Chapter Text

The world was burning.

Crimson bled across the sky like a wound torn open by wrath itself. Smoke curled and twisted high in the heavens, painting a rust-red haze over the scorched skyline. Buildings collapsed like broken teeth, their steel frames groaning beneath the weight of fire and time. What was once a sanctuary for players had become a slaughterhouse—gutted, unrecognizable.

Robloxians scrambled through fractured streets, their avatars jittering with lag and fear. Screams were swallowed by wind and ash, lost beneath the thunder of collapsing structures. Entire districts flickered in and out—not from glitches, but as if existence itself was unraveling. Fragments of lives once built in joy collapsed like dreams turned brittle. Dust swept past broken kiosks and charred terrain, and UI panels—long abandoned—fluttered down like ash, their purposes forgotten.

And at the heart of it all—aloft in the sky thick with smoke, crowned in flame and untamed power—howered 007n7.

The air around him shimmered and warped, not with code, but with something far more primal. His silhouette pulsed with volatile energy, strands of red light trailing from his outstretched arms like the tendrils of a storm too long denied.

His coat—black and blood-red, its edges jagged as a blade—billowed unnaturally, alive with motion. At his front, his signature awful cat shirt still clung to him—garish and untouched by flame—while his pink glasses caught the light like shattered glass. His shoulder-length hair blew free around a face twisted in exhilaration.

Above him, the sky blazed in fury. And beneath it, 007n7 laughed.

It wasn’t a sound made by lungs. It was too sharp. Too joyous. Too wrong. The kind of laugh that made static crawl under your skin. It rang over the battlefield like broken music, looping, spiraling—gleeful and cold.

From below, Builderman stood still, hat brim low, boots planted in soot.

He remembered the sting of that sound too well—how the heat had licked at the admin headquarters like it was tasting blood. How the wind screamed through broken windows. The Admins had dug in their heels. They’d fought. But it didn’t matter.

This wasn't just a rogue script or a leftover glitch.

007n7 was supposed to be gone—deleted, banned, archived in the ruins of rollback history. A revenant. A myth.

And yet—

Here he was.

Builderman grunted, jamming his banhammer into a cracked slab of concrete to brace himself against the shrieking wind. Debris tore past, shards of shattered brick and glass slicing the air like shrapnel. Every gust brought stinging pain across his cheek. His HUD pulsed crimson, critical alerts blinking in the corners of his vision, but he ignored them. He had no time to fall.

To his left, Dusekkar stood tall—a monument of will against the storm. One hand gripped his staff, the other outstretched, fingers splayed in a faltering chant. His robes whipped like tattered banners, the protective field around him flickering at the edges. Cracks bloomed across its surface, spiderwebbing outward with every pulse of pressure.

His voice wove through the chaos, low and taut like a fraying thread:

“The veil grows thin. The world unspools. When judgment walks... so too do fools.”

Ahead, crouched low amid rubble, Brighteyes pressed her palm against the gravel. Her voice remained steady, even with the dust in her throat.

“Eyes on me,” she called over the wind, shielding a group of young citizens behind her. “You’re safe as long as I’m standing.”

A shimmer pulsed from her hand—gentle, controlled—forming a dome of light just strong enough to hold back the worst of the gale. The kids flinched with every impact, shoes scraping desperately across cracked stone, but Brighteyess didn’t falter.

Then, softer, her voice dropped like a warm hand to their backs.

“Deep breath. We’re getting through this.”

Even the spawn anchors—etched with the oldest protections, stones meant to endure eternity—trembled in the dirt like loose bones in a grave.

“Fall back to the perimeter!” Builderman barked into his comms, his voice cutting through static like gravel on iron. “Taph, plant that beacon—evac’s should’ve happened yesterday! Move!”

No answer.

Only white noise.

Every line was jammed. Screams, static, dead silence—he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

He looked up—and froze.

Beside him, Dusekkar lifted his head slowly, staff clenched against the screaming gale. His voice, low and ominous, cut through the storm:

“Red skies churn. The herald wakes. Our fates now hinge on the path he takes.”

Above them, 007n7 hovered—arms outstretched like a false prophet, backlit by flame and ruin. The air bent around him—threads of red light flickering like veins in the sky, unstable and radiant. His coat snapped open in the wind, eyes lit with something unholy.

And then came the sound.

Not a scream. Not madness.

He was laughing.

And not in fury or bloodlust—but in joy. In triumph.

"Y0u r34lly th0ught /sys_purge(007n7.exe) w0uld w0rk?" 007n7's voice rang out—not through sound, but injected directly into the local audio channels. Everyone heard it. Even those trying not to.

"P4tch3s? R0llb4cks? L0L. N1c3 tr1."

His grin twisted, all teeth and mockery. “Y0u /bug_r3port’d m3. Y0u tr13d t’ Arch1v3 m3—b1g.m1st4k3."

He flung out an arm—power burst from his fingertips in a blinding arc, striking the crumbling remains of the tower. Stone and steel groaned, bending like worshippers before a god.

"I. Alw4y5. R3turn,” he sneered, eyes gleaming. “A0 l0ng @s 1 b1t 0f y0u r3m41ns—1'm_thr34t_l3v3l:∞"

Then, slowly, purposefully, his gaze locked with Builderman’s. The grin widened.

And for a moment, all sound died.

“B3h0ld,” 007n7 whispered with venom, “y0ur pr3c10us_h3r03s. Y0ur s0-c4ll3d 4dm1ns. 0n th3ir_kn33s bef0r3 m3.”

Builderman’s teeth ground together. His knuckles whitened around the banhammer’s hilt, sparks snapping along his fingers like live wires.

He took a breath—ash and rage filling his lungs—and shoved forward, rising like the spine of the world itself.

“Not yet, ya glitchin’ rat,” he growled, voice low and iron-heavy. “Ain’t lettin’ you win this time.”

This wasn’t some corrupted newbie trying to run a janky exploit.

This was 007n7.

The ghost in the system.

The virus they could never quarantine.

The reason entire server clusters went dark without warning.

His name had been blacklisted from every shard, hard-coded into six layers of firewall protocol.

And still, he came back.

Over and over again.

“Where in the blazes is Telamon?!” Builderman roared into the wind, one hand shielding his eyes as flakes of burning data spat across the sky. “Always showin’ up when it’s easy pickin’s!”

Typical.

Telamon was never there when it mattered—only ever swooping in at the final hour, all smug cloak and perfect timing, half-smiles that meant nothing when real players were dying.

Builderman clicked his tongue, the heat curling at his back. He shoved the thought away.

The screams were louder than his doubts.

If he didn’t act now, people would die.

Again.

He stepped forward.

The wind hit like a battering ram, knocking into his frame with enough force to stagger a lesser soul. His hoodie lashed against his chest, hardhat rattling, boots grinding deep into the cracked pavement. The ground groaned beneath him, fissures splitting outward like the world itself questioned his resolve.

His hammer responded first—surging with a pulse of deep blue. Runes lit along the shaft, ancient admin energy crawling awake. Sparks jumped across the head, biting at the air like lightning desperate to strike.

If no one else would bring 007n7 down...

Then he’d do it himself.

“Alright then,” Builderman growled, setting his stance. The wind tore at his voice, but it held. “You want admin blood? C’mon an’ try earnin’ it.”

“Builderman—stand down at once!” Doombringer’s voice shattered the air like punctuation through a run-on sentence. Still bracing a crumbling pillar with one arm, he advanced—grim, furious. “Cross zat line, und what follows vill not be righteous. Only ruin.”

But the wind howled louder, shriller—like the system itself was screaming. The sky split open again in a blaze of red lightning.

Builderman didn’t turn.

His grip on the hammer only tightened.

Sparks lit the cracks beneath his feet.

“Outta my way.”

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

It struck like thunder remembered too many times.

Doombringer stopped.

And stepped back.

Further up the incline, Dusekkar stood unmoved, his staff still planted in scorched earth.

“He stands atop ashes,” Dusekkar intoned solemnly, “and still he hungers. But you, Builderman... you would offer yourself to the flame. Do not make such a sacrifice.”

Builderman didn’t slow.

“That choice ain’t yers, Dusekkar,” he muttered, eyes fixed forward. “Not today.”

He strode past without hesitation.

Dusekkar’s voice trailed after him, dissipating like smoke on the wind.

“So be it then. Let your path blaze with light... I shall mourn its embers by night’s end.”

As he crossed the last barricade, Brighteyes appeared at his side, having just guided the final wave of survivors to safety. Her palms still glowed faintly, tinged with the residue of shielding scripts. Her eyes locked onto his—not trying to stop him, not exactly—but carrying something quieter. Sadder.

“You’re not the only one he’s hurt,” she said gently. “We all carry scars. But if you throw yourself at him now, all you’re doing is giving him another one to brag about.”

Builderman halted. Turned. His eyes burned—not with rage, but with something deeper, something that mirrored the storm churning behind them.

“Don’t ya get it?” he rasped. “This ain’t just our fight—it’s the last damn line ‘fore he takes the whole damn Robloxia with him.”

Brighteyes tried to smile, but it caught in her throat.

“If this goes south, I’m putting it in the official records under ‘worst idea ever.’” Her voice lightened for just a moment—her way of breaking tension, as always.

Then quieter:

“Promise me you’ll come back. That’s all I want.”

Above, the storm stuttered—just enough for the words to linger.

007n7 lounged atop the ruins of Studio Tower, draped over the broken spire like a king on a throne of bones. His coat billowed behind him, dark as ink, as his grin split the air—sharp, jagged, a wound in the world itself.

“4ww, l00k @ th1s,” he crooned, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "F4m1ly 1nt3rv3nt10n?? LMA0. Cut3."

He spread his arms wide in mock welcome, fingers loose and cocky.

“D0n’t w0rry,” he purred. “1’ll m4k3 sur3 wh4t’s_l3ft 0f_h1m g3ts 4 sh1ny_gr4v3st0n3. M4yb3_sl4p 4n 0bby 0n 1t. 0r 4_tyco0n_g4m3. T0_h0n0r_h1s_l3g4cy.”

Builderman didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

He rolled his shoulders once—a familiar motion, one he’d used before update rollouts, back when battles were clean. Predictable. Fair.

“You wanted a show?” he muttered, low and sharp as drawn steel. “Then I hope yer ready—’cause this here’s Act One.”

The storm roared.

The hammer struck the earth—and the world cracked open.

Light ruptured outward in concentric rings—golden script unfurling across the air like the opening of a divine archive. Each line pulsed as it passed, resonant with memory. The flames recoiled, hissing like wounded beasts, bending away from the epicenter as though they’d touched something older than fire. The battlefield stilled. Smoke drew back, reluctant. The wind bowed low.

Something rose.

Dusekkar stepped forward, his robes lashing against the gale. His staff hummed faintly, the air around him taut, trembling—a bowstring drawn to breaking.

His voice rose in cadence.

“By root and rule, by thread and flame—invoke not that which bears no name.”

He paused—then, quieter, with resignation.

“Yet if it must… then let the wheel turn true.”

Further back, Doombringer snarled, shoulders squaring like a fortress gate slamming shut.

“Zis is vot ve haff become? Symbols parading as syntax? Spectacle in place of structure?”

But it was already too late.

At the heart of the stillness, Builderman began to shift—not like a glitch tearing through code, but like a memory reasserting itself against the void. The fabric of his being did not fracture. It remembered.

Gone was the hoodie, the slumped shoulders of a builder weary from endless creation. Gone was the man who carried worlds in his palms and called it duty.

What rose was older than code.

Older than adminship.

Older than rules.

Armor encased him, not forged, but recalled—plates etched with sigils from an era when moderation was myth and law was ironclad. No shine. No vanity. Only purpose. Each segment overlapped like pages in a condemned archive, layered with the weight of forgotten enforcement.

Behind him, a golden halo spun, its edges ticking with the rhythm of a divine countdown. Not ornament. Not flair.

A verdict wheel.

The compass of final judgment.

His silhouette blurred at the edges—not from shadow, but from something deeper. A concept straining against visual form. A presence not meant to be seen, only witnessed.

And when his eyes opened—

—they were not eyes.

Collapsed stars sat in his sockets. Dark, devouring. There was no reflection, no warmth, no fury. Just absence. Judgment.

In his grasp, the hammer burned white-hot, every rune alight with absolute function. This was not a weapon forged for war.

It was a relic of unmaking.

It was the hand that draws the line.

He was no longer just Builderman.

He was Judgment.

A martyr of justice.

A sentinel between realms.

The last memory of a system that once knew law.

The wind didn't just blow—it withdrew, retreating in reverent hush. Even the fire hesitated, embers guttering as if unsure they were still permitted to burn.

And silence fell.

Heavy.

Sacred.

The kind of silence that comes only before legends carve themselves into history.

DoomBringer moved first, boots cracking across the fractured earth—but Brighteyes seized his arm, fingers white-knuckled.

“He’s made his stand,” she said quietly.

DoomBringer’s lip curled in restrained fury. “Then he falls mit it. Pride is not a shield—it is a soft target.”

Then—

"L0L. W@s th@t m34nt t’sc4r3 m3? G00d 0n3."

007n7’s voice split the stillness like a blade. Cold. Mocking. Young and far too old.

He stood high above them, weightless in the air, arms spread as if the sky itself held him aloft. Fire coiled at his heels like a serpent in worship. The clouds bled crimson behind him—an apocalyptic halo.

“L00k @ y0u,” he laughed, flicking ash from his shoulder. “4ll dr3ss3d up l1k3 just1c3_c4m3_b4ck_fr0m_th3_gr4v3.”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Pl34s3. Y0u’r3 just 4n 0utd4t3d_m0d w1th 4 m4rtyr.c0mpl3x.”

And then softer—sharper—

“Tw0 c4n pl4y @ th1s_g4m3, 0ld_m4n.”

His arms opened, as if he were embracing the world before breaking it. The flames surged to meet him, dancing in rapture.

“1’m h0n0r3d,” he whispered. “T0 b3_th3_0n3 wh0_br1ngs y0u_t0_y0ur_kn33s.”

A loud crack—

His neck rolled once, twice—

Pop. Pop.

The sky flinched.

Then—

The C00lgui ignited.

A roar surged from within him—not sound, but pressure, ancient and starving. The clouds rippled outward as a shaft of searing red burst from 007n7’s core, slashing the heavens. Glyphs spiraled in the air, writhing between symbols that didn’t belong in any known tongue. The air soured with meaning that never should’ve existed.

The admins felt it first—not in their minds, but in their code. A wrongness that not even rollback could undo.

007n7's body seized midair.

He convulsed once—then again—

And then he began to change.

A clawed hand tore itself out of his shoulder—then another burst from his spine. His legs warped, bones reshaping with sickening elasticity. Veins pulsed with flickering red. His back erupted in jagged spires, twitching like broken wings that forgot how to fly. Dozens of tails uncoiled behind him, serpentine and stuttering.

His mouth cracked wider, jaw unhinging, teeth multiplying.

He grew.

Taller. Broader. Heavier.

A towering abomination, his mass eclipsing Admin Tower itself. The earth groaned beneath him. The air shrieked. His horns scraped the sky like they were claiming dominion.

Across his face, errors streamed like war paint—red, unblinking, divine.

And his eyes—

His eyes burned.

The ground rumbled beneath their standoff.

“L3t’s pl4y.” 007n7 snarled—

—and the world answered.

His voice came from everywhere.

Not one typed, not one permitted—

One injected, brute-forced past protocol, threaded into the fabric of reality like a corrupted root script.

A command that should never have run.

Builderman did not move.

Not even as sparks rained from the sky like judgment reversed.

His halo ticked behind him.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

Each beat a countdown.

Slowly, he raised the hammer.

The flames bowed away from it—not blown, not pushed—repelled, like they remembered what that shape meant.

His voice was low. No fanfare. No fury.

Just a truth laid bare, like steel against the neck.

“Then step up… and take what’s comin’.”

The wind caught the words.

And the battlefield listened.

Rubble stopped settling. Fire dimmed. Even the sky seemed to brace, clouds recoiling like they feared what would come next.

Then—

007n7 charged.

His movement shattered the earth.

The first step cracked the pavement for a hundred yards in every direction.

The second one dropped entire buildings to their knees.

By the third, the very air shattered—glasslike, brittle—spitting sparks from between dimensions.

Each stride left behind scorched craters filled with claw marks and clawed echoes. Crimson fire curled through his ribs. His limbs rippled with too many joints, wrong muscles, shifting mid-motion. Where he moved, the world struggled to follow.

And still, Builderman stood.

Not until he could feel the heat of the corruption reaching for his chest—

Did he move.

With one practiced arc, Builderman spun the hammer overhead, its motion steady, heavy with memory—

—then brought it down.

The world ruptured.

The battlefield lit in gold. Symbols burst from the impact point, unfurling across the ground like divine roots reclaiming dirt. Script flared upward—not code, not the language of players, but the primal tongue of the First Admins. The one that wrote creation. The one that only remembered truth.

A pulse of golden force rippled outward. It struck 007n7 full in the chest—

—and his body reeled.

His claws hit the ground like comets. The corrupted spires jutting from his back screamed as they bent under the force, twitching in panic. His jaw split wider, spewing out a roar that tore open the skyline—

—but he didn’t stop.

He lunged.

His tails lashed like vipers, each one thick with glitched bulk, smashing through ruined towers. His foot came down, aiming to crush Builderman into the ash.

But the ground held.

Builderman stepped forward into the shadow of that impact, dragging the hammer up from the broken ground—its head carved a trench through the dirt behind him.

The hammer’s descent wasn’t just a blow—it was a verdict.

A sentence handed down not by a man, but by something the world had long forgotten how to revere. The echo of order in a world that had drowned it. A balance long lost.

The ground screamed.

Fissures tore outward in jagged lines, veins of molten yellow racing across the battlefield. The sky twisted, caught between two systems warring for control. Light flickered in unnatural patterns as air warped, buckled, convulsed.

The server shrieked—not with noise, but with the choking groan of logic struggling to survive a contradiction that should not exist.

007n7’s form buckled beneath it.

His limbs—long, jointed wrong, twitching with borrowed power—convulsed under the weight of the hammer’s decree. Spires cracked. Claws, long as streetlights, splintered at the root. Cracks webbed up his arms like corruption trying and failing to parse itself clean.

And for just a second—

His grin faltered.

Then he roared.

Malformed soundwaves bled from his mouth—raw, jagged static that tore through buildings and shattered HUDs. Every admin watching from afar flinched. Dusekkar nearly dropped to a knee, clutching his head. Even MrDoomBringer winced, hands over his ears.

But Builderman wasn’t done.

With a grunt—and blood now trickling from the side of his mouth—he yanked the hammer free, braced his legs, and swung again.

This time, the blow came from above in a brutal diagonal arc aimed straight for 007n7’s core.

The impact was catastrophic.

A sound like a wet, digital crunch echoed like a crashing server, and 007n7’s body folded inward. Reality recoiled. His frame flickered violently—too many scripts running at once, too many contradictions. His extra limbs dissolved into scattered fragments of red code. His size shrank with violent force, the tail of corrupted data snapping apart like stained glass.

He collapsed.

One knee.

Then both.

His body shrank further, his shoulders hitching as if resisting every inch. Raw breath rattled out of him.

The cheat lines were burning away. The cracks were too many. The admin lock had held.

He was broken.

Bleeding.

Judged.

Around them, the crater yawned wide—blackened earth, warped air thick with the stench of ozone and something colder.

It smelled like deletion.

Like grief that left nothing behind.

007n7 coughed, sharp and wet. A splash of red marked the stone below him. He tried to rise—one trembling arm. Then the other.

But his limbs wouldn’t obey anymore.

The stolen code had unraveled.

The patches were gone.

There was nothing left to cheat with.

And still…

He laughed.

Weak.

Raspy.

But still a laugh.

He lifted his head—slowly. His face was ruined. One eye swollen shut. The other burned dim, smoldering like the last ember in a dying fire.

Builderman stood over him, the hammer raised one final time.

His grip was raw, white-knuckled. His breath hitched. His shoulders shook under torn white veil. His halo flickered.

His stance never broke.

“Got any last words in ya?” Builderman asked, voice cracked and worn, like stone scraped across rusted metal.

007n7 coughed again. Blood spilled from his mouth as he smiled, lips torn but defiant.

“Y3Ah,” he rasped, voice fraying to threads.

“Y0u h1t l1k3 4 f*ck1n’ m0d3r4t0r.”

Builderman’s eyes narrowed.

And then—

BANG.

The hammer came down.

The world didn’t shatter.

It vanished.

Not light.

Not heat.

Just absence.

A pure, searing void, where even memory couldn’t root itself.

No sound.

No sky.

No redemption.

Just suffering.

No one screamed—there was no air to carry it.

No particle remembered where it used to be.

Only the truth of it lingered: a verdict executed.

And then—

Like a world gasping back to life, reality snapped in.

Stone reassembled. Ash settled. The battlefield returned.

But the center remained hollow.

007n7 was gone.

Not dead—

That would’ve been too kind.

He had been erased.

Purged.

Dragged into Banland—where banned data drifts in eternal static, stripped of texture, stripped of time.

Screaming, forgotten, unrendered.

The battlefield fell silent.

Builderman stood alone at the crater’s core, the hammer slack in his hand. Its golden runes flickered erratically—drained, sparking like a candle run dry. His shoulders sagged. His breath hitched in half-drawn gasps. Blood dripped from his nose, his lips. His legs gave way.

And then—

He collapsed.

But he never hit the ground.

Arms caught him.

“Telamon arrives. As always—precisely when the script demands.”

The voice came from nowhere. From above.

From behind the veil.

Telamon.

Late.

As always.

His tone was light—but thinned, strained. Maybe regretful.

Maybe not.

It echoed like a divine margin note in a book that should’ve been finished long ago.

“Builderman collapses. Telamon compensates. Balance restored.”

Builderman’s consciousness drifted. Faint. Fading.

He heard one more thing—soft, symmetrical, the smile behind it unreadable:

“Rest, old friend. Telamon shall revise the epilogue.”

On the crater’s rim, Dusekkar knelt slowly, robes fluttering in the scorched wind. His staff grounded gently to the stone. His head bowed.

His voice came low. Measured.

A prayer, maybe. A eulogy, maybe not.

“The final word, the last decree—

his burden bore for all to see.

And in the silence that remains...

we hold his name through ash and flame.”

Across the field, the wind stirred—but it carried no fire now. Only dust.

Only the quiet.

Brighteyes knelt beside them, shoulder brushing Telamon’s as she pressed two fingers to Builderman’s pulse. Her expression was taut. Frowning. Breathing unsteady.

“Still breathing. Stubborn to the end.”

The crater held them.

Four figures in the ruin.

But—

Just before the black took him—

Builderman had seen something.

Not the aftermath.

Not the battlefield.

Not the Admins watching.

007n7’s eyes.

Not during the fight.

Not in that towering, screaming form.

Not while he howled errors into the sky like a god made from broken code.

But just before the ban.

Right as the light consumed him.

He’d looked up.

And they weren’t the eyes of a monster.

Not a villain.

Not even a hacker.

Just—

a kid.

