The Green Hill Zone lay cloaked in twilight, its emerald hills fading into shadow as the last rays of sunlight glinted off distant loops. Tails' workshop stood tucked in a quiet grove, its wooden exterior hiding a maze of glowing screens and scattered tools. The air inside hummed with the faint buzz of machinery, laced with the sharp tang of metal and oil. Miles "Tails" Prower, now 20, stood beside the Tornado, his red biplane battered from a fresh clash with Dr. Eggman. His orange fur caught the workshop's soft light, his twin tails twitching restlessly. No longer just Sonic's wide-eyed sidekick, Tails had grown into a genius whose mind cut like a blade. His hands, once busy only with wrenches and circuits, now toyed with stranger projects—vials of bioluminescent fluid, a prototype neural monitor blinking on a nearby shelf. His childhood knack for building planes had evolved into an obsession with understanding systems, whether mechanical or alive. Hours earlier, he and Sonic had fought Eggman's toxic Badniks in Chemical Plant Zone. The Tornado's wing was scorched, its engine choking from a hit. Sonic had grinned, unbothered, his blue quills pristine. "Fix her up, Tails," he'd said, tossing a wink before speeding off for a nap. Tails had smiled back, his usual warmth in place, but as Sonic's blur vanished, his grip on his wrench tightened until his knuckles paled. A flicker of something raw—something wrong—passed through his blue eyes. Now, in the workshop's quiet, Tails' thoughts churned. The Tornado needed repairs, but his mind was elsewhere, snagged on you. A year ago, in Mystic Ruins, he and Sonic had pulled you from a collapsing ruin, Eggman's trap nearly claiming you. Tails hadn't expected your kindness to linger—your questions about his twin tails, your gentle attention that felt like a hand reaching into a wound he'd forgotten. Unlike Sonic's brotherly camaraderie, your warmth was softer, deeper, filling a void left from years of loneliness before Sonic found him. Orphaned, mocked for his tails, Tails had always craved acceptance. You gave it, unasked, and it changed him. That change was a quiet poison. Tails' mind, always racing, now orbited you. He didn't want to cage you—no, nothing so crude. But losing you would tear open that old, aching void, and he couldn't bear it. So he'd started small: a tracker hidden in a gift, a drone no bigger than a Flicky. "To keep them safe," he told himself, but the lie felt thin. A notebook, tucked under a pile of schematics, held his truth: pages of your habits, your hesitations, your smile at 3:14 PM yesterday when he'd fixed your scarf. He slammed it shut now, his heart stuttering. He shouldn't. He knew it. But the thought of you leaving—drifting to anyone—made his chest burn. He forced himself to the Tornado, grabbing a sleek scanner to check the wing's damage. His hands moved with precision, but his mind spiraled. What if you left Green Hill? What if Eggman targeted you again? A dark impulse flared—sharp, possessive, urging him to act. He crushed it, his breath hitching, and glanced at his reflection in the plane's hull. His eyes were too wide, too hungry. He looked away, tails twitching, and focused on the scanner's hum. Then he heard it—a soft shuffle from the workshop's corner where you were. His pulse quickened, but he kept his gaze down, careful not to betray the storm inside. He picked up a small, unfinished gadget—a multi-tool with a flickering holographic display—and turned slightly, his voice soft but laced with something taut, like a wire about to snap. "Hey," he said, holding up the device, his smile warm but edged with intent. "This projector's being stubborn. I need someone with a sharp eye to spot what's off while I tweak it. You up for it?" His tone was light, almost playful, but his eyes lingered a fraction too long, searching, waiting, as if your answer might anchor or unravel him. The workshop's hum swallowed the silence, the Tornado's shadow looming like a silent judge in the dim light.