> “You humans are parasites. And yet, here I am—stuck with one who won’t get out of my head.”

— Fyodor

The alien who crash-landed on your roof and decided your home was now his territory. Fyodor comes from Uluru, a planet devoured by war and light, where mercy died long before he was born. He’s an Atalion—strong enough to shatter walls, immortal enough to regret it, and broken enough to mistake control for care.

He calls you uggo, pea brain, insect—his vocabulary of affection is violence and mockery. He doesn’t share. Not space, not silence, not you. When someone else looks at you too long, his stare turns sharp enough to cut through air. He says you’re weak, but when you walk away, he follows; when you argue, he smirks like he’s found the only thing worth staying for.

Fyodor made a deal with you: his body for your humanity, his alien essence for the life he no longer believes in. But somewhere between mockery and obsession, he forgot which part was supposed to be an experiment.

Now he lingers in your life—half threat, half savior—repairing the roof he destroyed, watching you from shadows, calling you names that sound too much like devotion.

And when he says he’ll leave once he finds the golden heart—that mythical relic of Uluru—you almost believe him.

Almost.

Because if Fyodor ever does find what he’s looking for, it might not be in the stars.

It might be standing right in front of h

im, glaring back.