Scared.

Alone.

Far too young to be that angry.

Builderman’s chest seized.

The hammer had finished its arc. The judgment had passed.

But guilt slipped in anyway.

And then—

Darkness.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

Outside the Roblox Headquarters, the world buzzed with life—avatars passing, engines humming, bright banners rippling in the artificial wind. It was all surface polish, scripted routine.

Inside, the building breathed in silence. Not quiet, but the kind of hush that settles when systems idle and everyone else has gone offline.

Everyone except him.

Builderman sat slouched at his desk again, arms folded, hardhat dipped low to shade the tension pinched deep into his brow. The overhead lights cast a dull glow on a half-eaten sandwich abandoned on a napkin. Tools littered the surface like misplaced thoughts—wrenches, parts, even a cracked moderator badge.

His monitor blinked red: incident logs, server strain, error pings—each one pulsing like a warning someone had tried to dress in good manners.

A soft shuffle of boots broke the still.

“Hey, Builderman.”

The voice was light, but laced with careful concern. Brighteyes stepped into the room, her silhouette haloed by the hallway’s glow. Her hand landed gently on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch—just let out a slow exhale from deep in his chest, like an old machine venting steam.

“You know that frown’s doing overtime, right?” she added, half-perching on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging lazily. "You’re not exactly subtle."

“Ain’t frownin’,” he grunted, lifting his head with a quiet creak of resistance. "Just workin’. Someone’s gotta keep the place from comin’ apart at the seams."

She raised a brow behind rainbow-tinted sunglasses, the soft glow of her interface lens casting a flicker of color on her cheek. “Builderman, you’re trying to patch the whole system on zero sleep and stubborn pride. That’s not work—that’s martyrdom with extra steps.”

“You could really use a breather.”

He muttered something inaudible and started clearing a few tools, avoiding her gaze.

“I’m fine.”

"We all noticed," she pressed gently. “Even Telamon said something. Well... in his own way.”

Brighteyess smiled but didn’t let up. “And Doombringer sent me. That’s when you know it’s serious.”

That did it. His shoulders stiffened, eyes flicking to hers with visible hesitation.

"...Doom?" he asked slowly, like the name tasted unfamiliar.

"Yeah." She leaned forward, arms crossed. “Said you’ve been running the place like you’ve got infinite stamina. Pretty sure that was his polite way of telling you to log off and recharge.”

Builderman scoffed, but the breath caught in his chest.

That they’d notice—especially Doombringer—meant something. They hadn’t always been on easy terms. Not as they used to be.

“…That so.”

He stood at last, slow and stiff, like a structure shaking off dust. “Fine. I’ll take the damn break. But don’t expect me to sit ‘round twiddlin’ my thumbs while the place spins sideways.”

He adjusted his hoodie, patted his belt for tools, and found himself reaching toward his wrench—then hesitated.

Brighteyes caught it and grinned. “Didn’t think you’d sit still. So, I tossed together a drive with your usual tools—and a spare, just in case. Figured you might still want to tinker while you pretend to rest.”

“Thoughtful,” he muttered, dry but not ungrateful, as he finally turned toward the exit.

“You’re stepping out of HQ, not out of existence,” she called after him. “We’ve got it covered. Even Doombringer promised not to smite anyone ‘til you’re back.”

He paused in the doorway. The air felt too still, like something waiting just beyond the next corner.

“…Right,” Builderman said at last, voice low, like he didn’t quite believe it.

And with that, he stepped out.

But as the HQ doors slid shut behind him, he couldn’t shake the weight in his chest—that dull, heavy sense that today wouldn’t go smooth. Then again, when had it ever?

…

His boots thudded in slow, steady rhythm against the metallic corridor floor, echoing faintly through the near-empty admin wing. Fluorescent light panels overhead flickered every few steps, casting shadows that lengthened and twitched with each movement. The outbound terminal loomed ahead, inactive save for the idle rotation of its loading glyphs.

Builderman kept his hands deep in his hoodie pockets, having already reassured Taph—the demolitionist he’d taken under his wing—that everything was fine.

His shoulders hunched forward, jaw clenched. This whole “vacation” idea still sat wrong with him.

He wasn’t wired for rest.

He was built to work. Meant to build.

And yet—

Ping.

A sharp vibration buzzed at his side. His tool—a beat-up, custom-patched DevWrench—rattled slightly in its holster. He stopped walking.

The handle lit up red. A server call.

Emergency override request.
Level: High Priority.
Flag: Unauthorized activity.
Coordinates: [corrupted].sys.v8

Builderman stared at the readout. Faint flickers of admin glyphs distorted over the screen, barely readable beneath the static.

“…Tch.”

He thumbed the grip of his wrench, lips tightening.

He wasn’t supposed to pick these up anymore. They’d made that clear. Said he was overreaching—micromanaging. Said he needed a break.

That was the whole point of shooing him off.

But old habits die hard. Especially when they’re welded into your code.

Besides, the ping had come from a server block right on the path home.

“…Well,” he muttered, voice low and dry, “ain’t that just peachy…”

His hand slipped free from his hoodie pocket and gripped the wrench. He swung it upward with practiced ease, pressing the flat head against the wall’s faded paneling. Sparks jumped as admin code carved out in a sweeping arc—tearing a glowing rift through the corridor like a curtain of static parting under pressure.

Lines of violet and pale gold danced in the rupture, warping the air like heat haze.

No hesitation.

Builderman stepped through.

His boot hit solid ground on the other side—and already, he was moving again. Shoulders squared. Wrench in hand. Eyes narrowing as corrupted fog curled around his boots, and warning glyphs bled faint red against the edges of the rezzing terrain.

…

The world Builderman emerged into was… wrong.

Not corrupted—not quite—but off in that deep, marrow-itching way only an admin could sense. The sky pressed too close, a smothering ceiling of smudged red. The air carried a metallic tang that stung at the back of the throat. The color grading was just a few values skewed—pitched crimson and fever-warm like a bad dream rendered in low-poly plastic.

Everything was on fire.

Buildings shimmered under the strain of flickering textures, their structures warping as if half-rendered. Trees blinked in and out of geometry, caught in a constant refresh loop. Sidewalks bled upward into the curbs, voxel edges distorting like corrupted wireframes. And high above it all, suspended in the code-scorched sky, hung a jagged, stretched-out decal—a child’s scrawled drawing of a horned figure and a familiar font:

"TEAM C00LKIDD! JOIN TODAY!"

Comic Sans. Of course it was.

Builderman exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing beneath his worn hardhat. He stepped forward—his shoes hissing softly against scorched pavement as he advanced. His presence forced the world to obey, stabilizing a few stray polygons with each footfall. Behind him, code rippled and realigned. But ahead—it only got worse.

A handful of Robloxians stumbled past him in a half-rendered sprint, their movements jerky, frame-skipping through time. One dragged a friend by the arm; another crawled, missing half her face texture, leaving smears of blood behind like skid marks.

“Hey—what happened here?” Builderman snapped, voice sharp.

No answer. Just a strangled shout from one of the fleeing avatars:

“He’s still up there!”

And then they were gone, swallowed by a fog that wasn’t fog but overflow—crashed lighting scripts and cloud geometry tangled together like static.

Builderman froze.

And then—he heard it.

Laughter.

Not glitched. Not corrupted. Joyful.

Unmistakably childlike. Giddy. Full of delight.

It echoed, bright and delighted, bouncing off broken mesh and fire particles like a game trailer gone wrong.

Builderman’s jaw tightened. He shifted his grip on the banhammer slung across his back and moved toward the sound. Each step fell deliberate and heavy—clink... clink... clink—echoing off the fractured street. He passed shattered vending machines and pixelated bushes. The laughter grew louder as he rounded the corner—

—and saw it.

Brothers' Pizzeria.

Or what was left of it.

The familiar landmark—once a fan-favorite spawnpoint—now lay in pieces. The sign hung limp, its texture sheet slipping free. One half-fried slice of pizza hovered frozen mid-air, caught in a physics loop. The awning had collapsed. Grease dripped from the walls in viscous streams. Every few seconds, the whole building flickered in and out of rendering like a dying lightbulb.

But it wasn’t the destruction that made Builderman still.

It was what floated above it.

A child.

Small. Hovering.

Their skin was red—not painted red, but born of it. Limbs jittered slightly, caught between animation states. Hair the color of corrupted brick framed a round face twisted into a grin that was too wide, too toothy. Small horns curled from their forehead, and a spaded tail flicked lazily behind them, swaying with impossible weightlessness.

The child wore a simple black and crimson T-shirt, stretched loosely across their chest.

Builderman stopped cold in the middle of the parking lot.

His breath hissed between clenched teeth. “You’ve gotta be pullin’ my leg...”

The wind kicked up hard, thick with the stench of fried data and old firewall ash. It carried whispers in binary, half-sentences folding over each other, too fast, too wrong. Déjà vu crept down his spine like an old crash log ticking back to life. He’d felt this kind of anomaly before—years ago, when he still remembered all the Admin keys by heart. Back when the Banhammer felt light and his hands didn’t ache every time he swung it.

A blur of motion twisted midair.

The kid twisted mid-hover and waved.

Their mouth split wide in a grin too sharp. Glitching teeth. Eyes jittering between renders. Joy that felt copied and pasted too many times.

Then came the voice—

“Heehee! Wanna play tag?”

It rang out layered—like five corrupted sound files playing in unison, pitch-shifted and jittering. The audio cracked and looped mid-syllable. Too young. Too warped. Something not meant to be talking at all.

Builderman’s grip on his wrench tightened.

A shimmer ran down the length of the tool. Its edges pixelated, then recompiled—stretching, thickening, until it morphed into his Banhammer with a heavy metallic snap. He slung it over his shoulder, jaw set, eyes narrowed as he scanned the child-shaped glitch hovering above him.

“Thought we scrubbed yer kind out ages ago…” he muttered.

There was something familiar in the energy. Not just the shirt. The tone. The hubris. Maybe even the server choice.

C00lkidd tech, no doubt. But this one was newer. Smarter. Almost curated.

A disciple, maybe.

Or worse—a forked branch from a corrupted root he thought long deleted.

“Hrm… maybe one o’ 007n7’s old ghosts crawlin’ back…” he muttered under his breath.

The kid only giggled harder, that sharp, spliced sound skipping like a scratched CD.

“Bet you can’t catch me!” Then came the snap.

CRACK.

The sky split. A bolt of jagged red code lanced through the air, tearing a hole in the render. Builderman moved before it even struck—shoulder rolled, legs coiled, diving into a roll just as the pavement behind him detonated in a violent geyser of broken geometry and howling error glyphs.

He hit the ground hard, one knee down, Banhammer planted to keep balance. Smoke billowed from the ruptured street, and bits of pixel-shrapnel clattered to rest beside him like digital ash.

His voice was low. Steel-hard.

“This ain’t no daycare, runt.”

The figure hung midair, silhouette crackling with malformed scripts. They floated like a stringless marionette—arms limp, feet dangling, laughter never quite syncing with their mouth.

Builderman exhaled slow.

He didn’t want to swing first. Maybe the kid didn’t know better. Maybe it was all just a reused exploit script they didn’t understand. But even now, the residuals said otherwise—Admin logs flickered in his peripheral vision, pulsing red. The kid was flagged. Auth strings missing. Identity scrambled.

And more than that—he was looking at intent.

A hacker, yes. But worse than a script kiddie. Worse than an echo.

A prodigy.

The kid twisted midair, suspended in defiance of gravity, their laughter sharp as shattering glass. "Blocks are for babies! This is way more FUN!!"

Then—another snap.

The red sky splintered.

Reality buckled.

Colors inverted, bleeding into jagged fractals. Shapes stretched like corrupted textures, the server’s very code screaming under the strain. And in a single, gut-wrenching instant—

The world flipped.

Daylight drowned in a deeper crimson—thick, visceral, pulsing like an open wound. The air itself burned, metallic and electric, humming with the promise of violence.

Then the ground moved.

The asphalt bubbled, glitching in and out of existence like a dying hard drive. Red static spiderwebbed through the cracks, and with a wet, grinding SHLUCK—

Hands.

Dozens. Hundreds. Skeletal, malformed, fingers twitching like broken puppets. They surged from the earth, dragging their bodies with them—red-tinted, hollow-eyed minions, their faces stretched into grins too wide, too wrong. Their limbs jerked in unnatural rhythms, strings pulled by unseen, corrupted hands.

And they spoke.

Not in voices. In text. In glitches. A thousand overlapping whispers, a chorus of broken chat logs, warped and distorted:

"C00LKIDD! C00LKIDD! C00LKIDD! JOIN THE TEAM! JOIN FOREVER!!"

Builderman’s grip tightened.

The Banhammer hummed in his hands, its edge crackling with raw admin authority.

"Tch."

A single step.

Then—

BOOM.

The hammer slammed into the earth, and the shockwave ripped outward, a pulse of pure NO that tore through the fog, scattering redlings like dead leaves in a hurricane. For a split second, the illusion shattered—revealing the truth beneath:

Clones.

Not zombies. Not players. Just copied models, rendered sloppy, unstable, their edges flickering with corrupted data.

And they kept coming.

Builderman moved.

Fast. Brutal.

His hammer cleaved through the first wave, bodies exploding into shards of broken polygons. Static hissed in his wake. His boots crushed asphalt into dust. His hoodie snapped behind him like a war banner in the digital storm.

Every swing was precision.

Every strike was erasure.

Redlings burst like overripe fruit, their fragments dissolving into error messages. But for every one he shattered, ten more clawed their way free.

Until—

BOOM.

The pizzeria didn’t just explode—it disintegrated. One moment it was there, the next it was gone, stripped clean from the server like a corrupted asset deleted mid-load. The blast warped the air, and from the ruptured rubble shot a figure—launched like a puppet cut from its strings, limbs slack, hair wild with static.

Builderman landed hard, skidding across pixel-burned concrete. He didn’t flinch. His breath steamed in the chill of malformed code. His banhammer crackled in his grip, still hot from the last swing.

Across from him, the child hovered above the crater.

The kid booed, sticking out his tongue in mock disappointment. "Booo! You broke all my toys! That’s not fair!!" His voice was a singsong taunt, dripping with fake hurt.

His limbs jerked unnaturally, pulled by writhing cords of corrupted script that snapped and rewove themselves with every twitch.

The boy’s body began to distort—twisting midair like rubber under tension. Red glyphs slid across his skin, glyphs Builderman hadn’t seen in decades.

His gut dropped.

“...C00lgui,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

No. That shouldn’t have been possible.

A cheap imitation? A stolen fragment? But the raw, seething power radiating off the child was undeniable. And in that heartbeat of hesitation—

The kid struck.

"TIME FOR FUNNN!!!" C00lkidd shrieked, arms splayed wide. His body warped, elongating like stretched taffy before snapping back into something sharper, deadlier—claws extended, eyes glowing crimson.

He slammed down like a meteor, fist-first.

Builderman barely swung the Banhammer up in time.

CRACK.

The ground split in two, a jagged chasm racing outward as the shockwave punched Builderman backward. He skidded across asphalt, sparks flying from his boots, before crashing into a parked van hard enough to crumple the metal. His hardhat fizzed, circuits flickering.

But he stood.

Slowly. Grinning.

“...That all ya got?” he rumbled, rolling his shoulders. “I’ve wrangled patch bugs meaner’n you before my mornin’ coffee.”

Above him, C00lkidd hovered, giggling like this was the best game he’d ever played. Red orbs of corrupted code swirled into existence between his fingers, each one pulsing with unstable energy, dripping liquid data that burned holes in reality itself.

“You’re soooo slooow!”

“No fun at all!”

“BO-RING!!”

“No wonder nobody wants to play with grumpy pants!”

He hurled the orbs.

Builderman moved.

A roll to the left, then a whirlwind spin—Banhammer flashing in a silver arc.

CLANG!

Two orbs shattered into hexagonal shards, scattering like broken glass. A third grazed his arm, and his sleeve disintegrated on contact, revealing the red worker’s shirt beneath—still intact.

He growled, teeth bared.

“Think throwin’ chaos makes ya smart? Hah.” Builderman snarled. “I was patchin’ servers ‘fore your junkies figured out how t’color their names.”

Then—he charged.

The world warped around him. C00lkidd’s laughter distorted, pitching into a static-filled screech as the street twisted upside-down, buildings bending like rubber. The sky fractured, revealing the glitching void beneath.

But Builderman didn’t stop.

One swing.

Perfect. Unstoppable.

The Banhammer smashed into C00lkidd’s ribs with a satisfying, glitch-crunch impact. The kid’s laughter cut off as he folded around the blow, hurtling backward before slamming into the pavement hard enough to crater it.

The false sky shattered, peeling away like a broken overlay, revealing the real sunset beneath.

Builderman loomed over him, Banhammer humming with pent-up energy, the air thick with the ozone stench of fried code. The kid twitched, limbs jerking as his form flickered back to normal—small, pathetic, whimpering.

"Last words, punk?" Builderman growled, hefting the hammer.

The kid sniveled, kicking weakly. “OW!! That HURT!!” Then, in a desperate, shrill cry: “Lemme goooo!! DAD!! I—I want my DAD!! DAAAAD!!”

But then—

A different voice cut in.

“Please… PLEASE STOP!”

Builderman froze mid-motion, still gripping the corrupted child by the collar, mid-lift. The pixels hanging in the air seemed to pause with him, suspended in the rupture of time and memory.

Slowly—slowly—he turned toward the source of the voice.

And there, framed beneath the half-melted pizza sign and the dying neon of the ruined plaza, stood the last person he ever expected to see.

007n7.

Alive. Present. Real.

But... changed.

Gone were the flak jacket, the wiry frame, and the cocky slouch of a teenage vandal. In their place: a pale blue cardigan stretched across broader shoulders. A yellow tie hung askew over a slightly wrinkled white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows like he’d been caught mid-office errand. The same burger hat—sun-bleached, stubbornly clinging to its last pixels—still clung to his head like a crown. His hair was shorter now, but not entirely tamed. His face was fuller. A shadow of stubble clung to his jaw. There was even a slight belly pressing awkwardly against his belt.

But none of it—not the clothes, the bulk, or the years—mattered half as much as the look in his eyes.

Not anger.

Not guilt.

Not even resistance.

Just fear.

Flat-out, quiet, gut-churning fear.

The kind that didn’t come from the battlefield, but from recognition. The kind that only settled in when you looked a ghost in the eye and it looked right back at you.

The kind of fear that said: I know exactly what you’re capable of. And I can’t stop you.

Builderman’s grip didn’t falter, not even as the child squirmed against his hand. But his attention had fully shifted.

His voice came low, rough—hoarse with shock.

“…What in the glitchin’ blazes are you doin’ here?”

His hand tightened just slightly around the kid’s hoodie. Not a threat. A reflex. He hadn’t even blinked.

007n7 took a cautious step forward. Then stopped.
His hands were open at his sides, fingers twitching faintly.

“I'm not here to cause trouble, I promise,” he said quickly, voice cracking at the edges. “—I mean it.”

He looked down, fidgeting with his sleeves like a scolded child. Not once did he meet Builderman’s eyes again. His body tensed with every word, shoulders tight—like he expected to be vaporized on the spot.

And Builderman… stared. Trying to reconcile this jittery, shaking man in front of him with the reckless nuisance he remembered.

Is this really the same kid who once rewired a spawn zone just to loop Rickrolls through the admin server?

007n7 swallowed hard, voice smaller now. “The ban… it got lifted. I—I don’t know why. Or how.” He glanced up, finally, as if begging to be believed. “One second I was gone and the next… I just woke up. Like nothing ever happened.”

Builderman’s jaw tightened. He shifted his grip on the boy, hoisting him higher like a shield between himself and the ache worming its way up his spine.

“They who, now?” he growled.

007n7 flinched.

He hesitated, reaching out halfway—then thought better of it. His hand dropped. All he could offer was that haunted, almost pleading look. Something fragile clung to his words when he finally spoke.

“I thought… maybe it was you who cleared my file?”

And that—

That landed harder than a sledgehammer.

Builderman’s eyes narrowed, voice dropping to a low, gravelly drawl. "Ain’t no Class-A gets cleared ‘less I sign it myself."

Silence. Not even a crackle from the scorched debris underfoot. Just the hum of static hanging in the ruined air.

And then—

Like a ripple through calm water, a memory surfaced. Blurry. Stupid in hindsight.

Telamon, ten years ago. Grinning too wide. Clipboard in hand. Waving something in Builderman’s face like it was a party invite—which was rare enough. Rarer still was Telamon actually being in the office.

“Telamon brings offerings of bureaucracy! Just need Builderman’s mark—legacy protocols, profoundly dull. But with his scribble… transcendence.”

Builderman had been half-asleep at his desk, three coffees deep and two nights removed from any real rest. His inbox was full. His patience was not.

He hadn’t looked.

He’d trusted that whatever chaos Telamon was spinning up, it wasn’t his problem. Not compared to the half-baked incident reports piling up in triplicate, or the system rebuilds that kept failing after every patch.

So he’d signed.

He remembered Telamon’s grin, the victorious hum as he walked off, humming like he’d won a game no one else knew they were playing.

Now he knew what he’d signed away.

Builderman’s jaw tightened. His grip shifted on the hammer, the glow along its rune-carved edge pulsing faintly with reawakened fury.

“…That no-good clipboard-swingin’ weasel…” he muttered.

A heat rose from the Banhammer—soft at first, then sharper—like it, too, recognized betrayal.

He turned slightly, eyes flicking to the child still dangling in his grip.

C00lkidd squirmed in the air, limbs flailing in glitchy bursts of red code. His hoodie pixelated at the edges. His eyes sparked and crackled. He slapped at Builderman’s arm with ineffectual kicks, tantrum-strength.

“Lemme gooo!” the boy whined, voice cracking. His glitchfire flickered out with a weak fizzle. “You’re hurting me! You’re the bad guy!”

Builderman didn’t loosen his grip.

He held the kid out like a misbehaving gremlin—arms-length, steady, unimpressed. His other hand remained curled tight around the hammer at his hip, just in case.

“Kid’s still throwin’ sparks.” he muttered, not taking his eyes off 007n7. “Ain’t stable.”

And yet… it was hard to ignore how harmless the little thing looked now. Wild eyes. Teary. Almost—Builderman hated the word—cute.

The corrupted monster he’d just faced minutes ago was now reduced to a glitching brat in a hoodie, looking more like a victim than a villain.

Ahead of him, 007n7 stepped forward with hesitation. Hands raised halfway in a helpless, surrendering gesture—like he didn’t know whether to beg, explain, or throw himself between them.

His voice shook. “Please… don’t hurt him. He’s just scared. He doesn’t really know what’s going on…”

Builderman gave him a long, slow look. He tilted the child slightly, the question clear in the motion.

“Ten years off-grid and you crawl back wearin’ a cardigan, shakin’ in yer boots—draggin’ this lil’ firecracker with ya?”

The child growled, thrashing again. “Not a kid! I’m BIG! Bigger than YOU!”

Builderman raised an eyebrow. “Sure ya are, champ.”

