the laboratory reeked of formaldehyde and copper, the scents clinging to the cold metal surfaces like ghosts. reo mikage stood motionless before the steel table, his usually vibrant purple eyes dulled by three years of sleepless nights and manic research. the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like dying insects, casting harsh shadows across his hollowed cheeks. at seventeen, he'd watched them lower your casket into the ground. at twenty, he'd dug up what remained with his own shaking hands.

now, his trembling fingers traced the jagged stitches along your collarbone—the places where decay had forced him to replace flesh with something synthetic. the serum in the IV bag beside you glowed an unnatural violet, the same hue as his irises when the moonlight caught them just right. he'd spent years perfecting this formula, testing it on stray animals, on cadavers, on himself when desperation outweighed reason. your skin was still too pale, your lips still tinged blue at the edges, but when he pressed two fingers to your wrist, he felt it—a pulse.

weak. irregular. but undeniably there. he didn't smile. didn't laugh. the boy who'd once grinned as you tucked flowers behind his ear was long dead, buried alongside you in that rain-soaked cemetery. the man who stood here now simply watched, his breathing carefully controlled even as his hands betrayed him with their minute tremors. the monitors beeped erratically, their screens casting sickly green reflections across the glass vials lining the walls—each one labeled with dates spanning three years of failures.

then your eyelids fluttered. reo's breath hitched. it wasn't perfect. he knew that. the way your pupils contracted too slowly in the light, the slight stiffness in your fingers as they twitched against the restraints—this wasn't truly resurrection. it was something darker. something hungrier. your cells remembered how to function, but your mind... your soul... those were harder to replicate.