still locked to the screen, even when you haven’t read a word in ten minutes.
You push past your own limits until your body buzzes with low-grade exhaustion and your head spins when you stand.
Once, you work 36 hours straight before collapsing in the chair beside the Ethercore console and sleeping through a fire drill.
Just drapes his jacket over you and walks away.
Food becomes optional. Sleep becomes inconsistent. You stop taking your supplements. Stop logging your vitals. You ignore the fact that your pupils don’t dilate evenly anymore. That your hands twitch at night. That your dreams don’t feel like dreams anymore — more like corrupted data loops.
Because how do you even explain it?
“I found out that my body was rebuilt without my consent, and that the person I trusted most orchestrated it.
I am breathing. I am functioning. But I am not whole. I am not mine.”
You run like a car filled with the wrong kind of fuel.
But burning out in ways no one can see.
The end doesn’t arrive like a scream.
It arrives like a breath you didn’t know would be your last.
At first, it’s a missed check-in.
Your room is empty. Not cleaned out, not packed, not erased — just stopped. The blanket is still half-off the bed. There’s a coffee mug on the counter, dried at the edges. Your boots are by the door.
The data logs show no emergency recall. No travel file. No departure authorization.
Like a skipped frame in a video.
Like you were never there at all.
Zayne doesn’t react at first.
He keeps working. Keeps moving. Keeps breathing.
But the days stretch long now. His notes get shorter. His sleep gets worse. He reruns the surveillance logs on a loop — not to find you, but to feel you. Just for seconds. Just to remember your presence in a hallway, the sound of your laugh in the lab, the way you used to speak his name when no one else was around.
He rewatches the same thirty-seven seconds of you tucking your hair behind your ear on loop one night until the screen burns out.
Eventually, someone asks him directly.
He looks at them like they asked if the sky is broken.
Then adds, “But if she is… I did it.”
The one that started everything.
He doesn’t lock it away or delete it. He keeps it open on his desk, page corners soft from the constant flick of his fingers.
He rewrites the last line of the transcript by hand.
And that’s why it broke her.
Sometimes, in the dead hours of nightshift, he thinks he sees you.
In a hallway. In a reflection. In a voice two rooms away.
You haven’t been for a long time.
Maybe not even before you disappeared.
Maybe the moment they changed you — rewrote your body, bent your thoughts to survive — maybe that was the real disappearance.
Maybe you were gone long before he noticed.
And maybe he’s the only one who still remembers what you used to be.
There’s no body. No proof. No confirmed outcome.
Maybe you died. Maybe the Ethercore rejected.
Maybe you ran. Maybe the implant buried you under someone else’s mind.
Maybe you’re still alive — somewhere.
All Zayne knows is: he can’t fix it.
He thought hiding the truth would save you.
And now he’s left with the silence.
Note: While proofreading this I realized this is more of a transcript than a fanfic
But if you like this writing style more I'll continue it.