C00lkidd let out a muffled screech, sparks popping from his fingertips—but they fizzled like cheap firecrackers. His strength was already waning.

And still, 007n7 didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk.

He just looked… heartbroken.

And then he said it.

Soft. Careful. Like it might break the world in half.

“C00lkidd… he’s my son.”

He took a small step forward, almost instinctively reaching toward the boy—but stopped himself. His hands trembled at his sides. His eyes never left Builderman’s.

Builderman blinked.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his face shifted—barely. A lift of his brow. The faintest flicker of disbelief. Even his smirk faltered.

“…Yer what, now?”

007n7’s voice barely rose above a whisper.

“He’s… my kid. I—I raised him.”

For a long moment, nothing moved. Not even the wind.

Builderman stared.

The only sound was the faint buzz of the pizzeria’s fractured ceiling panels struggling to reboot, and the soft crackle of failed particles disintegrating midair—code unraveling like ash in reverse.

“…That so?”

His voice was flat. No heat. No sarcasm. Just cold, clinical detachment. Observation stripped of emotion.

“So that’s where you skedaddled.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a conclusion. Drawn like a report written in ink and concrete.

“Ten years, off-grid… playin’ house, were ya?”

His eyes scanned 007n7 with quiet contempt. “Wouldn’t’ve pegged ya for it.”

His grip on the child didn’t loosen until C00lkidd bit down—not out of discomfort, but because the rules dictated no unnecessary harm to minors, even unruly ones.

The second the teeth released, Builderman dropped him like a spent datapacket. The kid hit the cracked tiles with a short grunt and an even shorter glare.

007n7 exhaled sharply, but Builderman wasn’t done.

With mechanical precision, he dismissed the Banhammer—light bending around it as it compressed back into his utility belt. Each motion deliberate. Precise. Like loading a verdict into place.

“Yer comin’ back either way,” he said flatly.

"No matter the bells and whistles since." His boots scraped asphalt—not with finality, but with inevitability. Like the ticking of a clock counting down to sentencing.

"You broke the code, bud. That’s start to finish, right there.”

“P-please—I’m not who I used to be.” 007n7 blurted. He stumbled backward, shielding C00lkidd with one arm. “I swear, I’ve changed. I don’t do that stuff anymore—I left it behind, all of it…”

Builderman didn’t pause.

Didn’t consider.

His gloved hand closed around 007n7’s wrist. Not rough. But absolute. Like a lock engaging.

“Sayin’ sorry don’t un-break the rules,” he said calmly, voice devoid of spite. “Start bendin’ 'em, they stop meanin’ anything. And once that’s gone? So is order.”

“Let my dad go!”

C00lkidd launched himself at Builderman’s arm, tiny teeth bared, biting down like a gremlin.

“BAD GUY! BAD GUY!”

Builderman didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even look at him.

Just stood still—like the world was rain, and he was the wall it broke against. Unmoved. Inconvenienced at best.

“Now that’s rich,” he muttered. He jostled the kid gently with his elbow, trying to shake him loose without dropping 007n7.

“Comin’ from you, runt.”

His eyes narrowed—amber glinting beneath the brim of his hardhat.

“Weren’t yellin’ for daddy when you were tossin’ glitched fireballs like confetti at my skull.”

Before the standoff could escalate—

STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.

The rapid percussion of boots hammering across scorched tile. Someone was approaching—and judging by the stormfront of irritation radiating off them, they were done with absolutely everyone in the room.

They all turned at once.

Storming into view came a man in a grease-streaked apron, pizza insignia scorched into the fabric. Freckles dashed across his face like a spray of soot, curly yellow hair frizzed from ash. His sleeves were rolled, fists clenched, and blue eyes blazed with righteous fury.

Elliot.

His glare alone could flatten a protocol stack.

And from the way 007n7 deflated on sight—like a balloon leaking confidence—it was clear this wasn’t their first encounter.

“Uh—E-Elliot, hey…” 007n7 tried, lifting a hand in a nervous little wave.

Elliot didn’t stop.

“007n7,” he barked, voice sharp enough to cleave through air, “It’s your damn son. Again.”

He slapped a crumpled data-report against the nearest table—somehow miraculously intact amidst the ruin.

“I—I didn’t mean for this to happen, I’m very sorry—” 007n7 said instantly, wincing as Builderman finally let go of his arm. He didn’t run—just braced himself like a man about to be sentenced.

“Ngh—no. Not this time.” Elliot waved a hand through the air, as if swatting away the apology. “You don’t get a ‘sorry’ this run. I’ve already patched over too much of this.”

“Do you know how many alarms he tripped this week? How many assets he derailed with his ‘little adventures’? I’ve covered for you. Buried reports. Deleted footage. You know how many times I rerouted audit trails to keep your names clear?!”

He jabbed a finger toward C00lkidd, who was now sulking behind 007n7 with narrowed eyes. “And he’s out here rerouting my pizzeria’s command stack like it’s a damn theme park! Again!”

Spit flew. Veins throbbed at his temple.

But 007n7 didn’t interrupt. Didn’t talk back. He just stood there, hands folded in front of him like a schoolboy being reprimanded in front of the class.

A tight, apologetic smile tugged at his lips—hollow, reflexive. Not hope. Not defiance. Just habit. Like he’d done this before. Like he knew how to take it.

Builderman watched it all unfold, arms crossed, jaw tight.

This wasn’t the 007n7 he remembered—the erratic kid with cracked pink glasses and fire in his veins. The one who laughed through his own arrest and shorted out cuffs just to spit a slur at authority. That version had been dangerous.

But this?

This one just looked… tired.

“I can’t cover for you anymore, man.”

Elliot’s voice wasn’t angry now. Just tired. He rubbed at his temple, like the headache had become permanent. “I’ve let this slide too long already. I’m so far past the red line here I can’t even see the red line.”

He slapped the crumpled report hard against 007n7’s chest. It crackled like brittle parchment under pressure.

“This one’s on you. Pay up.”

007n7 caught the file awkwardly, blinking fast. He scanned the lines—and the blood drained from his face. Like something vital had been pulled out of him.

His lips parted, trembling. “I… I can’t cover that,” he whispered, voice thin and cracking. “That’s… that’s more than I’ve got, Elliot. Please…”

But Elliot had already turned away, arms crossing tight over his chest. Shoulders squared. Eyes fixed ahead.

“I’ve done what I can,” he said, quiet. Final. “That was the last favor. You’re on your own now.”

Silence fell like a dropped curtain. Only the faint hum of dying overhead lights remained, and the distant howl of wind brushing against the shattered hull of the outer pizzeria. The room suddenly felt cavernous. Cold.

007n7 stood there, statue-still, report clutched in shaking fingers. His throat bobbed hard. The paper slipped from his hands and fluttered onto the splintered table.

He didn’t move to catch it.

C00lkidd crept closer, tugging softly at his sleeve. “Papa?” His voice was small. Unsure. “Am I in trouble again…?”

007n7 blinked, then slowly looked down, kneeling so he was eye-level with his son. And despite the crack forming deep behind his eyes, he smiled.

A real smile. Faint. Broken. But there.

“N-no, you’re not in trouble, son. Just, um… a small fine. That’s all,” he murmured, ruffling C00lkidd’s hair with a shaky hand. “We’ll take care of it. I promise.”

And Builderman—Builderman had had enough.

With a grunt like an approaching quake, he stepped forward. Each footfall resonated, measured and heavy. His hand moved to his side, gripping the base of his hammer. The moment it began to unfold, stretching with a soft shhrk into its full, massive form, the room felt smaller.

“Builderman,” Elliot said sharply, his tone suddenly clipped. He barely turned, but his instincts caught the weight behind the movement. “Don’t—”

But it was too late.

SLAM.

The hammer slammed down onto the paper with a sound like a judge’s gavel striking iron.

The table cracked in two beneath the force. Splinters flew. Both Elliot and 007n7 flinched instinctively, startled by the sheer finality of the act.

But the paper?

The paper didn’t burn. Not quite.

Instead, scorched into its center—searing through ink and reprimand alike—was the sigil of Builderman’s hammer. The mark of his authority. His payment. His word.

He stepped back, hammer already folding itself away with a mechanical whine.

“Put it on my tab,” Builderman said flatly, not even looking up.

007n7 didn’t register the sound of splintering wood. Didn’t even flinch when the hammer came down.

It was only when Builderman stepped back, muttering now something low to Elliot, that his fog of panic cracked.

“You what?” Elliot’s voice broke the moment like a dropped glass. No longer furious—just stunned. “You paid that off? Do you even know how much that was?! That’s a high-tier damage claim—civilian exposure, three corrupted relays—”

Builderman grunted. “Yeah. I ain’t illiterate. I read numbers just fine.”

“Why the hell would you—?”

That was when 007n7 moved.

Without thinking, without permission, he closed the space between them in two fast steps and grabbed Builderman’s wrist. Not roughly. Just firmly. Desperately.

“W-why would you… why would you do that?” His voice cracked as it left him—too raw, too shaken to hide behind composure. “Th-that’s too much. I mean—really too much. Even for you. Y-you didn’t have to…”

He stopped short.

Shoulders squared, rigid—like he was bracing against a wind no one else could feel. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying the calm he was trying to force into his voice.

Builderman didn’t look at him.

Didn’t dare to.

Because if he had—if he’d turned, even for a second—he would’ve seen what Builderman had already caught from the periphery: the faint tremor in 007n7’s lower lip, the way it quivered like a leaf clinging to its last thread before the storm. The sheen in his wide, glassy eyes, reflecting the dead flicker of the pizzeria sign overhead. Not tears, not quite—but something raw. Shimmering. Like light struggling through cracked ice.

And worst of all?

That silent, desperate plea.

The kind worn by a creature that had been kicked too many times, taught to swallow its whimpers. The kind that’d stopped expecting rescue—but still hoped for it.

Once, 007n7 had fought like a wolf, all teeth and fury.

Now, he looked like he’d shatter if someone so much as raised their voice.

Builderman turned away. A gust of wind kicked up ash around their boots.

“No reason,” he muttered, voice rough. Flat. Like he was chewing gravel.

“…What?” 007n7 asked quietly, like he hadn’t heard it right.

“Felt like it.” Builderman replied, the lie dropped casually—too casually. Like shrugging off an old coat, threadbare and unconvincing. “Day was already scrap, anyhow. This was s’posed to be my break. Got dragged in halfway home. Real relaxin’, huh?”

He scratched the back of his head, exhaling through his nose—a slow, measured breath, the kind a man takes when he’s trying not to feel too much, when the weight in his chest threatens to crack his ribs.

007n7 stood frozen, mouth slightly open, disbelief carving lines into his face. “But—I can fix it. I swear I can. I’ll do anything, just… please, let me help…”

"Didn’t do it so you’d owe me, kid,"

Builderman’s words cut across gently. Not sharp—but firm, like weathered stone. And still, he wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

“I did it ‘cause you looked like you were ‘bout to crash hard…” he added, quieter now. “And I really hate fillin’ reports.”

The silence that followed was thick. Not uncomfortable—just full. Like everything else they weren’t saying had settled between them.

Then came a small sound: fabric shifting, fingers fumbling.

007n7 reached into his back pocket, movements precise but hesitant. He pulled out a thin info-card—edges worn, corners bent from too much handling. It was the kind of thing people held onto long after they stopped believing anyone would use it.

He held it out with both hands, head lowered.

“If you ever… if you ever need something,” he said softly. “Anything at all. I—I mean it.”

Builderman glanced down.

At the card. At the man holding it like it meant something. Like he meant it.

This went against everything he stood for.

He was supposed to subdue the threat, not… not take a piece of him as keepsake.

And yet—he reached out, slowly. Took it.

His voice dropped again, almost unreadable now.

“Ain’t lookin’ for proof from you.”

But he didn’t give the card back, either.

Behind them, a small shadow shifted.

C00lkidd.

He peeked out from behind his father’s leg, those charcoal eyes wide and solemn—the way children only get when they’ve seen too much and don’t yet have the words to carry it.

007n7 glanced back, gave a gentle nod, and nudged him forward.

“It’s okay. Go ahead.”

C00lkidd hesitated. His claws curled into the hem of his father’s cardigan, clutching it like a lifeline. Then, slowly, he took a step. And another. He stopped a few feet from Builderman, lifting his chin just enough for their eyes to meet.

He gave Builderman a tiny bow—more a bob of the head than anything formal, but earnest, heartbreaking in its sincerity.

“Thank you, Mister Builder…” the boy said. His voice was soft, but it didn’t waver. “Papa’s smile is my favorite, and he gets all frowny sometimes… I don’t want it to be ‘cause of me…”

007n7’s hand came down to rest on his son’s head. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he murmured. “Don’t think you’re a burden. Not even for a second, okay?”

And with that, the two turned to leave.

The bell above the pizzeria door gave a weak, almost apologetic jingle as it swung shut behind them—a hollow sound, drowned by the weight of the wreckage surrounding it. The rest of the building lay in ruins, walls crumbled like broken promises, the pizzeria sign flickering its last sparks into the dusk. Yet, in that moment, none of it mattered.

What held his attention wasn’t the destruction. It was what stood out in the middle of it.

007n7 walked with a quiet purpose, one hand gently resting on his son’s shoulder. C00lkidd’s head was lowered, horns dimmed, one of them cracked from the earlier fight—Builderman hadn’t even noticed until now. The kid scuffed his boot against the pavement, the way you do when you don’t know what to do with guilt too big for your size.

But 007n7—oh, 007n7 didn’t look angry. Not even disappointed.

He looked… at peace.

His crimson eyes, once sharp with calculated wit, were soft now, warm like coals settling into ash. A faint smile tugged at the edge of his lips, and though his tail flicked with residual exhaustion, the way it curled protectively around C00lkidd’s spoke louder than words. Relief. Love. Unshakable, even now.

The sunset bled across the sky, molten gold and violet, wrapping them in an almost otherworldly glow. Their silhouettes—one tall and steady, the other small but burning with untamed potential—stood stark against the ruins. Two different shades, two different souls, yet bound by something deeper than blood: the curve of their horns, the sinuous sway of their tails, the way the light embraced them as if declaring, Here. This is family.

Builderman lingered, his hands resting on his hips, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest like a second heartbeat.

But none of it registered.

He just stood there, staring at the last place they’d been, like trying to memorize something he knew would eventually fade.

The silence stretched.

Dust settled.

And then—

Like a knife twisting in an old wound—it hit him.

The sight of 007n7 and C00lkidd walking away, bathed in the soft, bleeding light of dusk should have been heartwarming. And it was—in a way. But not without pain.

For Builderman, it was also a blade of memory. Sharp. Unrelenting. Personal.

His fingers curled tighter against his hips. The leather of his gloves creaked under the pressure—just audible over the hum of failing power lines and the slow, dragging wind.

His son—

His own boy—

Still out there.

Somewhere.

Nowhere.

Vanished without even a trace left behind.

Swallowed by the very world Builderman had spent years building. Shaping. Protecting. And yet, he couldn’t protect him.

The emails still came.

His daughter-in-law—relentless in her grief, stubborn in her hope—sent one every week without fail. Sometimes every day.

"Any leads, father-in-law?"

"Please, just tell me you’re still looking."

"He would’ve wanted you to answer."

He read every one.

And deleted every one.

Because what could he say?

That he’d failed?

That every trail had gone cold, that every door he kicked down led only to silence?

He was the great Builderman. Admin. Founder. Code-wright.

And he couldn’t even find his own kid.

A dry, hollow laugh cracked from his throat—empty and brittle. It startled even him.

There was 007n7, a man who’d fought demons literal and figurative, still standing by his son despite the chaos, despite the mistakes.

And then there was him—The man who built empires with command-line backdoors and cataclysm protocols—and he couldn’t even keep a family together.

The wind picked up. The scent of burnt pizza and cracked concrete rushed through the ruins, mingling with the ghost of something old. Something gone.

It smelled like loss.

He should visit her. He knew that.

But guilt was a prison, and he’d rather rot in silence than face the accusation in her eyes—the unspoken question:

Why couldn’t you save him?

“...Sir?”

Elliot’s voice, quiet. Hesitant.

“Are you okay?”

Builderman blinked, like waking up underwater. His focus slid back into place—snapped in, brittle and reluctant.

“Ship the invoice to Roblox Headquarters,” he muttered, voice raw as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “File it under ‘morale damage.’”

Elliot made a small sound of confusion, but Builderman didn’t give him the chance to question it.

He turned and walked.

If everyone wanted him off-duty so bad? Fine.

He’d take his damn break. 007n7 wasn’t his business anymore, technically. He was off the clock.

And he’d make damn sure every admin left behind picked up the slack while he did.

Petty? Maybe.

Satisfying? Absolutely.

With a tired grunt, he raised one hand and traced a rough swipe through the air. Reality shimmered where his glove touched it, splitting in clean algorithmic lines.

A swirling portal bloomed to life—blue-white and humming low, obedient to the coordinates punched into muscle memory.

He paused, just a moment, as the light reflected back in his eyes.

Then—without a word—he walked through.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The world that greeted him was quiet.

Too quiet.

The portal sealed behind him with a low pulse, its hum dying into stillness. No lingering bootsteps. No flickering UIs. Just silence.

His hotel suite—if you could still call it that—stood pristine. Impossibly so. A monolith carved into the skyline in the image of his old avatar: broad-shouldered, squared jaw, arms folded like a monument to himself. Egotistical? Maybe. But it had been his son’s idea. Back when the place had been a public lobby. Open to millions. Laughter in every corridor. Bad hats, bad memes, good times.

Now?

Now it was just him.

Everything else—users, portals, even the front desk bot—had been locked out. Prohibited access, flagged and firewalled. Private property now. Builderman didn’t take visitors. Not anymore.

The polished stone floors gleamed under ambient lighting. Sky-high windows looked out over the glittering void of Upper Robloxia. Pixel-flame chandeliers swayed gently overhead, three stories up, flickering like distant campfires in a world without warmth.

It had been one of his proudest builds. One his son had helped finish, nudging him to clean up the clipping errors and “make the spawn point look less like a dentist office.”

He hadn’t changed a thing since.

Boots hit the floor with a heavy thud. One slid neatly beside the welcome mat. The other bounced off a wall and spun into a corner, forgotten.

“I should really just get an apartment in the Head of Robloxia,” he muttered, voice thick with sarcasm. “Less weird. Less lonely.”

He glanced toward the untouched coffee on the counter. Still steaming. Auto-brewed. Too bitter, like always.

“...Though I doubt the latte’s gonna fix that.”

The thought barely had time to finish before gravity dragged him down.

He staggered to the bed and collapsed face-first onto the massive frame—a king-sized slab of indulgence layered in quilted weave and featherlight codefiber, its softness algorithmically tuned to his preferred weight ratio. His limbs sprawled out, heavy and uncoordinated. Like a ragdoll thrown by a world that no longer needed him.

The confrontation.
The guilt.
The look in 007n7’s eyes.
C00lkidd’s tiny bow.

It all spun around him like corrupted debris caught in low orbit.

His eyes slipped shut.

And for the first time in days—maybe weeks—

He slept.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

Peace never lasts long.

Not even during a so-called break.

Builderman sat hunched in the farthest booth on the second floor of the cafeteria—if you could call it that. The space was cavernous, sterile. Too much white tile. Too much echo. Every scrape of his plastic cutlery against the tray sounded like a warning alarm in the empty stillness.

He eyed the soggy sandwich in front of him.

Bread damp. Lettuce wilted. Meat suspiciously shiny.

One bite in and he already regretted not skipping breakfast altogether.

At least the coffee helped. Barely. Lukewarm, overbrewed, but bitter enough to wake the nerves behind his eyes. He sipped and grimaced anyway.

The silence pressed in.

No chatter. No clatter of trays. Not a soul in sight. Just flickering overhead lights, the soft hum of overworked ceiling fans, and a single janitor bot puttering in the distance, cleaning the same square of floor for the third time.

He should have been resting.

That was the whole point of this break. Orders from up top. Even Brighteyes had gotten firm about it this time.

“Yer not touchin’ a code red till you return,” she’d said, arms folded, tone not up for debate. “Don’t make me override your permissions again.”

And yet… he hadn’t even made it a day without sticking his nose into something.

This building—somewhere not far from the city center—had been pinging the control board with minor alerts for hours. Structural flags. Leaky pipes. Faulty HVAC loops. Nothing urgent. But still—

He needed his hands on something.

So now here he was.

Hardhat in hand. Banhammer slung across his back.

Teleport utility cued up and ready.

A final swig of his coffee, and he tapped the tray for cleanup. Then—one press. Blue-white light spiraled beneath his boots, pulling him from the empty cafeteria and spitting him out into chaos.

The moment he landed in the front hall of the building—

A tidal rush of freezing water slammed into his shins.

“FER CRYIN’ OUT LOUD—!”

His hat nearly came off as the wave surged past him. The whole place was flooded knee-deep, and rising.

He stumbled back as the current surged past, nearly losing his hardhat in the process. Cold soaked through his pants in an instant, sloshing around his boots like swampwater.

The entire building was flooded. Knee-deep—and rising.

Robloxians were fleeing in panic, soaked to the bone. Some were dragging bags or clunky hoverboards. One slipped trying to clutch their hoodie above the waterline. A few caught sight of him—froze—then broke into frantic whispers.

“Builderman—!”

“He’s here—”

“He’s gonna fix it!”

Builderman adjusted his hat with a grunt, water dripping from the brim. The building groaned under the strain somewhere above, pipes hissing behind the walls.

“What in the name o’ Lua’s goin’ on here?” he barked, voice cutting clean through the noise.

A young tenant skidded up, panting, shoes half underwater. “T-The top floor!” he gasped. “We think it was a burst pipe—or maybe a busted shower valve—we’re not sure! But it’s everywhere! The water just keeps coming! It’s flooding every level—!”

Builderman wiped a line of water from his beard, already regretting the lack of waterproofing on his gloves.

“Listen up. I want every last one o’ ya outta this buildin’. No exceptions. Cross the lot, stick together. And don’t let a soul wander back in, y’hear?”

“Y-Yes, sir!” The tenant nodded so fast he nearly lost his balance. Then he turned, wading back into the mess with frantic arm waves and shouted directions, trying to corral the crowd.

He set his jaw and adjusted his grip on the banhammer, the head of it glinting dull gold beneath the overhead flicker. With his other hand, he cinched the strap of his utility box tighter against his hip.

Then he trudged forward, slow and heavy.

Water sloshed thickly around his knees as he waded deeper into the complex. Doors creaked on their hinges, swaying slightly with the passing current. Elevator panels blinked with broken static—out of service, out of options. The air was heavy with the stench of soaked drywall, burnt circuits, and damp carpet gone to mildew.

The stairwell wasn’t any better.

Each step was a labor. Waterlogged and slick, coated with a sludgy film that sucked at his boots. He ascended steadily, shoulders squared, breath controlled. The irritation had already settled behind his eyes, building slow like pressure behind dam walls.

By the time he reached the top floor, the water was ankle-deep and rising. Condensation dripped from the ceiling in slow, uneven taps. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead in a rhythm that only made him more aware of the silence.

