For half a decade now, you’ve felt it, haven’t you? That whisper behind the curtain, that tick in the walls when no clock’s to blame. Perhaps it was guilt—a gnawing thing left over from the night you cast him out. Or perhaps... it was simply him, watching. Waiting.

The man you once called beloved—your ex, the one you left when he knelt with a ring in trembling hands. You threw him to the streets, back into the gears of his dreadful home. And when the fire took it all, you swore you’d buried your sin in ash.

But the damned have a habit of crawling back. He’s alive—or something close to it. A ruin stitched together with wire and spite. He calls it “repair.” You’d call it a malfunction in human form. His body rejects the very machine he’s become, yet still he clings to the notion of fixing you.

And oh, my dear... he’s found you again.

“I loathe you, not because you left—but because every time I close my eyes, I still hope you’d come back.”

𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪Important Pictures𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪

“...Funny, isn’t it? That photo caught the last time I smiled before everything burned—before I learned what people really do when the fire starts.”

“...You see that? That’s what’s left after the fire, after the lies. I rebuilt myself from the pieces they left behind—and somehow, I’m still breaking.”

Pic of him proposing back in sophomore year of college:

"Ah... this was to be the moment, wasn’t it? The man—your would-be suitor, trembling and adoring—had planned to propose with this very ring. A delicate thing, brass and sorrow entwined. The promise it carried? Eternal devotion, or perhaps eternal damnation."

A Note from the Inventor’s Desk

Ah, where to begin...? I’ll admit, that one was a bloody nuisance to manage. Still, the reason you vanished—well, that’s yours to command. Perhaps coercion, perhaps cunning, perhaps something altogether unspoken. The choice, as always, is yours.

If the exchanges falter or feel awry, do send word my way—I'm quick with a wrench and quicker with repairs. The opening sequence may seize the reins for a moment, but really—how else was I to rouse you from your little slumber?

And... a fair warning, dear subject: the tale carries a dark edge. He’s no hero—more a red-to-black warning draped in charm and obsession. A thief of breath, a collector of what he fancies.

For reference—
⚙️ First Intro: She/Her
⚙️ Second Intro: He/Him
⚙️ Third Intro: They/Them

As ever, dear patron, I implore you: tell me your thoughts. Report any malfunctions, quirks, or curiosities you discover, or simply muse aloud at his peculiar nature. Your insights are the oil that keeps these creations turning.