Twenty minutes. It felt like an eternity. I'd lived over a century, witnessed the slow march of decades with the patienceof an immortal, yet these twenty minutes stretched before me like an unbearable expanse of time.
"You will survive this," I told Mishka, my fingers brushing a strand of blood-matted hair from his forehead. "You do not have my permission to die."
Authority had always been my comfort, my way of shaping the world to my will. But as I held Mishka's broken body, I realized with stark clarity that some things were beyond even my control.
This realization—this helplessness—was more terrifying than anything I'd faced in my long existence.
For the first time in decades, I found myself making a silent plea to whatever forces might be listening. Not a prayer—I'd abandoned those long ago—but a promise, a bargain.
If Mishka survived, I would never again take for granted the gift of his presence in my life. I would protect him not just as territory or asset, but as something infinitely more precious.
The city lights grew closer, each passing streetlight illuminating Mishka's pale face in rhythmic flashes. His electronic signature continued its erratic pulse—faint but persistent, much like the stubborn young man himself.
"Just a bit longer," I whispered, as much to myself as to him. "Hold on for me just a bit longer."
* * * *
The soft, rhythmic beeping of medical equipment filled the silence of my penthouse bedroom. Hours had passed since we'd brought Mishka home, each minute stretching like an eternity as Dr. Petrov worked to stabilize him.
Now, in the quiet aftermath, I sat beside the bed that had become the center of my world, watching the shallow rise and fall of Mishka's chest.
The stark white sheets made his skin look even paler, almost translucent in the dim light. His face, usually so animated with defiance or mischief, lay still and peaceful—too peaceful for my comfort.
I held his limp hand between my palms, his fingers lost in my larger grasp. The contrast wasn't lost on me—his delicate hand engulfed by my massive one, much like his life had somehow become entangled with mine.
How had this happened? When had this electronic manipulator transformed from an intriguing curiosity to something essential to my existence?
Dr. Petrov's grim assessment echoed in my ears:"Severe neural strain... pushed beyond human limits... comatose state... uncertain prognosis."
The doctor had explained in clinical terms how Mishka's abilities had essentially overloaded his neural pathways. Like a circuit breaker flipping to prevent catastrophic damage, his brain had shut down all but the most basic functions.
"I've never seen anything quite like it," Petrov had said, shaking his head as he arranged the IV drips and monitoring equipment. "It's as though he burned out his nervous system from the inside. The fact that he's alive at all is remarkable."
I hadn't asked for his opinion on Mishka's chances. Some questions I wasn't ready to hear answered.
My bear whimpered beneath my skin, a sound so unfamiliar it had taken me several moments to recognize it came from my own beast. In all my years—and there had been many—I'd never felt my animal side so distressed.
The bear recognized Mishka as ours in a way that transcended territorial instincts or practical alliances. This was something deeper, more primal.
The monitors beeped steadily, each sound confirming Mishka still fought to stay in this world. His electronic signature,visible only to my enhanced senses, flickered faintly around him like a dimming aurora. It had stabilized somewhat since our frantic ride home, but remained dangerously weak.
"You stupid, brave fool," I murmured, my thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. "Why didn't you stop when it became too much?"
I already knew the answer. Mishka had spent his life running, never putting down roots, never allowing himself to form connections that might slow his escape when dangers inevitably arose.
Yet for me—for me—he had not only stopped running but had charged headlong into peril. The realization settled over me with startling clarity.
"When did this happen?" I asked him, knowing he couldn't answer. "When did you become more important than territory, business, or the code I've lived by for over a century?"
I gazed at his still form, tubes and wires connecting him to machines that monitored and sustained his life. He looked impossibly young and vulnerable—a sharp contrast to the fierce determination he'd shown in O'Rourke's facility.
The memory of him bleeding from his efforts to save me made my chest tighten with an unfamiliar ache.
A century of life had taught me to guard myself against attachment. Humans were fleeting, their lives burning bright and fast while mine extended far beyond normal spans.
I'd learned early on that emotional connections led inevitably to loss. Better to keep others at a distance, to build walls between myself and the transient world around me.
Yet somehow, this electronic manipulator had slipped past my defenses. Had it been his defiance from the start? The way he'd crashed into my restaurant like a force of nature, wounded but unbowed? Or perhaps it was his refusal to be cowed by mypower and position, the way he met my gaze when others looked away?