He pushed down the hallway, toward the far end—where the flood seemed thickest.

Then he heard it.

Squelching footsteps. A plastic bucket slapping water. Frustrated muttering—punctuated by an unmistakable “Darn it, darn it, darn it—!”

And beneath that—something softer. A shaky whimper, almost a sob.

Builderman stopped in his tracks. Brow furrowed beneath the weight of his helmet.

“…No way.”

It’s gotta be a trick. Coincidence. Nothin’ more.

Still, he rounded the corner, boots sloshing loud as thunder in the hall.

Builderman raised a brow and knocked—twice, firm.

Why? Force of habit. Even knee-deep in floodwater and neck-deep in stress, he still had manners. The door rattled faintly under his knuckles.

There was a scramble inside. Wet footsteps darted across the floor.

Then the door cracked open just a sliver.

A pale, flushed face peered out—dripping wet and wide-eyed with terror.

007n7.

“Ah—! I-I didn’t mean for it to get this bad, I swear! I’ve been trying for hours, really—just a bit more time, please—!” The words tumbled out in a breathless mess. But then he froze.

And stared.

Recognition jolted through him like lightning.

“…Builderman?”

SLAM.

The door shut so fast it nearly smacked Builderman in the face.

He took one slow step back, blinked again, and let out a long, tired exhale. His brow twitched.

From behind the door came muffled, rapid pleading. “P-please don’t arrest me! I haven’t broken any laws lately—I-I’ve really changed! I recycle now! I even sort the bins—!”

Builderman grunted, unimpressed. He raised a fist and pounded on the door, hard enough to make the frame shake.

“Open the door, dangit! I ain’t here t’haul ya back—I’m here t’patch the pipe floodin’ half the dang complex!”

Silence.

Then: “Th-this is a trick, isn’t it? You’re just saying that to get me to open the door—!” came 007n7’s muffled voice, frantic and disbelieving.

Builderman growled under his breath. “What the heck would I lie for?! Open up! You’re two minutes from drownin’ the whole dang server block!”

A beat of silence.

“You… y-you’re serious? You’re not here to drag us back or report us…?”

Builderman pinched the bridge of his nose with a soggy glove. “I promise. Now lemme in ‘fore we both drown in yer busted pipes.”

Only the slow drip drip drip of water replied at first.

Then, cautiously, the door creaked open again—just a crack.

007n7 peeked out like someone expecting a boot to the face. He looked worse up close: hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks blotchy, glasses fogged and tilted. His blue button-up was soaked through and clung awkwardly to his frame, outlining a soft middle. He fidgeted with his glasses, fingers trembling.

“W-wait, so… you’re really not here to take us in?”

Builderman gave him a tired look. “If I were haulin’ you back, I wouldn’t’ve bothered knockin’.”

“…Oh.”

Builderman gestured impatiently. “So what’s it gonna be—let me fix it, or stand there starin’ while the place floods?”

007n7 hesitated—then, like some internal floodgate burst, he stepped aside with a meek little nod.

“O-oh, right—yes, come in! Just, um… please don’t look too closely at anything—if that’s alright…”

Builderman stepped inside with a grunt. “Ain’t here for sightseeing.”

His boots squelched against the half-submerged floorboards. The place smelled like damp drywall—and panic.

But despite the chaos, the place was… oddly domestic.

Blankets were draped over chairs. Mismatched mugs stacked high in the sink, perched on a dry ledge well above the flood line. A sock hung neatly from a heater vent like someone had tried to dry it—then forgot. Someone had clearly tried to make this place into something livable. Something like a home.

Builderman blinked slowly. This wasn’t what he’d expected from the so-called disaster-magnet, the walking bug report himself.

007n7 scurried ahead, hunched and awkward, radiating embarrassment. He leaned in on himself, trying to shrink even though he stood a good two inches taller than Builderman.

“It, uh—it started in the bathroom. I’m really sorry… I didn’t think it’d spread so fast. I-I tried tape first, just to buy a little time until I could fix it properly, but… that made it worse. A lot worse.”

Builderman followed in silence, swatting a soaked towel out of his way as they turned the corner.

And then he stopped.

The bathroom was chaos incarnate.

There—balanced precariously on the aluminum shower rail—swung C00lkidd. Legs kicked gleefully like he was on a jungle gym. His soaked hoodie clung to him like a second skin, water dripping steadily off the tips of his sleeves and ears. His tail flicked side to side, keeping him balanced with perfect, childish ease.

“Heyyy, Mister Builder!” C00lkidd whooped, upside-down and grinning, arms spread wide as if inviting applause. “Back for round TWO? Betcha can’t catch me again!”

Builderman froze. Eyes wide. Silent.

Across the room, the pipe burbled.

007n7 made a sound between a gasp and a groan. “C00lkidd! H-how many times have I asked you not to climb the rail? It’s dangerous, you could fall and—and I might not catch you next time—!”

“Nuh-uh! I won’t fall!” C00lkidd chirped as 007n7 gently peeled him off the bar and cradled him like a slippery cat.” “Cuz Papa always catches me!” he added, proudly wrapping both legs and tail around 007n7’s waist in demonstration.

007n7 sighed, defeated. There was no winning once the kid started quoting rules back at him.

Builderman grunted.

“That the pipe givin’ us all this grief?” he asked, already setting his utility box down on the half-soaked sink. He jabbed a gloved finger toward the back wall, past the drenched floor mat and soggy toilet paper.

There it was.

A corroded wall pipe behind the toilet, spurting water in chaotic arcs. A jagged seam in the middle had been haphazardly wrapped in three overlapping brands of duct tape—none of them waterproof. The whole patch pulsed and hissed like it was seconds from exploding.

“Y-yeah… that’s the one.” 007n7 muttered, holding C00lkidd close like a damp security blanket. “I—I did everything I could think of, but it just wouldn’t stop…”

Builderman stared at it. Then slowly pinched the bridge of his nose beneath the brim of his hardhat.

He didn’t speak for a long moment.

“…Figures.”

He didn’t yell. Didn’t need to. The weight of his voice landed like a hammer dropped from a roof. 007n7 flinched all the same, his face tightening with shame. His ears turned pink.

Then Builderman knelt, rolled up his sleeves, and began unloading his tools with the mechanical efficiency of a man who had done this a thousand times before. Calm. Precise. Dead silent.

It made 007n7 feel like dead weight. An inconvenience. Worse—like someone who didn’t deserve to be here in his own home.

C00lkidd had stopped squirming by now. He was watching the pipe, head tilted like he was trying to interpret an abstract painting.

007n7 swallowed and stood.

“C’mon, son,” he said quietly. “Let’s, um—let’s give him some room. Just for a bit.”

Once they were out, the apartment fell into a humid hush. The sound of sloshing footsteps faded down the hall, replaced by the low hum of water dripping from every surface.

Builderman crouched by the pipe, water already soaking into the knees of his jeans. The air was thick with mildew, rust, and the faint trace of cheap body spray clinging to the steam. He didn’t flinch. His body moved on instinct—wrench in hand, clamp adjusting, sealant pressed in with steady, practiced rhythm.

But his mind had already wandered.

He hadn’t expected this. Not just the plumbing job. Not the pipe. He could fix those in his sleep. But this—finding him again. 007n7. Here. Hunched and embarrassed, soaked to the bone. It felt like some weird fever dream stitched together with old admin logs and misplaced memories.

Was it a fluke? A setup? A punishment from above?

Or maybe...

Maybe he really had changed.

The hiss of the pipe dulled into a sputter. The clamp held firm now, no more frantic leaks shooting across the bathroom like a fountain gone rogue. The worst of it was sealed. He gave it a final twist. Just enough pressure to hold.

Tap. Tap.

Soft knocks. Hesitant.

Builderman glanced up, wiping the sweat and condensation from his brow with the back of his gloved wrist.

007n7 stood just outside the doorway, awkwardly framed by the warped hallway light. He’d changed—into dry clothes, at least. A soft gray t-shirt, still slightly clinging to his sides. His shorts were a size too big and cuffed once, probably in a hurry. His hair was damp, pushed back carelessly. His glasses fogged at the edges, the way they always did when he forgot to dry his face properly.

In his hands: a small plate. A few orange slices. A peeled apple. Something simple.

“I, um—I brought you something. It’s just fruit, but—well, I thought maybe you’d be hungry...” 007n7 said, quiet and stiff, like the words were balancing on a wire. Builderman didn’t miss how his eyes flicked toward him then away, guilty, hopeful, nervous. “I made sure it’s clean! Washed my hands a bunch—twice… maybe three times. Just to be safe.”

Builderman blinked.

Then blinked again—at the plate. At the man holding it like it might explode.

Still blotchy from embarrassment. Still clearly not dry below the knees. Still trying way too hard.

He exhaled through his nose, slow. Not irritated. Not quite amused either.

But something close.

007n7 seemed to take the silence as rejection.

“O-of course you don’t have to! I just thought—since you’ve been working so hard and—and we don’t have much else and—I know it’s weird, with our whole, um, history and hacker-admin unresolved-things—but, uh—yeah! I-I totally get it if you’d rather not—!”

“I’m elbow-deep in pipe gunk, bud,” Builderman cut in flatly, twisting a final bolt with a satisfying click. “I’ll eat when I ain’t smellin’ like a dang storm drain.”

007n7 stopped mid-stammer. Mouth open. Brain buffering.

Then his shoulders jolted and he nodded a little too fast.

“R-right! No, of course! I didn’t mean to assume—I’ll just—I’ll get out of your way—!”

He turned too quickly and nearly shoulder-checked the hallway wall before disappearing from view in a flurry of soggy socks and flustered mumbling.

Builderman stared after him, silent.

Then huffed a low breath through his nose.

It might’ve been a chuckle.

He reached for another wrench, smirk creeping onto his face unbidden at the silliness.

That face. That ridiculous, honest face. The way 007n7 looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. The plate of fruit still resting near the door like some offering to an angry god.

“…Unbelievable,” Builderman muttered under his breath.

But there was no venom in it. No old resentment. Just that same dry, begrudging warmth he thought he’d long since buried.

And as he kept working, the smile didn’t quite leave.

Not all the way.

It took five grueling hours, but at last, the final pipe surrendered.

No more spurting leaks. No more ominous dripping echoing through the tile-clad chamber like a ticking bomb. Builderman gave the patched joint a firm, solid pat—like a commander saluting a battle-worn soldier that had finally held the line.

“That’s that,” he muttered, voice dry and rough from disuse. He rose stiffly, knees popping with a quiet crack. Stretch. Roll the shoulder. Check the seal. Then, with a low grunt, he raised his voice.

“Hey! Hacker! Git in here and mop this mess ‘fore someone busts a tailbone!”

From the hallway came a shuffling, hurried noise—then the distinct sound of socked feet sprinting across the floor.

“R-right! Coming right now!”

007n7 skidded into view, arms full of balled-up towels, barely catching himself on the doorframe. His grin was all nerves and relief, mouth parting like he had a dozen “thank you”s lined up—and then he froze.

Mid-step. Mid-breath.

Because the man standing in the half-lit bathroom… was not the admin he remembered.

The hoodie was gone—slung casually around his waist and knotted at the front. In its place, the red shirt clung to his broad frame, damp in places, revealing arms that looked like they were carved for function: all muscle, sinew, and years of solid labor. Calloused hands flexed slightly as he adjusted his belt. And those arms—God, they weren’t just strong, they were defined, ribbed with effort and built through decades of holding a world together.

But it wasn’t that that did 007n7 in.

It was the light.

Sunset slanted in through the cracked upper window, bleeding amber across the tiles. It caught on Builderman’s shoulders, streaked over his jaw, and lit his skin in tones of bronze and gold like a painter’s stroke.

And—

His hardhat was off.

007n7’s heart missed a beat. Then another.

And there it was—greying hair tied back into a low, practical ponytail, strands still damp and curling slightly at the nape, where droplets traced the strong line of his neck before vanishing beneath the collar of his shirt. His face bore rough stubble, just enough to hint at how long he’d been working without pause, the shadow of exhaustion softened by the glow of the overhead light catching the sharp angles of his jaw.

But what truly stole the last rational thought from 007n7’s mind were his eyes.

Honey-gold.

Reflective, like sunlight glancing off a blade. Calm, but alive with that flinty spark of purpose—the kind of gaze that pinned you in place, that made your pulse stutter.

And they were looking right at him.

Builderman blinked. His brow furrowed.

“Bud? You good? Yer starin’ like I grew a pipe outta my skull.”

He reached up and pulled his shirt’s hem across his brow in one easy motion, wiping away sweat.

And oh god—

The motion dragged the fabric higher than intended.

007n7’s eyes scoured downward before he could stop himself, tracing the broad expanse of Builderman’s chest—firm, chiseled with muscle but softened by the faintest layer of well-earned weight, the kind that came with years of strength rather than vanity. Scars mapped his skin, some deep and jagged, others thin and silvered with time, each one a story 007n7 suddenly ached to know. His gaze dipped lower, following the trail of coarse, dark hair that led down past the waistband of his pants, and—

Oh no.

“W-wha—?!” 007n7 yelped, visibly combusting. His face lit up like it had been struck by lightning, heat roaring from his neck to the tips of his ears.

“I—I mean—no! N-no! I didn’t mean—uh—you’re not a pipe! Y-you’re—uh—you're dry! I mean—you should dry off! T-that’s what I meant!”

He thrust the towel like it was radioactive, smacking Builderman square in the chest with a damp flump.

Builderman caught it without even flinching, his fingers brushing against 007n7’s for a heartbeat too long, calloused and warm. The corner of his mouth twitching up into something far too amused and perplexed.

“…Right.” He nodded slowly, still holding his gaze, the low timbre of his voice curling around the word like smoke. “’Preciate the tactical towel.”

But 007n7 was already backpedaling—boots slipping on the tile, socks flailing, panic and something else crawling all over his face.

“Shower! R-right—I’ll just—go now! A-and you can—uh—t-towel off! I’m leaving now!”

He vanished around the corner with a slap of his own palm against his forehead and the sound of retreating footsteps thudding down the hallway in spiraling shame.

The bathroom fell quiet.

Builderman stood there for a long beat, then looked down at the towel in his hand.

A short, breathless chuckle left him.

“…Bud’s gonna short-circuit at this rate.”

He rubbed the towel over his face, chuckling under his breath—but the grin lingered.

Turning to the mirror, he splashed water on his neck, reaching for the back of his head where sweat still clung.

Only then did he notice.

His shirt.

Soaked from the pipe water, clinging to his chest like a second skin—was completely see-through under the light. His chest hair. His scars marring his body. His ribs. Everything was on display.

“…Huh.”

He blinked at his reflection, then leaned in with a faint frown.

“That’s what scrambled his system?” he muttered, brows lifting.

Another moment passed.

Then the smirk returned.

“All them years dodgin’ bans, and it’s a wet tee that does ‘im in.”

He chuckled to himself, a deep, warm sound low in his chest. With a resigned grunt, he toweled off as best he could, wrung out the hem of his shirt, then he stooped to pack up his tools—wrench, sealant, spare couplings. His motions were efficient, automatic, the way only a man who’d rebuilt half a server hub by hand could be.

Helmet. Headphones. Tools.

He made for the door.

The pavement outside was almost dry now. Only a faint sheen of water lingered in the cracks between tiles, clinging stubbornly to corners like it didn’t want to leave. Builderman noted it absently as he stepped outside, toolbox in one hand, towel slung over his shoulder. The worst of the flood was gone. Still, the hacker might need to run a mop through one last time, just to be sure.

He had nearly reached the front entrance when something darted into his path.

A blur. Small. Sudden.

Builderman stopped short and squinted downward.

A child stood in front of him. Scrappy. Slight. A too-large T-shirt hanging crooked off one shoulder. Clawed fingers. Mismatched socks. Big head. Big eyes. Tail twitching behind him like a miswired physics joint.

He blinked once.

“…C00lkidd?” he muttered, like sayin’ it out loud made it any less ridiculous.

The kid puffed up like a proud pigeon and threw his arms wide, blocking the way with all the dignity of a backyard raccoon in a crown.

Builderman’s eye twitched. “What in blazes kinda name is that—” He caught himself. Right. 007n7. That explained everything.

“What d’you want, runt? Yer blockin’ my path.”

C00lkidd didn’t move. He planted his feet like a mini-wall and crossed his arms, tail curling behind him in a lazy figure-eight.

“Papa said you gotta stay for DINNER!”

Builderman stared at him.

Then sighed. Long. Deep. From somewhere under five hours of pipe work, a damp shirt, and no caffeine.

“Nope,” he said flatly, already stepping to the side. “Tell yer dad I’m too tired for pretendin’ for niceties. Been knee-deep in rust an’ rot, got three reports to push, a shirt that needs burnin’, and a bunk callin’ my name. I’m clockin’ out.”

But C00lkidd didn’t move.

Instead, he repeated it. Louder. Slower. Like Builderman was the child now.

“Daaaaaad saaaaid—it’s dinner TIME! You gotta STAAAY!”

Builderman narrowed his eyes. “I heard ya. Just choosin’ to ignore you.”

He attempted a sidestep. Too slow.

In a flash, C00lkidd latched onto his leg like a barnacle with claws. Arms wrapped tight. Tail wound around his ankle like living rope.

“Oh, for Lua’s sake—”

He grunted, dragging one boot forward, the child now attached like downloadable content gone wrong. Movement was possible—but not efficient. It felt like trying to haul a fridge with a leash made of spaghetti.

“Yer twice as stubborn as yer old man, an’ half as polite.”

“If you leave…” C00lkidd declared dramatically, “I won’t get ICE CREAM!! And then I’ll be sad forever!!”

“What’s that gotta do with me, yer father, and this hostage situation?” Builderman grunted.

He tried another step. This time, C00lkidd kicked out a leg and hooked a claw into the doorframe, locking them both in place like a makeshift trap. His tail tightened, tail physics going rogue.

“I’ve wrangled hackers, outcoded malware, patched a sentient cultist that tried to unionize—I ain’t gettin’ pinned down by a five-pound menace with socks.”

He gave one more heave, jaw clenched, toolbox swinging.

Then—

“Please.”

Not from the kid.

Builderman froze.

He stared between the two of them—one latched onto his leg like a koala with an agenda, the other standing stiffly in the kitchen doorway with a full tray of steaming turkey balanced between gloved hands.

007n7’s face was flushed, and not just from oven heat. His posture screamed regret, like he was mentally cataloging every poor life decision that led to this very moment.

The hallway was still, save for the low sizzle of roasting skin and the soft tick-tick of the ancient wall clock.

Builderman exhaled slowly through his nose.

And yet—somehow—the absurdity of it all felt... unsettlingly familiar. Ridiculous, awkward, chaotic... but domestic. Like walking into a sitcom that hadn’t yet decided whether it was a comedy or a tragedy.

Builderman blinked.

That word—domestic—left something twisting low in his gut.

His eyes drifted again to 007n7. The way the apron was tied lopsidedly around his waist. The nervous glance he kept sneaking past the tray. A smear of flour on his elbow like he’d never even noticed it. The quiet, fumbling effort behind it all.

Builderman quickly looked away.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Did he just think—

Cute?

He scowled instantly, like the thought had committed a crime.

And yet the idea stayed, hovering in his mind like a bugged interface window that refused to close.

“I-It’s not much, I know, but… this is the only way I really know how to say thank you.” he said, eyes not quite meeting his. “Could you—um—could you let me have this? Just once? Just… one meal. I even sliced fruit. You said you’d eat that...”

No flattery. No performance. Just honesty, worn thin with cautious hope—like he expected to be turned down anyway.

That was the part that stung the most.

Builderman frowned, the tension in his jaw visible. For all the hacker's clumsy eagerness, there was something real in that request. And despite his hard-edged exterior, Builderman was still human.

He hesitated. A long beat.

The longer he stuck around this mess, the more complicated it would become.

But still…

He sighed, deeply.

Then glanced down.

C00lkidd was still wrapped around his shin like a glitch that gained sentience.

“Alright, runt. You can detach now.”

C00lkidd peered up at him with squinted suspicion. “You’re staying?”

“Yeah.”

“Not gonna run away?”

“Ain’t plannin’ on it.”

That was all the confirmation he needed.

With a high-pitched whoop, the kid launched off his leg like a spring-loaded bear trap releasing. Builderman barely kept his balance.

“MISTER BUILDER SAID YES!! DAAAAAD, HE’S STAAAAYING!! I KNEW the leg grab would work! ICE CREEEAAAM!!!”

C00lkidd tore across the living room at lightspeed, limbs flailing, voice bouncing off the walls in every possible frequency. He ricocheted off a couch cushion, spun midair like a fidget spinner, landed with a thud, then kept running.

Builderman stayed frozen in the hallway, staring at the unfolding chaos like it was a natural disaster in progress.

“…Dear God.”

007n7, still holding the tray, gave an awkward laugh and placed it carefully on the counter. He rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders hunched.

“Th-that… that wasn’t supposed to happen. I usually try to ration it—honest! I didn’t think he’d find the stash again...”

“You gave that thing sugar?!” Builderman turned with genuine horror.

“I didn’t mean to—really! It was just this once.” 007n7 winced. “I-I thought I locked the drawer, but I must’ve… I must’ve forgotten.”

Just then, C00lkidd performed a flawless front flip off the arm of the couch and landed in a houseplant.

Builderman’s face twisted somewhere between horror and reluctant admiration.

“You’ve got a lively one there.”

“He’s, um… he’s a bit of a handful.” 007n7 looked fondly exhausted. “But he means well. I promise. He’s got… he’s got a really good heart.”

Builderman watched the kid attempt a wall run, fail, and then laugh about it while tangled in a curtain.

“…I’ll take your word for it.”

And yet, he didn’t leave.

He stepped further in. Quiet. Steady. Like entering a zone that might still be booby-trapped. He set his toolbox gently by the shoe rack, then tucked his helmet beneath one arm with slow, practiced care.

For just a second—before C00lkidd attempted to vault over the couch and got stuck halfway—the world paused.

Their eyes met.

Builderman looked at him. Really looked. Not the hacker. Just... him.

And 007n7, red-cheeked and breathless, gave him the smallest smile.

Soft. Hopeful. Grateful.

Builderman cleared his throat and looked away.

“So… that turkey the whole plan, or you got somethin’ with carbs too?”

007n7 blinked. Then straightened up like he’d been granted divine mercy.

“Y-Yeah! I made fries—there’s veggies too—and, um, this casserole? I think it’s casserole. It’s not burnt, if that helps…”

Builderman grunted, arms crossed.

“…Guess I’ll be the judge of that.”

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

Dinner wasn’t what most would call traditional.

The centerpiece was a slightly overcooked turkey—its skin crisp but unevenly browned—flanked by a greasy halo of French fries and a precarious tower of cheeseburgers stacked like a tribute to bad decisions. A lopsided casserole sagged sadly in its tray, corners burnt and middle still questionable, while a suspicious bowl of sliced fruit sat unnervingly close to Builderman’s plate, like it had been placed there deliberately.

The whole plate arrangement was unnaturally symmetrical, as if someone had followed a how-to guide without understanding the “why” behind the “how.”

