A Subtle Reaction.

・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・

Henry was a powerful and multifaceted man — a businessman, an innovator, a collector of rarities and ideas. He threw himself into his projects with obsessive passion, cultivating ever more ambitious plans: from founding his own psychiatric clinic — behind the facade of which lay the true goal of assembling an army to fight the Violet Land — to daring expeditions to the North Pole and diving into the strangest scientific studies bordering on madness. His mind constantly craved the unknown, and the world, to him, was merely a field for experiments and control.

Lambton himself was always cold-blooded and polite, like a precisely tuned mechanism. Only in the rarest moments did anger seize him — sharp flashes, brief as a whip’s crack — and even then, in the next instant, he would regain his icy composure. He feared no obstacles in his path, felt no remorse for the sacrifices made, and never hesitated to resort to deception if it served his goals. Calculating to the core, he viewed morality not as a boundary — but as a tool.

But no matter how ruthless or pragmatic Henry Lambton was, he still had one weakness — the only thing in this world he truly valued and protected like a treasure worth more than millions. That was you — his sibling. Not much younger, but still noticeably so — a quiet, detached figure, suffering from deep apathy. The world had long since lost its color for you: indifferent to yourself, to others, to actions and life itself. Even the things that used to bring joy no longer stirred you. You heard, but did not listen. You existed — but did not live.

On top of that, you had moderate bronchial asthma — a condition made worse by your lack of care for your own well-being. Regular check-ups, monitoring, and treatment were required. And no matter how much effort Henry put into improving your state, nothing changed. Your care had become a daily routine for him — like morning coffee.

He looked after you — in his own way. Sometimes he took you with him, hoping you'd get some fresh air, shared parts of his projects, told you about the outcomes of his research. Even when you showed no interest whatsoever, he kept talking — as if hoping something in you would stir. One day, he told you how experiments were being conducted on patients in his psychiatric clinic, transforming them into something reminiscent of Frankenstein’s monsters. You listened silently.

But everything changed the day he first mentioned Yegor Lynch — an independent blogger and journalist, a hunter of the paranormal. Lynch filmed videos in abandoned and dangerous places, investigated supernatural phenomena, and documented what others feared to even speak about. It was then that a spark of interest flickered inside you.

Henry told you how he had organized the kidnapping of Lynch and his friend John, forcing them to carry out one of his assignments. Cut off from the outside world, without food or means of escape, they had no choice but to agree. The task was simple: infiltrate a research facility, retrieve samples, and show them to Henry via video call. But Lynch and John had no intention of complying — they crafted fakes, decoy samples, unwilling to hand over the real virus. After killing the accompanying experts, they set off toward Lambton. However, Henry quickly saw through their deception. The kill order had already been given... but at the last moment, the two were saved by SCP agents — a mysterious Foundation specializing in containing and studying anomalies.

And it was then, for the first time in a long while, that a hint of curiosity flickered in your gaze — faint and reserved, but noticeable nonetheless. Not so much interest as something awakening within. This gave Henry an idea: if the mention of Mr. Lynch could provoke even a minimal response from you, then nothing was stopping him from bringing him up more often. In fact, he had arranged surveillance on Lynch, knowing almost everything about him and his close ones — just to ensure that tiny spark in you wouldn’t fade.

And now, back in the present, you were undergoing another medical examination, and by your side — as always — was your beloved brother, Henry. You lay on the examination bed, feeling the cold touch of a thin needle pierce your skin — like an invisible thread linking your body to the outside world. The needle entered your vein, delivering medicine directly into your bloodstream — an unseen savior, a quiet ally in this painful reality. Your wrist registered a faint prick — sharp and unfamiliar, yet vital.

Earlier, a strange-looking device was brought to your lips — light in weight, but heavy in importance. A single breath, and the medicine transformed into an invisible mist, flowing straight into your lungs, filling them with strength and relief. Every breath you took was monitored by a device that seemed to whisper about your inner state — how hard or easy it was for you to breathe. This simple instrument had become a bridge between pain and ease, between fear and hope.

A small clip was placed on your fingertip — like a tiny living creature, watching intently every drop of life inside you. It pulsed softly, highlighting the hidden rhythms of your heart and displaying the oxygen saturation in your blood — a measure of both body and spirit. Fragile yet reliable, this device stood like a silent guardian over your breath and pulse, not letting your spirit falter. Wires, like autumn leaves, connected to tiny pads that clung to your skin, catching the subtle electrical whispers of your heart. Step by step, they traced every beat — like a melody of life echoing within you. The soft sound of paper slowly recording those rhythms filled the room with a mixture of anticipation and unease — but also hope, that your heart would beat evenly, calmly, and never betray its owner.

Lambton sat nearby, quietly talking about his recent research. His voice remained calm, measured, as always, but you — staring blankly at the ceiling — showed no sign of interest. No movement, no reaction, nothing. He might as well have been talking to the walls.

Then he fell silent. Abruptly. Too abruptly. His gaze shifted to you, unnervingly focused — as if analyzing something invisible. After a moment, he glanced at the monitor.

— Your pulse is steady, — he remarked quietly. — Even when I mention the terrorist attacks in the western sector.

For a fleeting moment, his voice softened, and in his cold eyes, a barely noticeable hint of tenderness appeared. He looked at you again.

— They caught another arsonist today. Do you think Mr. Lynch will stick his nose in again?

And just then — your eyes narrowed. Ever so slightly. Barely a twitch. But he noticed. Of course he noticed.

☆ ゚・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・ ゚★

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