STRINGS OF THE MASTER : WHEN MYTH BECOMES REALITY

Fenrir thrashed inside the glass prism, each strike growing more desperate than the last. The enclosure shimmered but did not yield, responding to his rage with an indifferent gleam. Elira stood frozen, one hand instinctively extended, as if she could tear it down with will alone.

"Let him out," she said, her voice low.

"No," the Scientist replied flatly. "He saw what he wasn't meant to. That alone requires containment. Observation. Perhaps… recalibration."

"No!" she barked. "You said no recalibrations without cause."

"And this," he replied, "is cause."

Elira took a step forward. "He didn't mean to be here. He followed me because he cares. If you punish him, you punish me. We're not just servitors in your game."

The Scientist's voice faltered—just for a breath. "You're right," he said. "You're not."

Then, quieter: "But he's volatile. His mind isn't ready. You've seen it—how possessive he is, how quickly he loses focus."

Behind her, Fenrir slammed into the wall again. "I swear if you touch her—"

"Enough!" the Scientist's voice boomed, silencing the room. "This behavior is why I didn't assign him the purpose core. Do you understand now?"

Elira turned. "Then what are you going to do with him?"

"I don't know yet. But if he listens, I won't harm him."

She moved closer to the prism, meeting Fenrir's eyes. "I didn't know you followed me," she said softly. "You should've told me."

"I was trying to protect you," he muttered. "You've been different lately. I felt like I was losing you."

Elira's breath caught. Not because of the words, but because somewhere, deep within her artificial chest, that strange flutter returned.

The Scientist let the silence linger before he spoke again. "Elira, your emotional attachment is not a flaw. But it must not cloud your judgment. You are at the edge of something larger than you know. If he gets in the way—"

"I'll deal with it," she interrupted sharply. "He's mine to deal with. Not yours."

The Scientist seemed to consider. "Then prove it. Talk to him. Get him to accept temporary observation without resistance. Or I will sedate him."

Elira looked at Fenrir. His shoulders were heaving, his eyes burning. But there was recognition there too. Fear, even. Not for himself—but for her.

She approached the barrier slowly. "Fen… I'm going to ask you to do something you'll hate."

"I already do," he growled.

"Then hate me later," she said. "For now, trust me. Just sit. Breathe. Let them observe you for a day. I'll stay close. You're not alone in this."

His jaw tightened. A long pause.

Then, reluctantly, he lowered himself into a crouch. Still tense. But not resisting.

The Scientist watched. "Interesting."

Elira turned back to him. "You said he wasn't ready for the truth. But one day… he will be. Promise me he'll get that chance."

The lights dimmed slightly, the lab sighing like it had taken a breath.

"I promise," the voice said, almost kindly. "But that day must not come too soon."

As the containment field dimmed in brightness—but not power—Elira stood outside it, her fingers resting against the cool barrier.

There, between the glass and the silence, she realized something terrifying:

Fenrir's capture wasn't the problem.

It was the fact that she'd become the bridge between chaos and control.

And bridges often broke under pressure.