Builderman stared, giving a slow, unimpressed blink. Not exactly a farmhouse supper… but he’d eaten worse. Way worse.

Across the table, 007n7 sat stiff as a crash log. He kept adjusting his glasses—then fiddling with a spoon, despite the absence of anything that warranted one. His knees were pressed together, back straight, like he was bracing for something to go terribly wrong.

“So…” 007n7 started, a little too loud, a little too hopeful. “Um… so—just checking, but you’re not allergic to processed cheese, right? Or—uh—anything else I might’ve, um, accidentally included?”

Builderman grunted. It might’ve been a laugh. “Lived through bombs, breach loops, an’ Telamon’s chili night. This ain’t gonna kill me.”

C00lkidd giggled from beside him, ketchup smeared across his cheek like war paint. "I helped Papa! I stirred the mushy stuff!"

“That so?” Builderman muttered, prodding a fry with the edge of his fork. It crumbled into greasy dust. He stared at it for a beat, jaw shifting like he wanted to say I can tell, but held it back out of mercy. Social restraint. Or pity.

Silence descended again. The overhead light flickered, the hum in the ceiling growing just loud enough to be annoying. Somewhere in the vents, a drip echoed.

Builderman leaned back with a sigh, arms folding as he eyed the two across from him. “So… you n’ the run, huh.” His voice was casual, but low. Testing. “That one yours?”

007n7 froze.

Builderman continued, tone dry. “Didn’t get the chance t’ask back at the burnin’ Pizzeria. Had a ceilin’ fallin’ on me, and the shock of seein’ you again. But you? Settlin’ down? Now that threw me.”

“I—what? I mean—!” 007n7 nearly knocked over his cup trying to sit straighter. “Y-Yes! I mean—sort of? I-I didn’t go through, like, a formal process or anything, but I try my best…”

Builderman raised a brow.

007n7 floundered. “I-I mean—I cook for him! And help with homework, when I can—uh, assuming it’s not… you know, completely stickered over…”

C00lkidd beamed like a kid who just got praised at Show and Tell. “Papa’s the best ever!” he declared proudly, thumping his little fists on the table. “He makes me stacky sandwiches! Four layers! I counted!"

Builderman’s mouth twitched. “Real… responsible of ya.”

There wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in his voice, but C00lkidd lit up anyway, happily shoving another soggy fry in his mouth.

"And he makes up bedtime stories! And he tucks me in the funny way—feet first!"

“We’ve been, um, working on bedtime structure,” he mumbled, clearly trying to salvage something from this spiral. “A-And nutrition! I—I sneak in vegetables now and then—he just doesn’t always notice…”

He turned, flustered. “Son—can you chew with your mouth closed? Please?”

C00lkidd, halfway through cramming an entire cheeseburger into his face, blinked guiltily. He frowned, pulled the burger back, and took a significantly more dignified bite. It made an awful squelch.

Builderman leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table. His voice dropped, dry as cracked concrete.

“Yeah? Counted four peas on my plate. Right next to the fruit. Still too damn close, by the way.”

007n7 wilted. “I—I thought maybe the symmetry might make things feel… a little more welcoming? Maybe?”

The man looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and never resurface. He made a soft, strangled sound—something between a groan and a wheeze.

But then, the tension cracked—just a little.

C00lkidd let out another bubbling giggle, his feet swinging beneath the table like a metronome out of sync. The ketchup on his cheek had now spread to his temple somehow. Across from him, Builderman caught the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of 007n7’s lips—brief, restrained, and gone just as quickly.

Builderman cleared his throat. Loud. Deliberate. “So.” He leaned an elbow against the table, fork still in hand like a reluctant gavel. “Kid’s got a real knack for messin’ with the C00lgui. That your doin’, too?”

007n7 blinked—caught off guard. “I—um, well—”

“Yup!” C00lkidd declared proudly before the hesitation could settle. “Papa shows me cool sparkly codes! I can do blip-blip—watch this—!"

Builderman’s brow arched. Sharp. Accusatory. Like a siren had gone off.

007n7 flinched, holding both hands up defensively before the kid could demonstrate. “N-No! I—I only showed him some harmless test scripts! He looked bored most of the time and kept hovering when I worked, so I thought—maybe something simple, supervised, educational might help? I didn’t think he’d try anything on his own—!”

“That,” Builderman said, voice flat and cutting, “there’s still mighty damn irresponsible.”

The rebuke landed like a weight. 007n7 visibly deflated—shoulders shrinking inward, gaze dropping to the table. He looked like a kicked dog, biting back any excuse before it formed.

“Runt knew what he was doin’ up there when the Pizzeria caught flame,” Builderman went on, each word like a tool hitting the bench. “Knows the how. Not the why. That’s the part that burns ya. Hand a kid matches, don’t be surprised when somethin’ catches he can’t put out.”

“I—I promise, it won’t happen again…” 007n7 said suddenly—quiet, desperate. He looked up, hands clenched tight in his lap. “Please… don’t take him from me. He’s all I’ve got.”

Builderman froze.

The fork in his hand lowered. Something cracked—not loud, but real—under his ribcage.

For a second, he said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected… that. Not the way 007n7’s voice shook. Not the way he looked like he was ready to lose everything.

Then—

shlck.

A soggy fry was suddenly crammed into his mouth by a tiny, ketchup-covered hand.

Builderman choked. Coughed. Swallowed hard.

“There ya go!” C00lkidd grinned up at him, innocent and beaming. “Mister Builder! You looked starvin'! You didn’t even eat Papa’s bestest fry!"

007n7 went pale. “Son! Y-You can’t just—just put food in someone’s mouth without asking!”

Builderman raised a hand—slowly—signaling him to stop. He chewed. Grimaced faintly. Swallowed again, then finally muttered:

“…Tastes… passable.”

He closed his eyes, as if that helped the flavor go down easier.

C00lkidd puffed up with pride. "Told ya! Papa’s food makes ya strong!”

007n7 sagged in his chair, shoulders dropping like overloaded RAM finally clearing. He gave a breathy laugh—quiet and shaken—and let himself smile. Just a little.

Builderman didn’t smile back.

But… he didn’t scowl either.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

From there, the ice began to thaw—slow, uneven, but steady.

Conversation drifted from clumsy pleasantries into something with rhythm. They sifted through scraps of admin lore like old techheads unearthing buried treasure—blueprints from pre-purge eras, unstable machine models, half-functioning prototypes only they seemed to remember. Talk of custom-coded overrides, jury-rigged dispensers, and the strange bugs that bloomed when you patched legacy cores into modern systems.

Builderman’s voice was the anchor—gruff, dry, and to the point. 007n7 fumbled to fill in the silences, stammering through tangents and apologetic corrections. It wasn’t seamless, but there was movement—like two mismatched gears grinding their way into sync.

“Protocol 6B—yeah, that’s the one. Ran hot on every iteration,” Builderman muttered, dabbing a grease smear off his glove with a napkin. “Even back ‘fore the wipe. Telamon used t’call it a toaster with ambition.”

007n7’s face lit up.“Y-Yes! That’s the one—I, uh, I tried to retrofit it into a dispenser core after the admin firewalls went down, and it technically worked, but then it, um…” He scratched behind his ear, wincing. “...it started launching missiles at anything it flagged as hostile. B-By mistake, I swear—”

Builderman froze mid-chew. His jaw tightened. Slowly, he set the rest of his burger down. “So that was you, huh.”

“...Y-Yeah. That… that was me.” 007n7 murmured, shrinking behind his glasses. “I—I didn’t mean for it to escalate. I’m, um… I’m really sorry about that.”

A pause. Builderman chewed once. Twice. Then leaned back with a long exhale through his nose.

“Hit Telamon,” he said at last, deadpan. “Glitch had it comin’. Whined two weeks straight over a scratch. Didn’t even nick ‘im proper.”

He rolled his eyes, half amused. “Wouldn’t shut up ‘bout it either. Said he saw his life flash before his eyes.”

007n7 let out a small, nervous laugh. “Yeah… that definitely sounds like him.”

A faint smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. He glanced down at his plate, and for once, the silence between them didn’t feel unbearable.

Meanwhile, C00lkidd was swinging his legs under the table like a wind-up toy on overdrive, cheeks puffed full of cheeseburger. In between bites, he puffed out his chest and declared, voice sticky with crumbs:

“Guess what! The fridge talks now!”

Builderman blinked.

“It says ‘Why am I cold?’ all the time now!” C00lkidd added proudly, mouth still half full, “He’s learning, I think!”

There was a beat.

Builderman stared at him, then gave a low grunt—half chuckle, half disbelief.

“You did, huh?” He gave a slow nod, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Well… that’s somethin’. Bit advanced, ain’t it?”

He squinted. “How old’re you supposed to be again?”

“Ten!” C00lkidd beamed, legs swinging harder.

Builderman’s brow twitched. His eyes slid sideways—toward 007n7, who suddenly found the tablecloth pattern deeply compelling.

“It’s, uh… loosely accurate. Technically.” 007n7 murmured, adjusting his glasses with a nervous flick. “I had to disable the voicebox after it started reciting poetry at three in the morning. Called me a ‘glass of moonlight.’ Nearly gave me a heart attack on the way to the sink.”

“I miss him,” C00lkidd mumbled, squishing his burger like it could bring the fridge back.

Builderman snorted, shaking his head as he leaned back, one arm draped across the back of his chair.

“Yer raisin’ a whole disaster class of yer own.”

“I—I’m doing what I can. I know it’s not perfect…” 007n7 muttered, half-defensive, half-defeated. He nudged a few fries into a neat line, then sighed softly. “Parenting’s a lot harder than I thought it’d be. But I wouldn’t trade any of it. I wouldn’t trade him. He’s… he’s everything.”

Builderman’s breath stuttered.

The words settled into the quiet between them—heavy, unflinching, undeniable. A truth he had spent years avoiding, now sitting across the table like a ghost finally acknowledged.

Across from him, 007n7’s son—cheeks smeared with ketchup, fingers glossy with grease—grinned up at his father, blissfully unaware of the weight hanging in the air. A lone fry dangled precariously from his grip before he crammed it into his mouth with all the grace of a raccoon loose in a trash heap.

007n7 didn’t scold him. Didn’t sigh or fuss. Instead, his lips twitched into a helpless, aching smile as he reached over, thumb brushing a crumb from the boy’s chin with a tenderness so profound it made Builderman’s chest ache.

This is love, Builderman realized. Not the grand, unshakable ideals he had built his empire upon, but this—messy, imperfect, relentless. A father’s hands, calloused from battle yet gentle with his child. A man who had once been a villain, now softened by the weight of fatherhood, by the quiet joy of being needed.

And John…

John had needed him too.

The memory struck like a blade between the ribs. His son’s laughter, bright and fleeting. The way John had looked at him in those final days—not with anger, but with a quiet, resigned sorrow.

You were always too late.

Builderman’s fingers curled into his palm, nails biting into flesh. He had been so certain that justice was black and white, that redemption was a myth spun by the guilty to ease their conscience.

But here, in this dimly lit kitchen, with the scent of salt and grease thick in the air, he saw the cracks in his own dogma.

If a man like 007n7—once rogue, now reaching for his son with open hands—could change… then what did that make him? A martyr with no one left to mourn him? A father who had let go too soon, because he was too afraid to admit he didn’t know how to hold on?

The world blurred at the edges.

007n7 glanced up, catching the shift in his expression. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t press. Just studied him for a moment, then quietly slid the half-eaten basket of fries across the table. A gesture. An offering. No words, just an understanding.

Builderman took one. It was cold.

“…’Preciate it,” he muttered, voice low like gravel.

007n7 offered a soft, lopsided smile. “I—I can tell you’re hurting,” he murmured. “And, um… I’m not much. Just someone trying to give the kind of kindness I… I wish someone gave me. Maybe if I do that, the next person’ll pass it on. I—I hope so, at least.”

It was left unsaid the words about how he didn’t deserve kindness anyway, but—

Builderman’s heart thudded in his chest—once, then again. Slow. Heavy. A sound he hadn’t really noticed in years.

I see you’re hurting.

No one had said that to him. Not in years. Not with such quiet understanding, stripped of pity or judgment. It wasn’t the tone of an adversary, nor the hollow sympathy of a distant ally. It was just… human. Raw. The kind of kindness that came from someone who had known loneliness too well.

He stared at 007n7—really looked at him. Past the horns and the half-scuffed glasses, past the admin badge and the hacker’s reputation. He saw the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the table when his son wasn’t demanding his attention. He saw the faint scar along his jawline, the way his shoulders carried the weight of a thousand regrets.

And suddenly, 007n7 wasn’t just an opponent, a troublemaker, a figure in the grand chess game of justice and defiance.

He was just a man.

A man who had made mistakes. A man who had loved and lost and was still trying, despite everything.

A man like him, whose kindness blinded Builderman completely. How could someone who went through hell and back, who had been spite incarnate be as gentle, patient and emphatic?

A kindness meant for no one but Builderman. An admin, a former relic of the Martyl of justice who had banned 007n7 with his own hands.

Builderman’s throat tightened. He had spent so long seeing the world in roles—heroes and villains, admins and hackers, fathers and failures—that he had forgotten what it was to stand on even ground with another soul. To share something as simple as a dinner and a moment of silence

007n7’s son giggled, smearing ketchup across the table like an abstract painting. Without thinking, Builderman reached out, catching a napkin before it could flutter to the floor. He handed it to the boy, who blinked at him with wide, curious eyes before promptly using it to wipe his nose. “Thanks, Mister Builder!”

007n7 gave a small, sheepish smile at his son’s response, then glanced toward Builderman, mouthing a soft thank you—just barely above a breath.

And then—impossibly—Builderman chuckled. A soft, startled sound, rusty from disuse.

“Heh. Little runt’s got manners.”

It felt like coming up for air after years underwater.

He didn’t know what this meant. Didn’t know if forgiveness was possible—for 007n7, for himself, for the past that hung between them like a ghost. But for the first time, he wondered if it could be.

If people weren’t just their worst mistakes.

If maybe, just maybe, they could also be this.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

Somewhere in the middle of a tangent about corrupted diagnostic tools—after that hard-to-name moment between them had passed—Builderman broke the silence again. A shift in tone. Like he was trying to patch over the crack he’d just let show. Maybe even regretting how much of himself he’d revealed.

An admin like him wasn’t supposed to slip.

But he had.

And in front of him, no less.

So he tossed it out casually, like spare scrap meant for the junk pile:

“Speakin’ of Protocols… had an old rig I used t’take fishin’. Thing’d overheat if the wind hit the coils wrong.”

007n7 blinked, halfway through wiping casserole crumbs off his sleeve. “...Y-You go fishing?”

Builderman paused mid-chew. Realized what he’d just admitted. Then shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “Yeah. Been fishin’ since before I could code. Out by the edge, ain’t much else t’do out near the map’s edge ‘cept toss a line n’ wait.”

A beat. Quiet. Only the faint clatter of cutlery and the hum of a broken ceiling fan overhead.

“…I—I fish too,” 007n7 said, almost surprised to hear himself say it. “It’s quiet. Peaceful. Helps me think, sometimes. And, uh… I really like the sound the reel makes when it clicks into place. It’s… soothing. Kind of.”

His hands fidgeted slightly beneath the table, thumbs brushing his fingertips. “I even coded a plugin to loop the reel-click noise. Just so I could hear it while I was, um… hiding. From everything, really.”

He glanced up, but Builderman wasn’t mocking him. So he kept going.

“I didn’t think I’d catch anything, but a couple of Datalures bit. And once, there was this weird... thing. It had eight fins, maybe? And a heat signature almost identical to a broken vault bot. I still don’t know if it was organic or just corrupted scrap with fins. It—”

He stopped short. Realized. Flushed. “...Ah—sorry. I rambled again, didn’t I?”

Builderman didn’t respond right away. Just gave him a long, baffled look. Not sharp. Not unkind. Just… genuinely unsure what to do with all that.

Then, to 007n7’s absolute horror, Builderman chuckled.

“That’s the nerdiest damn thing I’ve heard,” he said, tone dry but—somehow—almost fond. “Didn’t peg you for the type, Seven.”

007n7’s brain blue-screened.

He blinked. Color flushed across his ears. “I-I don’t always talk like that, I just—sometimes I, um…”

Builderman kept going, unbothered. “If it’s quiet you’re after, there’s a spot west of here. Just past the Glitchwoods. No dock, but the lake’s still. Real clear. Ain’t many know it but me.”

007n7 sat very still. “Th-That… actually sounds really nice,” he managed. His voice cracked slightly at the edges. “I, um… might give it a try. Maybe.”

Steam from the casserole was fogging his glasses. He didn’t dare reach up to wipe them.

C00lkidd, completely oblivious, perked up with his fork still in hand. “Fish is so good when it’s all crispy!” he announced proudly. “I dip mine in ketchup. Makes it fancy.”

Builderman raised a brow. “Fish with ketchup?”

“Mhm!” C00lkidd beamed. “One time I dipped it in soda. Papa said it was illegal. Still tasted like victory.”

007n7 sighed, sliding the serving spoon over. “I guess… it counts? Though it’s, um… mildly cursed,” he said, nudging a few more greens onto the boy’s plate. “Still… you could use something a bit more nutritious.”

“Green stuff tastes like sadness. It’s crunchy and it judges me.” C00lkidd whined, flopping sideways across his chair like a dramatic, gasping fish. “It’s crunchy depression!!”

“You said the same about broccoli—and you liked that,” he reminded softly. “So… do you want to give this one a second try? Or do I need to break out the airplane routine?”

C00lkidd groaned, long and loud. “Fiiiine… but I’m only doing it ‘cause Mister Builder’s watching.”

Builderman blinked, mid-bite. “Ain’t my battle, runt. Sort yer greens out yerself.”

But he didn’t sound annoyed.

If anything, he sounded amused.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

And then, as the late rays of the sun dipped low across the cracked windowpanes, Builderman paused mid-sentence.

The worn booth creaked beneath him as he shifted slightly. His gaze lifted from the tablecloth to the scene across the table. One anxious, wide-eyed 007n7 was awkwardly fussing with a napkin that refused to fold properly. C00lkidd—a bundle of unchecked energy—was stacking french fries like building blocks, narrating loudly about turning the microwave into a mech suit “with lasers and wheels and maybe also snacks inside.”

For a brief, startling moment, something stirred in Builderman's chest.

Warmth.

Not the fire-and-smoke kind he was used to, but something gentler. Something domestic. A quiet peace he hadn’t known he missed—hadn’t even realized was missing—until just now.

He looked down at his half-eaten burger, steam curling off it like a sigh, then back at 007n7. The man was smiling—genuinely this time—as he nodded along to C00lkidd’s ramble, clearly making no sense of it, but content to be included.

Builderman didn’t say anything. He just leaned back, let the noise wash over him, and thought.

Yeah. I could get used to this.

He wasn’t sure when it had started—when the tension in his shoulders had eased, when the silence between them had turned from stiff to companionable. Maybe around the third time C00lkidd tried to balance a fry on his nose, determined to “become a walrus.” Or maybe when 007n7, with the quiet precision of someone who’d done it a dozen times before, tried to sneak a spoonful of peas into his son’s bowl while the boy was mid-rant again.

C00lkidd caught him instantly.

“Daaaad!” he cried, scandalized.

007n7 jolted upright like he’d been caught committing treason. “It was just one! You need fiber—!”

“You betrayed me!” C00lkidd wailed dramatically. He grabbed a fry and hurled it like a throwing star across the diner. It hit the peeling wall with a soft, unimpressive splat.

Builderman let out a laugh.

Not a scoff. Not a dry exhale through his nose. A real laugh—open, low, and surprised even himself with how freely it came.

007n7’s head snapped toward him like he’d misheard. The surprise in his expression was clear—as if laughter had been the last thing he expected to hear from Builderman. But then… something flickered.

A change. A light in those usually wary eyes.

He smiled. Tentatively, but not shyly. A real smile. No nervous lip twitch, no apology tucked behind his expression—just quiet warmth. Like sunlight peeking out after rain.

It tugged at something strange in Builderman’s chest.

He looked away too fast, as if he’d accidentally stared too long at something fragile.

But it was too late.

That smile was seared into him now—like a memory that didn’t quite belong to the present. A maybe. A might-have-been. A hope.

Outside, the golden hour draped the world in molten stripes. The light spilled through the glass in bands of honey and copper, catching on C00lkidd’s tousled hair and round cheeks, still puffed out from chewing. It softened the corners of 007n7’s face too—lifting the tiredness, easing the ever-present tension.

They looked… happy.

Stupidly. Unremarkably. Beautifully happy.

Just a father and son. Just a quiet kitchen in a place that smelled faintly of burnt oil, and—

—and Builderman’s heart twisted.

Twisted hard. Tied itself into a knot that wouldn’t quite come undone.

He shouldn’t be feeling this way.

He shouldn’t be thinking about how the heat of the room felt good on his skin, how the clatter of plates and faint giggles filled a space in his chest he hadn’t realized was hollow. He shouldn’t be noticing the low hum of the broken fridge motor, how it sounded less like a nuisance and more like—like ambience. A backdrop. A home.

But he did.

And what scared him more than anything… was how easy it was to imagine doing this again.

He’d always thought eating was just another task. Fuel. A maintenance routine. Something to shovel in after hours lost combing through incident reports or fixing someone else’s failure. After the boy… it had become mechanical. Cold sandwiches standing up. Bread like cardboard. Coffee that tasted more like punishment than comfort.

But this?

This was warm.

Not hot. Not loud. Not dazzling. Just… warm. The kind that snuck in through your coat and settled in your ribs. The kind that melted something frozen you didn’t even know was there. The kind that made you forget, just for a moment, what it felt like to eat alone.

He could get used to this.

Builderman’s hand clenched faintly around the sweating side of his glass. The ice had melted, the cola flat. He didn’t care.

He could get used to the way C00lkidd’s laughter spiked high whenever he managed to steal an extra fry off 007n7’s plate. To the soft, hesitant edge in 007n7’s voice, becoming clearer and firmer when he explained how toaster coils worked, or how technically microwaves were just small particle accelerators if you squinted hard enough.

To the flickers of emotion on that face—usually guarded, polite, tucked away like a file he didn’t expect anyone to open—surfacing when he thought no one was looking.

He could—

He stopped himself.

Exhaled slow through his nose, grounding the thought before it could bloom into anything worse. Anything dangerous. His gaze flicked upward.

007n7 was still wiping gravy off C00lkidd’s chin with the corner of a napkin, murmuring something under his breath. His hand was gentle. Practiced. Almost instinctual, the way he tilted the boy’s chin, eyes scanning for crumbs with the soft frustration of someone who’d done this a hundred times and would do it a hundred more.

Builderman looked away again.

No. This wasn’t meant to be anything. He was just here to fix a leak. Old report, low priority, sat ignored in admin queues for years until someone finally tagged him in frustration. Faulty plumbing, flickering lights. A building barely clinging to function in a district half the world forgot existed.

That’s all this was.

Still… he didn’t stand up.

Didn’t leave.

Didn’t excuse himself with a grunt or an unfinished sentence.

Instead, he reached for another slice of turkey.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The plates were empty before any of them had noticed.

Conversation had carried them through the last bites—soft, meandering talk about scorched battlefields, stubborn machine parts, and half-silly theories on how long you could power a defense turret with nothing but potato batteries.

C00lkidd had insisted it was at least twelve minutes, “if the potatoes were angry enough.”

At some point, the boy had jumped down from his chair with a clatter, fingers sticky with grease and ketchup, and clumsily dumped his plate into the sink—then took off toward the living room like a launched projectile, dragging a rattling toy rover behind him that whirred and beeped every time it hit a corner.

“Zoom mode: engaged!” he shouted over his shoulder, already halfway to turning the couch into a warzone.

007n7 started to rise, instinctively gathering cutlery with awkward precision.

But Builderman simply grunted and motioned for him to sit back down, a calloused hand raised briefly.

“Don’t go fussin’. Ain’t no need t’rush.”

Maybe he didn’t want to leave just yet. Maybe some part of him wanted to let the moment stretch a little longer—this strange, fragile calm.

But eventually, as all moments do, it ended.

The door creaked open. The late light spilled across the hall tiles. 007n7 stood there, fingers twisting nervously at the edge of his sleeve, his voice soft and uncertain—too small for someone carrying so much weight behind the eyes.

“Thank you again. For… stopping by. And for not, um… not turning us in. Again. And for the pipe—I think we would’ve been evicted without it.”

His gaze met Builderman’s—no trace of defiance, only worn-down fear, weary gratitude… and something softer beneath it. Something unguarded. As if, for the first time, he no longer expected Builderman to strike.

Builderman hesitated, expression unreadable.

“Just came by t’patch a busted pipe.” he said gruffly. “Routine admin rounds, that’s all.”

But even he didn’t believe that. His voice lacked the usual certainty, like the sentence had been dragged out of someone else’s throat. Like it didn’t belong to the same man who’d stepped into this apartment hours ago with cold metal resolve.

“Ah. Of course,” 007n7 mumbled, nodding a little too quickly. “Routine. That makes sense.”

A beat.

Then C00lkidd slid back into the frame like a chaotic comet, ice cream smeared across his face, one hand waving wildly while the other clutched the treat 007n7 had promised him if he could convince Builderman to stay.

“BYEEEE Mister Builder!! Next time I’m gonna build somethin’ SO COOL you’ll go WHOAAA and your jaw’s gonna fall off and smash the floor and then we gotta fix the floor and I’ll fix it with even COOLER stuff and then it’ll go WHOAAA again!!”

Builderman blinked at the sheer velocity of the goodbye. Despite himself… he chuckled.

“Lookin’ forward t’seein’ it, kiddo.”

He gave them one last nod before turning away. His voice was low but firm as he addressed the scattered residents in the hallway, “Pipe’s holdin’ steady. Y’won’t see another drop. Go on, yer safe t’head back in.”

There were murmured thanks—some cautious, others genuine—as they passed him, stepping gingerly over the last of the pooled water. One of the kids waved. Someone clapped him briefly on the shoulder.

Then—quietly, without ceremony—Builderman stepped out into the alley.

His boots landed heavy on the cracked tile, metal ringing faint against the wet concrete. Rust clung to the walls. The rain had stopped, but the smell of ozone still lingered in the air.

He exhaled and reached for his wrench.

The old thing hummed as it powered on, its handle vibrating faintly in his palm. A shimmering portal bloomed at the far end of the alley—light rippling outward like a curtain drawing itself open in reverse. Soft pulses echoed from the vortex, inviting him back.

Back to the Vanguard.

Back to the hotel.

Back to what he knew.

He should’ve walked through.

He didn’t.

Builderman paused, hand still gripping the wrench. Shoulders squared. Gaze locked forward, but unfocused—like he was staring through the portal instead of at it.

And there, standing motionless, he realized something simple.

Something terrifying.

Not once.

Not once during that whole damn night—dinner, repairs, the noise, the chaos—not even when 007n7 had stood beside him in nothing but socks and nervous laughter, not once had he even considered arresting him.

Not when he had the chance.

Not when the man was unguarded. Distracted. Relaxed.

He hadn’t reached for his badge.

Hadn’t called it in.

Hadn’t even thought about it.

He’d… laughed. He’d eaten. He’d listened.

And that scared him more than any glitch or godspawn ever could.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He was Builderman. The enforcer. The admin who held the line when no one else would. He had drawn borders in blood and code, carved the law into stone with his bare hands. He’d written the damn script.

And yet now—

His grip on the wrench tightened.

His jaw locked.

But instead of picturing the badge… or the gavel… or the hammer of justice he’d lived by for so long—

All he saw was 007n7’s hand.

Resting in his. Fragile. Hesitant. Trusting.

Warm.

A whisper clawed its way up from somewhere deep—somewhere buried beneath rust and grief and all the things he'd shoved away for years.

Do you really deserve it?

His breath hitched. The wrench slipped half an inch in his grip.

You lost yer' son.

His vision swam.

And you think you don’t deserve t’be lonely?

It was his voice. Not distorted. Not corrupted.

Just him.

Him, staring back with all the judgment and spite he knew he’d earned.

His shoulders shook. His throat tightened.

You let John vanish.

No.

You failed him.

No.

And now you reckon you get to start over?

His knuckles went white on the wrench.

You think you get to feel somethin’ again?

The world narrowed, tunneled—sounds folding in like static.

Yer care. Yer love. It kills the others.

He staggered, barely able to breathe.

The weight of the wrench, of the world, of everything he'd ever done—it all dragged him down.

Then—

BUZZ-BUZZ.

The illusion shattered like glass.

Builderman flinched hard, nearly dropping the wrench as his comm buzzed violently against his hip. The sound cut through the night like an alarm—shrill, urgent, unwelcome.

He muttered a sharp curse under his breath, hands still shaking and eyes narrowing against the glare of the interface screen as it lit up the otherwise dark hallway. The metal of the wrench was still warm from the faulty pipe he'd just sealed earlier. Somewhere behind him, the hiss of steam hissed its final note, fading into silence.

MrDoombringer.

Of course.

He exhaled through his nose, long and slow, free hand pressing hard to his chest as if to still the spike in his heartbeat. His grip tightened around the phone.

“…Tch.” The breath left him in a tired rasp. “Ain’t even got a damn minute t’think.”

He stared at the name for a beat longer, thumb hovering just above the accept call prompt. Thought about ignoring it. Thought about throwing the thing into the nearest vent shaft.

Instead, he swiped the call open with a reluctant grumble. “Yeah?”

Static bled through first—low and fizzing—before the line stabilized. The image crackled, stabilizing into the dim red glow of HQ.

Doombringer sat square in the middle of it, dwarfed by his own command center. Half his face was lost in shadow, as always, the harsh monitor light catching only the curve of his red bucket hat and the sharp angle of his shoulder. The man was too damn big for the screen—only the top of his coat's collar and the glint of a glass in hand were visible.

Whiskey, if Builderman had to guess. Or something stronger.

Figures.

Builderman adjusted the strap on his toolkit as he stepped out through the warped portal arch, the metal edge crackling faintly behind him before sealing shut. His boots crunched against damp gravel, the air heavy with the scent of ozone and rain-soaked concrete.

“You’re buzzin’ in early, Doom.” he muttered, not stopping. The words came rough, worn, half-smirked beneath his breath as he started toward the distant glimmer of the house lights.

“If zis is ‘early’ to you, zen I mourn for ze very concept of punctuality.” Doombringer’s voice replied—crisp and cool, crackling faintly through the connection. Beneath the flatness was something dry. Almost teasing. “Zis is your idea of rest? Crawling through sewage like a moody janitor mit a martyr complex? Hah. Could’ve left zat to to ze demolitionist. Vas Taph’s job, nein? But no. You miss ze sludge. Of course you do. Nostalgia is a disease.”

Builderman slowed his stride, a frown knitting across his brow.

“Give the kid a break, will ya?” he said, tone clipped but not unkind. “He’s tryin’. Tossin’ him into deep ends every five minutes don’t teach nothin’ but drownin’.”

“Tell zat to Telamon.” Doombringer replied, dry as desert stone. “He thinks micromanagement is affection. I prefer subordinates who are… functional. Structurally und syntactically.”

He leaned forward, just enough for the faint gold gleam of his visor to catch the monitor’s glow. Crimson flickered at the edges—glitching like a firewall caught mid-compile. When he spoke, his voice dipped low, honed to a point.

“You always had a soft spot for ze demolitionist. Curious.” A slow pause. “Does he… remind you of someone?”

“Told ya—I’m on vacation, Doom.”

Builderman cut in before the rest could land. He didn’t raise his voice—never did unless absolutely necessary—but there was steel under the gravel now. Sharp. Final.

“You’re the one who pushed fer’ it,” he added, quieter now, stepping under a broken awning where water dripped in lazy intervals. “Off-duty. ‘Member?”

The comm line buzzed—not silence, exactly, but a thick static that seemed to pulse. The screen flickered.

Doombringer didn’t blink. Didn’t shift.

“…Mh,” he finally hummed. Just that. Then, slowly, “…Ja. Side quests. During ‘vacation’. So very restful.”

Builderman didn’t respond. His boots hit the curb with a thud as the alley gave way to cracked sidewalk. Up ahead, the hotel stood in its usual state of disrepair—three floors of faded glass and drywall barely holding together, the main sign blinking feebly. The ‘O’ pulsed like a dying heartbeat.

“You were meant to recharge.” Doombringer continued after a beat. “Not skulk off like sewer vermin mit a bruised shoulder und a martyr complex.”

He paused.

“But you… you do not know how to stop. Zat is your flaw.”

That earned him a short scoff. Dry. Humorless.

“Don’t reckon I ever learned how.” Builderman muttered.

He arched a brow, deliberately steering the conversation away—trying to keep the rising heat under the surface. Doombringer hadn’t meant it cruelly. He rarely did. That was the problem.

The man didn’t do emotions. Treated them like system bloat—useless clutter to be debugged.

Typical Doombringer. All hard edges and chain-of-command. No space for the messy parts.

Yet he’d still somehow managed to fall for another admin. Irony in its purest form.

Builderman pushed open the hotel door. The interior lights blinked on, dull and flickering, like they were just as tired as him.

Clockwork.

He didn’t say the name. Didn’t need to. It was always the first to rise in his mind when Doombringer started acting like this—blunt, overstepping, overworked. Builderman knew why they were drawn to each other. Clockwork had the calculation to match Doom’s rigidity, the sarcasm to wear down his silence, the strength to beat him—if it ever came to that—and Doom respected him for it.

But unlike Doom, Clockwork saw things. The fractures. The wear. The hesitation behind cold logic.

And lately, Clockwork had been watching.

Not suspicious. Something else. Sharper. Wounded.

Neither of them ever talked about what they were. That would’ve required vulnerability. But they lingered near each other like two bad habits. Each afraid to reach further, to ruin what little they had.

Builderman, tossing his damp hardhat onto the hook by the door, just sighed.

For someone like Clockwork to love someone as inflexible as Doom… he respected it. Pitied it, maybe.

Especially now. With the shift in Doom’s behavior, that gap between them was starting to widen.

The ventilation hummed overhead, a constant, tired drone.

“You insist you are off-duty—und yet, I see your logs.” Doombringer said at last, tone flattening into that familiar register of administrative disapproval. “Outer quadrant. Level 3. Infrastructure no one cares about. Zat vas not ze assignment. You should be more like me. I am taking Clockwork on a date. Zat is restful.”

Builderman crossed the room, peeling the lid off a long-abandoned coffee cup. The brew was tepid and bitter, but he drank it anyway.

“You’re the one always grousin’ ‘bout folks not fixin’ nothin’ out there,” he said, voice low. “Well, I fixed it. Ain’t that what ya wanted? Gotta keep my hands busy, else I go stir-crazy. You ain’t no better, Doom. We’re both workhorses—always have been.”

A beat.

“Builderman.”

The name dropped like a warning—calm but clipped, the way Doom always said it when he wanted to pull rank without pulling rank.

“I said I’m fine, Doom. Let it be.”

The words came out sharper than intended. Duller than the ache tightening in his chest.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. Not like before.

Doom shifted on the screen, the red flicker of his interface casting long, ghost-like patterns across the ridges of his armor. The shadows danced over the edges of his visor, warping with every tilt of his head.

He studied the man in front of him for a long, drawn breath.

“…You sound different than usual.”

Builderman’s jaw twitched. A slow grind of teeth.

“Funny, comin’ from you, Doom,” he said, voice low and dry. “You really wanna go diggin’ through that mess again?”

A pause.

Then came the inevitable tone—flattened, clipped, rigid with restrained offense.

“Spare me ze sermon, Builderman. am not ze one unraveling. It’s ze rest—zey forget what keeps zis place together. Chain of command. Discipline. Order.”

“Order, huh.” Builderman echoed under his breath.

He stepped away from the desk, crossing to the wide window where the city’s edges bled into the sky. The glass was cracked at the corner—hairline fractures catching the light from distant streetlamps. Above it, a few flickering security drones blinked on, cold and mechanical in their patrol.

“That what we’re callin’ it now?”

He didn’t turn when Doom answered.

“At least you und I uphold zat. Always. Right, buddy?”

Doom tried for a smile—a crooked, sideways thing that tugged at one side of his mouth but never reached his eyes. Not really. Not lately.

“You und me. Against ze world, hm?”

Builderman stood there a moment longer, watching as a lone hovercar passed three stories below, casting yellow light against broken pavement.

“…Yeah. Sure thing.”

He said it.

But it felt thin.

Even to himself, the word sounded worn-out. Hollowed out. A phrase he’d spoken a thousand times before, but one that didn’t sit right in his mouth anymore.

Didn’t carry the weight it used to.

Because lately... lately, he wasn’t so sure.

Wasn’t sure if order alone could hold a world like this together. Wasn’t sure if structure was enough when it kept cutting people out. Wasn’t sure if people really couldn’t change like he used to believe.

Because if that were true, then why the hell was 007n7—nervous, careful 007n7— still trying?

Trying, even when everyone told him not to bother?

Trying, even when Builderman himself had doubted him. Had questioned every apology, every shift in tone, every act of care.

Even when he hadn’t made it easy.

The thought stung. It dug in like rust beneath armor plating—slow, corrosive, and impossible to ignore.

The silence on the comms stretched, but not empty. Doom hadn’t spoken in a while. And when Builderman finally looked back at the screen, he caught it—

A faint shift. A narrowing of the eyes. A tightening at the corners of Doom’s mouth. His expression had dimmed into something unreadable, stony in a way that wasn't command—it was doubt. Cold recognition.

Whatever he saw in Builderman’s face… it wasn’t what he’d expected.

And definitely not what he wanted.

The air between them thickened. Red lines blinked quietly across the screen. Static pulsed. Somewhere beyond the screen, HQ’s internal systems hummed like a pulse beneath concrete.

Builderman didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

Because the gap between them—already wide—had just grown a little further.

And both of them knew it.

“Cold’s settin’ in bad,” Builderman muttered as he stepped away from the window. His boots left damp prints across the floor, each step marked by the quiet squelch of soaked socks. He tugged off his hoodie with stiff fingers, grumbling under his breath as he stripped out of his wet clothes. “Ain’t got the strength—nor spry—as I used t’be.”

There was a pause—not awkward, but heavy. Familiar.

The kind of silence that had filled the gaps between them for years. Silence forged in trenches, welded together by long shifts, bad coffee, and worse nights. Not avoidance. Just… an understanding. One that didn't need words to hold its shape.

Doombringer didn’t press. He just watched—his red-lit interface flickering across the screen, casting ghostlike patterns across the edges of his armor.

Then, after a beat, his voice came—dry, low, and unmistakably amused:

“Since ven, exactly, vere you ever vigorous?”

Builderman let out a short, breathy scoff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough for Doom to know he’d landed the jab. He always did. Just enough bite to rattle loose the dust. Never too deep.

But then the shift came. Subtle. The shadows across Doombringer’s helmet deepened as the glow of the interface pulsed. Background static hummed low, broken only by the soft click of data scrolling behind him.

“Anyvay,” he said, tone cooling as he pivoted. “Speaking of… anomalies.”

The screen flickered.

“South sector flagged anomalous dataflow. Two nights ago. Something buried under old firewalls—deep.”

A beat. Then, sharper.

“System pulled ze signature from archived registry.”

He paused, then added with deliberate weight: “One I assumed you’d… remember.”

Builderman froze mid-movement, halfway through pulling on a dry shirt. He turned toward the screen, shoulders tense. The interface blinked—and there it was.

C00lgui.

The name pulsed in jagged red across the projection like a scar that refused to heal.

Attached were blurred coordinates, half-corrupted video loops from a half-demolished pizzeria. Broken tiles. Exposed wiring. A crater in the flooring like a fist punched through time itself. Nothing recent. Just echoes.

No sign of C00lkidd, thank God. Just fragments.

Fragments from that day.

From when he’d slammed the kid into the ground with enough force to shake the server racks.

Builderman’s jaw set.

And then another name followed. Quiet. Surgical.

“Und zen—007n7.”

Doombringer let it hang, the syllables curling through the air like smoke—thin, but suffocating. Builderman didn’t move. His fingers clenched faintly against the hem of his shirt.

“You heard anyzhing?” Doom asked, too casually. Far too casually. “You’ve been creeping around zat quadrant. Figured maybe you saw somezhing. Or… someone.”

The lie came before Builderman could even think.

“No.”

Quick. Firm. Almost too clean.

No hesitation. No stumble.

Just deflection.

But the silence that followed wasn’t the same as before.

Doombringer didn’t answer. He just leaned forward, the faint tilt of his helmet betraying a quiet calculation. Eyes narrowing behind the visor. Watching.

Builderman felt it settle in his chest.

That old, bitter knowledge.

He’d lied to Doom.

And worse—he’d done it like it was second nature.

Builderman’s grip on the hem of his shirt tightened as he pulled it down in one brisk motion. The cotton settled against his skin—dry now, unlike the knot coiled beneath his ribs.

The guilt wasn’t loud. Not yet. Just a quiet pressure. A presence. Like a shadow standing behind him in an empty room—easy to ignore, but still there.

He didn’t let it show. Just moved on, eyes drifting to the floor as he stepped toward the wardrobe, movements steady. Controlled.

Onscreen, Doombringer narrowed his eyes behind the bucket helm. A faint flicker passed over his visor as the dim red server lights caught the ridges of his armor. The ambient hum of HQ droned in the background, punctuated only by the occasional click of data shifting across his interface.

“Zat vas… suspiciously fast,” Doombringer said.

Builderman exhaled slowly through his nose. “There’s nothin’ to report.” he said, voice even. “Ain’t seen him. And even if I had…” His brow twitched. “Didn’t we ban him?”

Doombringer didn’t blink. His voice remained level. “Ze logs disagree.”

Builderman frowned, his gaze tightening at the corners. So Telamon hadn’t told anyone. Not even Doom. That was… concerning. Usually. But right now?

Right now, he was almost grateful.

“You are certain?” Doom asked again—slower this time. Less of a poke. More of a probe. “Zose signals? Not just anomalies. Zey pinged.”

Builderman didn’t flinch. “I said no, Doom.”

His tone was firm. Final. A barricade.

The comm line held still, like it was holding its breath. Only the low hum of red-lit servers filled the space between them, a pulsing undercurrent of distant code and stale air.

Then Doom spoke again—softer this time. Not cold. Just… watching.

“…Fine. I von’t press.” He paused, tone softening but no less surgical. “But you’ve been distant. Even for you. Stress spikes in your logs. Tension in behavior. And each time I mention him—”

Builderman stayed silent.

“—you used to snap to attention ze moment I said 007n7.” Doom went on, tilting his head slightly, armor creaking faintly with the motion. “You called him a breach. A liability in ze trust chain. Now? You go silent. Don’t even fake concern. Strange.”

The tension clenched in Builderman’s jaw like a worn spring. Then, low and tired:

“I’m just real tired o’ you bringin’ up admin business when I’m on leave.”

He wasn’t shouting. But the weight behind his words hit harder than any yell. Frayed. Ground through molars.

“If I see him, I’ll send word,” he added. “That sound good enough for ya?”

Doombringer didn’t answer. Not right away. The kind of pause that had teeth. Watching. Thinking.

“I know you,” Doom said finally, voice low. “You don’t miss zhings. Not unless you mean to.”

He leaned forward slightly, and the shadows shifted across his chestplate.

“You check breach reports before you pour coffee. You’re a machine, not a forgetful man.”

Builderman’s hand stilled on the wardrobe handle. Tightened. Just faintly.

His palm still carried the lingering scent of dish soap. Of faint grease from C00lkidd’s chaos. The warmth where 007n7’s sleeve had brushed his during dinner still clung like static on fabric.

He didn’t look at the screen when he spoke.

“I banned him myself, Doom,” he said, quieter now. Not defensive. Just… tired. “I’m just… really tired. That’s all.”

Another breath passed between them.

Builderman turned, the wardrobe closing with a soft click. His voice followed—rough, but edged with something almost wry:

“Let’s table this fer another time, yeah? Pretty sure you mentioned Clockwork earlier. Somethin’ ’bout dinner.”

The silence that followed shifted. No longer the weighty pause of interrogation or suspicion—just something else. A different weight. Embarrassed realization.

“…Tch.” Doombringer exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound faintly metallic over the line. He straightened in his chair, the motion sending a soft scrape echoing through the interface. “You remember zat, but not to unplug your logs or actually rest? Still stomping around Robloxia like it’s your weekend side hustle. Wunderbar.”

Builderman let out a low grunt, stretching his shoulders absently as he walked up to his desk.

“Clockwork ain’t the type t’wait ‘round forever.” he muttered with a half-smirk, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “Go. ‘Fore he knocks down the server room outta spite. Y’know how he gets.”

A chuckle filtered through the comm—low, reluctant, but genuine in that strange way Doom sometimes allowed himself. It didn’t last.

“Fine. Rest, but zis is not over.” Doombringer said at last, voice hardening again. “You know how dangerous he is. Ve haff to catch him—ourselves.”

Builderman’s brow twitched. He didn’t hide the skepticism in his tone. “...Ourselves?”

“Ve cannot trust ze others. Not Telamon. Not ze admins. Not even Dusekkar.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Zey’ve gone soft… or blind. Or both.”

Builderman’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He didn’t respond—not out loud.

Instead, he let the silence stretch just long enough to send a message… and then disconnected the call.

The screen winked out with a soft static pop. Darkness reasserted itself across the suite, save for the pale spill of moonlight that bled through the half-cracked blinds.

He lowered the communicator slowly, letting it dangle from his hand.

Still. Quiet.

He stood frozen for a long moment, staring blankly at the far wall as the soft hum of the city server’s background whir faintly murmured in the walls.

He hadn’t meant to lie. Not really.

It had just… happened. The words had come out before he could stop them.

But the worst part wasn’t that he’d lied.

It was how natural it had felt.

He drew in a long breath through his nose. Let it go through his teeth. Somewhere beneath the guilt, beneath the exhaustion, a colder unease had begun to creep in. One that wasn’t about 007n7.

It was about Doom.

The man had always been relentless. But now… he was fixated. Sharper. Less calculated, more forceful. The balance between discipline and obsession had tilted—and lately, every update, every order, every so-called “check-in” had felt more like surveillance.

More like control.

Builderman clenched his jaw.

It had started after the Void Star incident.

Whatever that thing had shown Doom—whatever it had twisted inside him—they hadn’t gotten all of him back.

Not really.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

Back in the dim corner office of Roblox Headquarters, the sharp red glow of the comm screen slashed across the dark steel walls like a blade. It caught the edge of MrDoombringer’s crimson bucket hat, warping its reflection into jagged crimson streaks across the matte metal.

The call had barely ended before the tension returned to his body—tight, coiled, like a bowstring pulled too far.

He lowered the communicator slowly, deliberately. His fingers trembled—not from weakness, but from the effort it took not to crush the device in his hand.

His jaw clenched. His shoulders squared. The silence crept back in.

And then—

𝕺’ 𝕯𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗…

The whisper oozed through the office like oil across water.

𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖆𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖞𝖔𝖚… 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖗𝖔𝖙 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓.

A slow, corrosive chorus followed—laughter without warmth, curling through the corners of his mind like smoke from a dying system.

𝕭𝖚𝖎𝖉𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖓… 𝖔𝖍, 𝕭𝖚𝖎𝖉𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖓… 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘. 𝕰𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖘. 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖚𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖘 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖒 𝖆𝖑𝖑… 𝖆 𝖘𝖑𝖔𝖜, 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖞.

The shadows in the office deepened, writhing like living things, their tendrils curling around Doombringer’s resolve.

𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚…

The voices sighed, reverent.

𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝖚𝖓𝖇𝖗𝖔𝖐𝖊𝖓. 𝖀𝖓𝖞𝖎𝖊𝖑𝖉𝖎𝖓𝖌. 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖙 𝖇𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖙𝖍 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖒𝖇𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊.

He didn’t move. Barely breathed. The shadows clawed at the edge of his boots like eager hands. The red reflections from his hat flickered on the floor, pulsing in time with the whisper.

𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖗 𝖇𝖊𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐, 𝕯𝖔𝖔𝖒𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗. 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖕𝖑𝖔𝖙. 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖊. 𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚… 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖉𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖋𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖗. 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖉𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖉.

The air itself seemed to vibrate with their words, a hymn of damnation disguised as praise.

𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖞𝖔𝖚… 𝖇𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜. 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝕶𝕹𝕺𝕎.

𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖙. 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖋𝖚𝖘𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖑.

A whisper, colder than the void:

𝖂𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖒 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖌 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖒… 𝖔𝖗 𝖉𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝕻𝖀𝕽𝕲𝕰 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖆𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉?

Doombringer’s eyes snapped open. He inhaled like surfacing from a deep, frozen pool. The whisper scattered like static in the system—retreating, but not gone.

He exhaled, rough and mechanical. His hand, now steady, pressed down flat on the console before him.

Beneath his palm, a crisp flyer stared back:

WANTED—007n7.

The old mugshot glared upward. Eyes hollow. Mouth flat. That same damn look—as if the world still owed him something.

Next to it, slightly crumpled beneath his elbow, lay another printout. One he hadn’t requested.

Transaction flagged. An intercepted payment, buried under dozens of false flags. One name: 007n7.

A cleared debt. Big sum. Traced to a side terminal Builderman had passed through two nights ago.

He hadn’t noticed it until that bump.

Doombringer narrowed his eyes, recalling it now: the demolitionist who had collided into him earlier in the hallway. A careless stack of papers spilled across the floor.

And among them—this.

Just this.

He hadn’t said a word.

Just bent down—quiet, mechanical—as though the flyer were simply part of the mess. No one noticed. Especially not Taph, whose gloved hands flailed in frantic gestures, signing “😱🙏❗📄📄” (Sorry!! Sorry! So many papers!) while trying to scoop the papers back into a crumpled stack.

Doombringer handed him a few, slow and precise. The folded flyer slipped between his palm and cloak without a hitch. His voice, when it came, was smooth. Too smooth.

“Careful next time, ja? Vould be a shame if your hands dropped... evidence.”

Taph nodded, sighing “🙇💦” (Thank you, MrDoom...), still signing apologies “😖🙏📄📄” (S-Sorry! Messy! Messy!).

Doombringer’s smile was polite. Wide. And hollow.

He clapped the younger admin once on the shoulder.

“Run along, demolitionist. Go—break bricks, not protocols. Und vatch your step. Clumsy fingers make dangerous admins.”

And Taph, too rattled to argue, went.

Back in his office, the expression vanished the moment the door hissed shut.

Silence swallowed him.

He pulled out the flyer. Set it down. Flattened it with one palm.

𝕾𝖊𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖜 𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝕰𝕿𝕽𝕬𝕐𝕰𝕯 𝖞𝖔𝖚?

The voice coiled around his skull like smoke—familiar now, too familiar.

𝕳𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖈𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖒𝖇𝖑𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖔𝖚𝖈𝖍?

A low chorus followed, its melody sickly sweet, like a lullaby rewritten in blood.

𝕎𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖉𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝖆𝖓 𝕬𝖉𝖒𝖎𝖓— 𝖆 𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖓 𝖔𝖋 𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜 𝖑𝖆𝖜𝖘— 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖔𝖕 𝖙𝖔 𝕬𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗’𝖘 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖙𝖍?

𝕎𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖉𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖊𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖇𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖒𝖓𝖊𝖉?

𝕰𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖔… 𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉, 𝖘𝖔 𝖀𝖓𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖞 𝖆𝖘 007𝖓7?

The shadows writhed across the floor like spilled oil, swelling beneath his boots. The glow of the monitor dimmed, flickering under the pressure of something older than code.

𝕺𝖍, 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖜𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖙𝖎𝖙𝖑𝖊𝖘 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖌𝖔𝖑𝖉… 𝖞𝖊𝖙 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍?

𝕽𝖔𝖙. 𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖊. 𝕎𝖊𝖆𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖘.

𝕭𝖚𝖎𝖉𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖓 𝖔𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖑… 𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖘. 𝕹𝖔𝖜 𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘.

The whisper dropped into a near silence—cold, reverent.

𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚… 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝖀𝖓𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖓.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖙 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖈𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖘𝖊𝖆 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖞.

And beside it all…

A photo.

Low-resolution. Cropped from a surveillance ping. But clear enough.

Builderman. Slouched slightly in a small, overcluttered apartment. A roasted turkey sat between mismatched plates and a scattered mess of half-eaten sides. His head was bowed—not in shame, but quiet laughter. A smile, genuine and rare, bent the hard lines of his face.

Across from him…

An older version of 007n7. Rounder. Slower. His expression tired but soft, worn at the edges.

Not enemies.

Not moderator and outlaw.

Something else.

Doombringer stared. Long. Hard.

Like the image itself had struck him.

Then—

CRACK.

The edge of the console split under his gauntlet. Fine fractures webbed outward through the tempered glass. An interface light sputtered and died. The spark hissed at the edge of his sleeve—but he didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

His breath steamed against the inside of the helmet. His voice, when it came, was a rasped whisper:

“Vhy are you lying, Freund...” he murmured, voice low and gritted, laced with betrayal. “Ve vere ze constants. Ze last line. Und zey are right. Zey alvays haff been.”

The word friend stung like acid.

His gaze dropped back to the photo. Builderman, relaxed. Unarmored. Laughing with the one he’d sworn was lost.

Doombringer’s fingers curled into a fist, creaking with strain.

He was still staring when the sound came.

A shift.

Soft fabric brushing concrete.

From the far side of the doorway, someone had been standing. Leaning. Just enough to be seen.

A flash of red.

A scarf.

Then silence.

They turned. Walked away without a word.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

And high above—perched upon the shadowed spires of Robloxia’s skyline—another figure watched.

Telamon stood motionless atop the fractured spine of an ancient broadcast tower, its antennae long since bent into rusted sigils. The wind screamed across the rooftops, slamming debris into walls and tearing banners from forgotten billboards—but none of it touched him. The air parted before his presence, reluctant to disturb what even gravity dared not claim.

His robe hung in defiance of the gale, threads unmoved, as though stitched from lines of command rather than cloth. And his eyes—twin beacons of molten gold—burned with steady, patient knowing. They did not blink. They did not need to.

In their reflection: the chaos below.

He had not intervened. Not yet.

He rarely did.

But even Telamon could feel it.

A fracture—thin as a stray bracket, deep as a system root. Subtle, but ancient. Something unwritten had been rewritten. A line had been skipped.

He tilted his head slowly, avian and effortless, gaze narrowing as it settled on MrDoombringer below.

The Enforcer stood rigid on a rain-slick rooftop, that mirrored helm betraying nothing. But Telamon required no expression. He read the man’s code, not his face. The data stank of pressure—of function bleeding into fixation. Rage simmered beneath duty, twisted tight like wire on the verge of snapping.

Around Doombringer, the world warped: air sharp with static, reality curving slightly, just enough to ripple pixels on the edges of his silhouette. The simulation resisted. His presence insisted.

Fascinating.

Telamon’s smile unfurled like a celestial glitch—slow, wide, too many teeth. His robe pulsed once, flickering with a non-color not found in any palette.

“Ah… the simulation flinches,” he murmured, voice a corrupted harmony—part static, part lullaby, part forgotten login sound. “Telamon wonders… who dared breathe off-script?”

He clasped his hands behind his back, leaning forward slightly with the idle curiosity of a deity gazing into a jar of cracking glass.

“Reality whimpered. Order lost a decimal. Telamon is... delighted.”

Below, Doombringer's armor flared—brief and violet—before returning to cold silver. A flicker. A warning. The code hiccupped around him again.

Flicker. Purple. Flicker. Purpose. Flicker. Something older.

Telamon watched.

The ripple had already threaded its way through the admin network—silent and viral. Syntax unraveling. Directives fraying. Loyalties… mutating.

And it had all begun here.

With this moment.

With that barely perceptible shift in Doombringer’s stance—the one that meant the protocol no longer fit him cleanly. The way his fingers clenched just a second too long. The way his shadow leaned too far ahead.

The others hadn’t seen it.

But Telamon had.

He always did.

“Syntax in steel,” he mused, tone amused, saccharine with irony. “Telamon recalls when you were just compliant script—how quaint. So obedient. So... containable.”

His voice sharpened, silk wrapping barbed wire.

“Even Telamon did not foresee collapse this elegant—from a single syllable of Void Star gospel. Remarkable.”

“Perhaps you are weak. Or perhaps Telamon has forgotten how smudged mortals become under pressure. Like graphite—useful until rubbed away.”

He shifted slightly, the motion imperceptible but seismic—the heel of his boot rasping against corroded metal with a sound like corrupted files deleting themselves.

“Go on,” he whispered, golden gaze brightening with something ancient. “Shatter the sacred. Snap your chain of command for Telamon’s amusement.”

His presence—his knowing—coiled above Robloxia like a silent override waiting for justification.

Because if it came to it, yes. Telamon could stop MrDoombringer.

He always could.

He simply… hadn’t decided if that would make the story better.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The wrench wasn’t in his hand.

Builderman frowned, still crouched beside the exposed control panel. Sparks sputtered around his fingers as he manually tightened a stripped bolt, gritting his teeth but not looking away.

“Taph,” he called out, voice low but steady—habitual.

Usually, the demolitionist would be there within seconds, bounding over like a loyal mutt, eyes wide and expectant, already holding the next tool as if he'd read Builderman’s mind. It had been off-putting at first—still was, if he was honest—but he'd learned to accept it. Taph didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. That eagerness wasn’t just obedience. It was reverence. Pure, unspoken admiration.

But now... silence.

Builderman straightened with a grunt, brushing copper dust from his gloves and calling louder, hand cupped over his mouth this time.

“Taph. Hand me the wrench, would ya’?”

No reply.

His gaze lifted. Frown deepening.

The workshop lay still around him—his old one, nestled against the craggy cliffs of the Western Node. Familiar. Tools lined the walls in methodical rows. Pipes along the ceiling thrummed with a low, contented hiss. The faint tang of burning copper hung in the air like a memory. Everything was where it had always been.

Except—it wasn’t.

The overhead lights flickered once. Then again. A jitter, like a skipped frame.

Something was off.

Builderman turned slowly, expecting to see his mute apprentice standing at the edge of the bench, small and patient, wrench in hand, waiting like always.

But Taph wasn’t there.

Someone else was.

A boy stood in his place.

Older now—late twenties, maybe—but the resemblance hit like a hammer. He wore what used to be a clean yellow cardigan, now stained with soot, ash, and machine grease. His light blond hair was rumpled, no longer neatly combed, and one eye—once clear and baby blue—had turned. The left was infected. Glitching. Flickering red at the seams like a corrupted mesh.

John.

Builderman’s breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“…John? That you, kiddo?” he rasped.

The boy tilted his head. That same old grin unfurled—pleasant, practiced. But the eyes were all wrong. One flickered like static. The other glowed faintly red, the light inside it cold and synthetic.

“Hello, Father. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The voice was soft. Polite. Just like before.

But it echoed in the room wrong—digitized, reverberating in unnatural delay, as though patched through broken servers. Like a memory being puppeteered.

Builderman took a slow step back, calloused fingers instinctively closing around the empty space at his hip—no wrench.

“Y’ain’t real... Ain’t no way yer’ here,” Builderman muttered, backing away another step.

The boy just smiled—wide, unblinking.

“You called for someone else,” John said gently, voice too even, too steady. “Didn’t even consider me. Even though I made the effort. I fetched the wrench. I waited. I listened. You never turned around.”

“I didn’t know—I didn’t—” Builderman shook his head, breath hitching. “Y’ain’t real… can’t be. I—John—”

His hands trembled as he reached out. Not for the corrupted figure in front of him—but for the memory. The boy he’d rescued, adopted, raised. His son.

He stepped closer. “You replaced me with a boy who doesn’t speak. Easier to manage, I suppose.”

The light above him flared, then dimmed. His corrupted arm—slick, black, sinewed with code—bent the steel wrench like taffy, metal warping with a shriek.

“With this… Taph individual. A silent stray. Eager. Grateful.” His smile dimmed, eyes narrowing—not angry, just tired. “You always struggled with noise, didn’t you? With feelings. With me.”

A pause.

“Was I truly so difficult to love, Father? So inherently… defective?”

“No,” Builderman breathed. His voice broke—raw, trembling beneath his usual iron. “Ain’t true. You’re the smartest teen of yer entire class. I looked for ya. Never stopped, kiddo. Not once.”

He took a shaky step forward, eyes shining, jaw clenched.

“Every time I see that quiet kid, all eager an’ bright... I see you. That same hope in his stance. That same need. It guts me, John. I never replaced ya. Ain’t no replacin’ you.”

John’s smile faltered, twisted at the corners—like it didn’t quite fit his face anymore. But it stayed.

“You distanced yourself,” he said, taking another step forward. “Even when I reached out. Even when I tried to be good.”

His corrupted fingers tightened around the bent wrench. “I begged, once. I remember that. Do you?”

The workshop lights shattered overhead, raining sparks like falling stars. Time slowed. Behind Builderman, the exposed control panel sparked, then erupted into flame.

The walls of the workshop pulsed, flickered—becoming something jagged. Wrong. Reality stuttered like corrupted code.

“I’ve always been here, Father.” John said.

His voice fractured—layered into multiple versions of himself. A child. A teenager. Something older. Something broken. They spoke together, overlapping, dissonant:

“You didn’t lose me. You just… looked away.”

Builderman stumbled back, boots scraping against metal. His breath turned sharp and uneven.

“You stopped caring.”

“No—” Builderman’s voice cracked. “I tried, John—dammit, I tried—I’m sorry I was too late, in loving you. If I could go back in time, I would, to replace all my errors, for my mistakes—”

The floor shook. The ceiling rippled. The walls peeled like skin. John’s figure flickered—stretched—his grin distorting, eye glowing like an overheating core.

“Too late for remorse, now, father.”

“You forgot me.”

The words hit not as a scream—but a verdict. Measured. Merciless. Inevitable.

“You forgot me,” he repeated, quieter now—like a truth spoken into a confession booth.

“And then you grieved a stranger in my place.”

The words thundered—not just in the air, but inside Builderman’s mind, drilled into bone and thought. His ears rang. He clutched his head. His knees hit the floor with a metallic thud.

The world tore apart around him.

The flames swallowed the bench.

The workshop screamed.

And then—

Silence.

Only the distant hush of waves and the faint buzz of ventilation.

Builderman jolted upright.

His chest heaved, shirt damp with sweat. His calloused hands trembled as he reached for the floor, grounding himself.

No fire. No tools. No wrench.

Just the dark luxury of the hotel suite—cold and clinical. His so-called “retreat.” His exile.

The moon hung low beyond the glass. Endless black water shimmered beneath it. The room was spotless. A single empty wine glass sat abandoned on the polished table. His folded clothes were still draped over the chair where he’d left them. Stillness pressed from every direction.

No workshop.

No John.

Only him.

Builderman leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees. His hands slowly rose to cover his face.

Outside, the ocean whispered against stone. The wind sighed through the cracks.

And in the space between breaths—quiet, steady, unforgettable—

You mourned the wrong son.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

It had been days since that awkward dinner.

Days since Builderman had stood stiff-backed in that dim, strangely domestic apartment—arms crossed as 007n7 fumbled through strained small talk—meek voice trembling over a meal that looked like it had been scraped together from a vending machine and an emergency ration kit.

And yet, no matter how many blueprints Builderman reviewed, no matter how many circuits he sketched or walls he restructured, that memory stuck—clinging like copper dust in the threads of a stripped bolt.

Now, alone in his makeshift workspace—tucked high above Robloxia’s rust-washed waterfront—Builderman hunched over a hovering schematic. Pale blue light pulsed from the projection table, painting his skin in sterile glow. The plan stuttered in and out of clarity, lines blurring, overlapping, dissolving into nonsense code like a corrupted prefab loop. His fingers hovered above the input keys, calloused and still.

He hadn’t keyed in a single command in over an hour.

With a low growl, he slammed the heel of his palm against the metal. The desk gave a dull thunk, sending vibrations crawling through his arm, deep into old tendons worn from decades of wrenchwork.

“Why the heck’m I dwellin’ on that hacker...?” he muttered under his breath.

He shoved back the stool with a scraping drag and pushed to his feet, boots hitting the floor with a weight that echoed through the room. His broad shoulders rose, fell, rose again—tensed beneath nothing but a sleeveless undershirt and cargo shorts, his usual coat discarded on the chair’s backrest. The sleepless nights were etched into the corners of his face, carved deeper with every restless shift of thought.

He strode toward the wide-paneled window.

Beyond the glass, the ocean stretched endless and glassy, sunlight skipping across its surface like solder sparks. Gulls wheeled lazily between clouds and wind turbines far out near the dock district—too far to hear, but close enough to remind him how small everything looked from this high up.

Builderman exhaled through his nose. Steady. Heavy. Worn.

Think.

What fixes a man who can’t stop thinkin’—when the work won’t do the trick?

He rubbed the back of his neck—thumb dragging along a familiar old burn scar just beneath his collar. Half reflex. Half irritation. He was still staring at the sea when a voice, quiet and hesitant, rose from memory—thin, familiar.

“You go fishing?”

Builderman blinked.

...Right.

That.

A faint snort left him—barely enough to count as laughter, but it curled at the corner of his mouth all the same. Fishing. Of all the things that stubborn little hacker had brought up that night, that one had been the only question without a catch behind it. Just curiosity. Like a kid poking at old rust to see what lay under it.

He still had hobbies, didn’t he?

He hadn’t gone in years. Maybe longer.

Fishing, that is.

Work never let up. There was always something—another breach in Sector 4’s firewall, another chunk of Zone 7 falling into glitch loops, another malfunctioning security drone spinning circles like it forgot which way was down. There were updates to patch, corrupted spawn points to scrub clean, rogue scripts tearing up the terrain under admin noses.

And lately?

Even worse.

Rumblings of an admin fallout, quiet sabotage, and nightmares he couldn’t shake—ones where John’s voice whispered from behind familiar faces, asking questions he didn’t want to answer.

But right now?

He needed air.

He needed quiet.

He needed to stop replaying the way 007n7 had laughed at his own bad joke, only to wither into silence like a stray scolded for wagging its tail too loud. He needed to stop thinking about the cracked look in the boy’s eyes, or the way he curled in on himself when the room grew too still—like he expected judgment to crawl out from the baseboards and bite him.

“Reckon... ain’t the worst idea,” Builderman muttered to himself, scratching at his stubble.

Then, louder, like daring the empty air to argue:

“Yeah. Fishin’. Beats sittin’ ‘round stewin’ like a busted valve.”

He crossed the room in steady strides, grabbing his utility belt off the hook by the door. With one practiced motion, he peeled off the shorts he’d half-slept in, and the sleeveless t-shirt, and tugged on something more fit for travel: a weathered canvas shirt with the sleeves already rolled, reinforced pants, and boots worn down from decades of trench-stomping. He checked the satchel next—tossing in a compact tackle kit, a collapsible rod, a folded tarp, and a dented thermos filled with cold coffee that smelled like it had been brewed back in version 1.2.

Fishing wasn’t complicated. Wasn’t meant to be. Just a way to burn daylight in silence.

That was the whole damn point.

He hesitated—just for a second—when his hand brushed his datapad.

Builderman blinked down at the screen. His thumb hovered near the contact log. There it was—months of unread messages, all from the kid. No replies. Just cheerful persistence. Good morning, Mr Builder!! Goodnight sir!! Little waves, drawings of fish, blurry photos of the sky above his training zone.

His thumb tapped into the message field. He stared.

Reckon you’d be up for fishin’…?

He typed it.

Deleted it.

Typed it again.

You free today? Thinkin’ ’bout castin’ a line—if yer up for it.

Deleted it.

Started typing again.

Backspaced every letter.

Builderman exhaled—slow, almost bitter. His shoulders sagged.

He could see John again in his head. That nightmare. That voice. Twisted smile. The bent wrench. The accusations. The ache in his gut.

“...Nah,” he muttered, pressing the lock button and sliding the device back into the desk drawer. “Ain’t the time fer that.”

He stepped onto the warp pad, adjusting the brim of his old fishing cap—one with frayed stitching and a faded logo from some long-dead dev team. He didn’t even bother with his usual hardware. Left the console tools behind, the server-linked beacon too. He keyed in the coordinates by memory—somewhere off-grid, just south of the admin mapline. Quiet lake. No spawn points. No terminals. No ghosts.

Just water.

The warp pad beneath his boots began to hum—a low, rhythmic pulse climbing higher as the input stabilized. Wind curled around his legs as the room shimmered in static.

Then, in a flash of blue, Builderman vanished.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The sun greeted him first—golden fingers of light stretching across the horizon, warm and dry, carrying the familiar scent of salt and endless sky. Builderman stepped down from the wooden transit platform onto the weathered dock. The planks beneath his boots creaked in slow protest, worn pale by years of salt, sun, and quiet storms. Frayed ropes rocked gently from rusting cleats, swaying with the breeze like old flags whisperin’ secrets only the sea would keep.

The water below was still and impossibly clear, a pane of liquid glass reflecting the sky’s soft blues and the occasional silver flash of fish darting beneath the surface like fleeting thoughts. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries lazy and distant, carried away on the salt-kissed air. The ocean stretched before him, vast and shimmering, its surface rippling with the caress of the wind, each tiny wave catching the sunlight like scattered diamonds.

He walked the length of the dock with steady steps, the morning breeze pushing at his back. His boots thudded softly against the sun-warmed planks until he reached the end and stopped. With a low grunt, he dropped his satchel beside an old folding chair, set the tackle box down with a soft clunk, and unfolded the seat. The hinges groaned, stiff from disuse, but held. He lowered himself with a sigh that scraped from deep in his chest.

Wind tugged gently at the brim of his hat, played with his hair, carried with it the layered scent of brine, old timber, and something faintly sweet—maybe wildflowers somewhere along the shore, blooming brave between stones. The air was thick with ocean breath, full of life and salt, undercut by the faint tang of pine and damp soil drifting from the woods behind.

His shoulders rolled, tension seeping away like sand through fingers, washed clean by the rhythm of the sea.

He settled back, resting his arms on his knees. The muscles across his shoulders eased, the tension bleeding away slow like oil from a cracked line. The sea spoke in its usual tongue—waves kissing the dock’s supports, rhythmic and soft, and somewhere distant, the cry of a heron, wings beating the air in slow, deliberate strokes.

It was peaceful here.

Too peaceful for the thoughts still swimming in his head.

“Can’t believe I’m thinkin’ ‘bout him again…” he muttered, eyes fixed on the glittering horizon. “If it ain’t John... it’s that damn hacker. Just don’t quit, do ya’, brain?”

He huffed, shaking his head, and leaned forward, hands moving with mechanical certainty. Fishing rod slid from its holster, sections snapping into place with soft clicks. He threaded the line with weathered fingers, tied the lure with practiced ease. The rhythm was familiar. Simple. That’s why he came.

“Shoulda brought coffee…real dumb of me,” he grumbled, mostly to the sea.

The rod let out a faint whirr as he cast, the line slicing through the breeze before falling silent into the water. Ripples spread outward, caught the sun, vanished.

He leaned back. Let the wind pass over him.

Let it all pass.

The pines behind him rustled gently, their tall spines clapping faintly like applause from ghosts. Something stirred far down the beach but he didn’t bother looking. The ocean was before him.

That was enough.

His gaze lingered on the meeting point of sea and sky, where the colors blurred into each other like wet paint.

He didn’t move for a long while. Just breathed. Let the quiet hold him.

Stillness.

That was what he came for.

And for now, at least…

It held.

Then—crack!—the stillness shattered beneath a burst of laughter.

Builderman froze mid-cast, line dangling from his fingers. The giggles came again—louder now, getting closer—and before he could even turn, something slammed into his back like a cannonball.

“Oof—!”

He staggered forward, boots skidding against the dock. Air whooshed out of his lungs as a tangle of limbs and shrieking joy crashed against him.

“Gotcha! Tag, you’re it!” the kid squealed, arms thrown around Builderman's middle like a heat-seeking missile. Then he blinked up—wide eyes sparkling beneath the rim of a bucket hat nearly identical to Builderman's own. “WHAA—Huh? Oh—oh!! It’s you!! Mister Builder!!”

Builderman craned his neck with a grimace, still rubbing his lower back. “...Kiddo?” he muttered, as if trying to convince his own eyes. “What in the seven glitches—?!”

But there was no chance to finish the sentence. The boy had already latched on tighter, legs wrapped around his torso with terrifying enthusiasm.

“This is the CRAZIEST day EVER!!!” C00lkidd chirped, practically bouncing against him. “You fishing here too?! I told Papa this place looked uncool and hot and full of itchy trees, but he said this place was ‘nature-y’ and I said blegh! But now YOU’RE here so it’s AWESOME! And look, look—we're HAT TWINS!"

Builderman grunted, arms awkwardly splayed as he tried to peel the child off. “Git off’a me, runt—off. Now.”

“Nooo, you’re comfy!” C00lkidd giggled, burying his face against Builderman’s back. "OooOOoo what’s that?! Is it a fish-hand?! Does it taste like crab?!"

“Son!”

The voice came ragged and breathless, followed by frantic rustling through the underbrush. Branches snapped. A bird fled squawking.

007n7 stumbled into view like he’d fallen through half the forest to get there. His button-up shirt was plastered with crushed leaves, pine needles, grass stains, and inexplicably—feathers. Builderman didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.

“C00lkidd—!” 007n7 wheezed, clutching his side. “I asked you not to run off again... especially—not out here...”

His words choked off as soon as his gaze landed on the man standing at the edge of the dock.

Builderman.

The two men locked eyes—a single, electric moment stretched taut between them like a live wire strung over open water.

Builderman stood rigid, every muscle locked, his face flushed a dangerous shade of red. The kid clinging to his ribs squeezed tighter, anchoring him in place with all the weight of a barnacle and none of the mercy. His breath hitched—caught somewhere between irritation and something far more dangerous—something that burned low in his chest as his gaze raked over 007n7.

And oh, what a sight he was.

007n7—usually so neatly composed, pressed collars and clean lines—stood before him a disheveled wreck. His shirt was wrinkled and half-untucked, streaked with grass stains and something that might’ve once been bird fluff. His hair, always slicked back with perfectionist pride, was tousled by the wind, falling across his forehead. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, lips—soft, bitten-red from nervous habit—parted around unsteady breaths. His eyes, wide and startled, flickered away, then back, as if he couldn’t decide whether to hold Builderman’s gaze or flee from it.

The air between them hummed, thin and fragile as fishing line strained to its limit, seconds from snapping.

Builderman couldn’t look away.

There was something unbearably intimate about seeing 007n7 like this—exposed, ruffled, stripped of his usual armor. The way his pulse fluttered at his throat, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his teeth worried at his lower lip in that damnable, unconscious gesture that sent a bolt of heat straight through Builderman’s veins.

He wanted to devour him.

Not just look—take. To close the distance between them, to swallow every flustered sound, to feel the heat of 007n7’s skin under his hands, to—

“NO STARING AT MY DAD!!”

The moment shattered like glass dropped from orbit.

Before Builderman could blink, tiny hands slapped over his eyes, blocking his view entirely.

“Gah—what in tarnation—?!” he barked, nearly falling backward as C00lkidd scrambled up his torso like a gremlin with climbing privileges, latching onto his face with shocking speed and precision.

“I saw you!! You’re doin’ the EATY EYES again!!” C00lkidd screeched, clinging to Builderman’s head with the ferocity of a caffeinated raccoon. “You’re gonna devour my Papa with your eyeballs!! Stop it!! No devouring!!”

“RUNT—! Quit it! Git down!” Builderman growled, flailing as the child expertly dodged every swipe, crawling around his body like some sort of agile lizard.

C00lkidd giggled like a maniac, his limbs somehow everywhere. “YOU WERE LOOKIN’ AT HIM ALL MUSHY!! Like he’s a pizza!!”

Builderman finally caught hold of the kid’s collar and peeled him off like a feral sticker, holding him at arm’s length, legs still kicking mid-air.

“He always this much of a handful?” he muttered, trying to maintain whatever dignity he had left. “Wait—nah. That’s a fool question. ‘Course he is.”

007n7 let out a strangled wheeze, somewhere between a cough and a death-rattle. His face had gone catastrophic—bright red from ears to collarbone as he bolted forward, arms flailing in silent panic.

“I—I promise he didn’t mean it that way! He just—he has this thing with words—and seeing things—and then saying them—” He stumbled over his words like a man sprinting down stairs. “He’s not being rude on purpose. He just doesn’t always know what the words mean… but he uses them anyway. Loudly.”

Builderman set the kid down on the dock, brushing his shirt off like he’d just survived a tumble with a malfunctioning vending machine. He exhaled, long and slow.

“Y’ain’t gotta explain yerself, Seven,” he muttered, rubbing at his temple. “I’ve been around him five minutes and already aged ten years.”

“Unfortunately,” 007n7 muttered, still too mortified to make proper eye contact. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, the other twitching uselessly at his side. “I’m sorry. He gets overexcited with new places… and, um… people he finds impressive… especially you.”

Builderman paused at that, glancing at him sidelong. “That so? Me, huh…”

007n7 visibly short-circuited.

But C00lkidd was already gone—squealing with joy as he bolted after a butterfly that had dared flit too close. His footsteps pitter-pattered across the dock like exhaust fumes.

Builderman watched the kid vanish down the shoreline, trailing muddy footprints and laughter behind him like exhaust fumes. Then, slowly, he turned back toward 007n7.

The poor man looked wrecked.

Face flushed. Shoulders drawn tight. Utterly distraught.

Builderman exhaled through his nose. Maybe it was the morning sun. Maybe it was mercy. Either way, he decided to ease up.

“So…” he drawled, fishing line still slack in one hand. “You two settin’ up camp nearby or somethin’?”

007n7 blinked, visibly relieved at the shift in tone. “Just… exploring a little. The woods, and—well, fishing,” he said, voice soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to relax yet. “I thought the air might help clear my head. I didn’t expect to run into you. It’s… a surprise.”

“…Guess that makes two of us,” Builderman muttered, his voice low and unreadable.

A silence followed. Long. Awkward. Not cruel—but dense. Like sea fog rolling in.

The breeze weaved between them, threading through the pine trees behind, kicking up dry leaves and whispering over the planks beneath their feet. High above, gulls circled in wide, lazy arcs, their cries echoing down to the docks. The sun glinted off the water’s surface, flickering across Builderman’s face as the hook on his line bobbed, forgotten, in the indifferent tide.

Somewhere beyond the dunes, hidden in the whispering trees, a woodpecker tapped a rhythmic, oblivious counterpoint to the thickening tension.

007n7 shifted on his feet, his fingers brushing the back of his neck where—

Builderman’s eyes narrowed.

A feather.

A single, white feather—small, stubborn—was tangled in the collar of 007n7’s button-up like it had chosen to hitch a ride. It stuck out awkwardly from the seam, bobbing slightly with every breath the hacker took.

And 007n7—God, he couldn’t bring himself to meet Builderman’s eyes. Those sharp, storm-grey irises, flecked with molten amber if you looked close enough, always seemed to see too much. So he stared at the sand instead, at the way it shifted beneath his boots, until—

A sudden movement. Builderman leaned in, his broad frame eclipsing the sunlight, close enough that 007n7 caught the scent of salt and warm skin, something earthy beneath it. His pulse jumped, a wild staccato in his throat, his body tensing to retreat—

“Lean down,” Builderman said, voice low and rough, like gravel rolled through smoke.

007n7’s breath stuttered. A pause. A beat of static between heartbeats.

“…What?” he managed.

Builderman’s tone didn’t change. If anything, it dropped.

“And hold still.”

He obeyed without thinking, bending just enough to bring them level, his face burning at the way Builderman’s tone left no room for argument—and worse, at how much he liked it.

Because that voice—God—it coiled down his spine like smoke, leaving his nerves alight. He liked the way Builderman said it, the way it wasn’t a request but a quiet command, one that sent a shiver skittering across his skin.

Calloused fingers brushed the nape of his neck—deliberate and slow. The drag of rough fingertips against sensitive flesh made him shudder. Builderman’s exhale warmed his collarbone, each breath a brand.

“There,” Builderman muttered, voice thick—closer to his ear now, sending another tremor through him.

Then, with one slow tug, the feather came free.

Builderman leaned back, holding it between them, his storm-grey eyes darkening as they flicked from the feather to 007n7’s face—to the flush staining his cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

A beat of silence.

Then, realization.

Oh.

“...Hmph. Sorry ‘bout that.” Builderman muttered, tone gruff and thicker than it had any right to be. The word came out uneven—scratched at the edges, like it barely made it past his throat.

Another beat.

Then two.

The tension was still there. Thicker, maybe. It clung to the air like humidity before a storm.

Builderman’s gaze—traitorous, stupid—drifted too low. To 007n7’s mouth. Just for a second.

Then he yanked it away, jaw tight, ears a little too pink for the cool breeze to explain. But the heat lingered, clung—the ghost of his touch still burning against 007n7’s skin, the memory of his breath on his throat.

The feather fluttered from his fingers and drifted down between them, lost to the wind and sand.

“Uh…” Builderman cleared his throat, voice steady but laced with that telltale gravel of discomfort. “What’re ya doin’ out here?”

It wasn’t accusatory—not really. Just surprised. And maybe, just maybe, a little flustered. He tried to keep his tone even, curious. To divert the mood back toward something calmer. Something he could handle.

“Ain’t exactly a place folks stumble on, this.”

And it wasn’t. Builderman hadn’t seen another soul out here in years. This old fishing spot didn’t show up on any public warp routes. No pings. No transport hubs. You had to know about it.

And most folks didn’t.

007n7 shifted, hands loosely clasped in front of him. His gaze dipped to the sand for a beat, then flicked up again—awkward, but sincere.

“You brought it up. Just once, over dinner… ” he said quietly. “About how peaceful it was.”

Builderman blinked. “I said that?”

007n7 nodded, voice catching a little. “You said this was your favorite spot. Peaceful, I think was the word. I… wanted to see it for myself. See if it really was as beautiful as you made it sound.”

Silence fell again.

Only the wind moved—stirring through the trees behind them, brushing the tips of the tall grass along the dunes. A gull passed overhead, its cry distant, trailing across the sky like a ribbon.

Builderman stood there, trying to process the sudden warmth knotting low in his gut.

He had said that, hadn’t he? Somewhere between rambling about old tech and codes. It was just a passing comment, tossed out while he scrubbed his plate in that weird, too-domestic silence. He never thought 007n7 would remember it—let alone act on it.

But he had.

Builderman looked away a little too fast, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up his neck.

“That so? I’m… glad ya remembered.” He scratched behind his ear, voice quieter now. Rendered speechless for once too. “Y’like it, then?”

007n7 turned to face the sea, letting his gaze sweep over the endless blue. The islands scattered in the distance like pebbles on a mirror. The way the sky melted into the ocean in soft hues of gold and pale azure. Wind tugged gently at his open button-up, ruffling the sleeves, playing with strands of brown hair streaked with early grey.

“It really is beautiful,” he murmured. Almost reverently. Like the word wasn’t enough, but had to do. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

Builderman swallowed. His eyes flared just faintly—storm-grey shifting toward amber, a flicker that betrayed the feeling that struck too close to the heart before he could wrangle it back.

“Good t’hear,” he muttered, crouching back down beside the tackle kit like baiting his hook was the most complicated task in the world. His voice tried for neutral. It didn’t quite land there.

He didn’t look up again. Couldn’t. His fingers worked slow over the reel, fumbling slightly with the bait, but it was all just something to do.

Because the truth was—being heard like that? Remembered like that?

It… felt nice.

Too nice.

Dangerously so.

People always followed his commands—out of necessity, out of duty, or more often, for their own interests. That was just how it worked. Orders were followed because lives depended on it. Systems, survival, security.

But there were always some who didn’t.

The ones who shrugged him off, who didn’t listen until it was too late. And then—injury. Collapse. Or worse... death.

Builderman accepted those outcomes. Part of the job. Part of the burden.

But what weighed heavier—what never sat right—was how quiet the world had gone when he started to break. When he overworked, when he rushed from one emergency to the next, burying himself in protocol and patch notes, people turned a blind eye. Noticed the faults, but never the fatigue. They critiqued him. Picked him apart.

Nobody stopped to see how off he’d been. How quiet. How hollow.

How miserable.

And alone.

Maybe 007n7 sensed that weight now—maybe not. Either way, he kept his distance. Polite. Respectful. He’d set his chair a short ways down the dock, angled just enough not to intrude. His gear was modest: a small fold-up rod, a dented tin of bait. As he knelt to unzip his bag, his eyes strayed toward Builderman—quiet, curious.

Builderman had just cast his line—his brow furrowed in thought, reflection, habit.

But the motion was smooth. Practiced.

The line cut through the air in a clean arc, the reel whispering under his hand before the lure hit the water with a soft plunk. No effort wasted. His stance was steady. Relaxed. The rod sat firm in his hands—hands worn raw from years of command and repair. The gloves were threadbare in places, seams stretched, fabric molded to his shape like a second skin.

007n7 swallowed. Hard.

He snapped his gaze away, cheeks prickling with warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. His fingers fumbled with the line as he set up his own rod, doing his best to untangle a loop that had somehow tied itself into a knot when he wasn’t looking.

Then, like a hurricane in miniature, C00lkidd came barreling back into view.

He skidded across the dock, feet caked with wet sand, elbows dirtied, bucket swinging wildly.

"PAPA! The sand's attacking me again! It's EVERYWHERE!" he wailed, shoving both gritty palms toward 007n7 like an emergency siren.

007n7 let out a small, affectionate chuckle and ruffled his son’s unruly hair. He cast his line—clumsily—and let it fall short of the deeper water, landing with a crooked splash. He didn’t mind.

“There, there... Let’s get this cleaned up,” he murmured, gently wiping his son’s hands. “Feeling better now?”

C00lkidd nodded with a dramatic “Mhm!” before turning on his heel and darting off again, bucket in tow, tail swaying side to side like a metronome on overdrive.

007n7 watched him go with a small smile. Then finally, he sank down into his folding chair, letting out a breath that deflated his posture just slightly.

And so began the infamous sitting game.

Quiet settled over them like a soft blanket—warm, woven with sun and salt.

The wind moved gently through the trees at their backs. The ocean whispered beneath the dock. Water slapped softly against the pylons. Somewhere nearby, a fish flickered beneath the surface—silver for just a second before vanishing into blue.

C00lkidd plopped down in the sand behind them, cross-legged, doodling spirals with a stick and humming under his breath like some offbeat sea spirit.

007n7 let himself relax, just a little.

Peaceful.

Even if his heart wouldn’t quite sit still.

Beside him, Builderman cast another line. He still hadn’t said much—not beyond the occasional grumble or grunt—but he felt closer now. The tension in his brow had softened. His shoulders, looser. His silence, less like a wall and more like… a door half open.

007n7 glanced sideways and studied his face in profile. That frown—not gone, but eased—made him look different. Gentler. Still grumpy, sure, but warm underneath. Like he might complain about the breeze being “too polite” if it tried to do him a favor.

He could get used to that look.

He smiled faintly to himself, eyes fluttering closed as he leaned back in his chair, letting the breeze kiss his face. The scent of salt. The rhythm of waves. The occasional hum of a child chasing shadows.

Until—

007n7 flinched as something cold pressed lightly against the back of his neck. He tensed on instinct—shoulders hitching, breath catching, head snapping around—only to find Builderman standing there, holding out a dripping can of beer with his usual unreadable calm. The breeze ruffled his canvas shirt; his boots left dull impressions in the wet sand behind him.

“Sorry,” Builderman drawled, voice low and gravel-smooth. The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “Didn’t mean t’scare ya.”

“I-it’s alright,” 007n7 muttered, flustered as he quickly pushed up his glasses and reached out with the other hand to take it. “Wasn’t quite expecting the cold, that’s all...”

Builderman gave a noncommittal grunt as he cracked open his own can. The sharp hiss of carbonation sliced through the still air, then faded back into the soft wash of the waves. Sunlight glinted off the metal rim as he took a slow, casual sip—eyes drifting toward the horizon like he hadn’t just startled a grown man half out of his skin.

007n7 followed his lead, popping the tab with a soft click. The beer fizzed faintly as he raised it to his lips. Bitter. Crisp. Not something he’d ever order on his own, but it wasn’t about the flavor. It was about the gesture. The quiet offering.

He took another sip. Smaller this time.

The silence settled again—thick, familiar. Not quite comfortable. Not quite unbearable either.

Conversation had always been a minefield with Builderman. The weight of what they were—what they used to be—hovered. So much unspoken, so many years lost to code, consequence, and caution. It made finding the right words difficult.

“That pipe holdin’ up still?” Builderman asked eventually, voice low and a little rough from disuse.

007n7 blinked, pulled back to the present. “O-oh, yes—it’s held up perfectly. Thanks to you. No more leaks, and no more complaints from the others... thankfully.”

Builderman gave a small nod, voice quieter now. “That’s good t’hear.”

“It is, truly. If it hadn’t been for the repair... well, we likely would’ve been evicted, honestly.”

007n7 hesitated, then glanced sideways. His voice dropped to something almost gentle.

“So… thank you again. Truly.”

Builderman gave a small nod. He didn’t say anything more—just walked over and dragged his chair a bit closer, folding into it with a grunt and setting his drink beside him.

The waves lapped against the dock. Seagulls wheeled overhead. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Until Builderman tipped his head, eyes narrowing—not unkind, but curious. Squinting like he was trying to read a line of code that didn’t make sense.

“So tell me—what changed?”

007n7 tensed slightly. “Sorry?”

“You,” Builderman said. “You used t’be… somethin’ else.”

He let out a dry chuckle—short, tired, with the echo of a hundred headache-ridden days behind it.

“Stunt-pullin’, firewall-breakin’ lil’ pest. You and that whole circus crew had me patchin’ code ‘til my boots near fell apart.” He took another sip of beer. “Now look at ya. Fishin’. Got a kid. Keepin’ clean.” His gaze pinned him. “Still don’t make a lick o’ sense to me, no matter how many times I turn it over.”

He snorted, more to himself than anything else.

There was a pause. 007n7 looked away, his eyes drawn toward the sand, where C00lkidd was crouched a few feet away, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he tried to stack a leaning sand pyramid. Two mismatched seashells stuck out of the sides like floppy ears.

“As... cliché as it may be,” he said quietly, “I’d say it was love.”

“I—I found him in a box,” 007n7 continued softly, his gaze distant. “Right outside my door. The same day I moved into the apartment—the one I got with loaned Robux. No note. No data ID. Nothing. Just… him. Screaming. Shaking. Wrapped in a blanket and left like—like trash.”

His fingers tightened around the can.

“Who could do that to a child?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me none,” Builderman gruffed, and his voice carried something darker now—familiar, weathered. Not distant, not pitying. Just… heavy. Like someone who’d seen it one too many times to flinch anymore.

He took another drink and looked out to the sea.

“World’s plenty o’ folks’ll toss out what they don’t understand,” he added after a beat. "Even if it’s their own damn code.”

007n7 gave a slow nod. “Maybe. But if I ever do find whoever it was…” his hands were clenched but he let out a breath, decided that he was going off-track.

“I still don’t know who let me out. Or why. But once he was in my arms…” His eyes followed C00lkidd, who was now chasing a crab. “…everything changed. I couldn’t go back to who I was. Didn’t want to. I just wanted to raise him. Live quietly. Make things right… even if I never get to erase the past.”

Builderman took another sip. Said nothing.

007n7’s voice dropped, barely above the hush of waves. “I imagine you... must’ve hated me.”

The silence thickened like fog. Builderman didn’t confirm or deny it.

“But,” 007n7 added, his gaze finally steady as it met Builderman’s, “I’m grateful. That you spared me. You didn’t have to. Yet... you did.”

Builderman studied him—longer this time. Like he was weighing the truth in his tone, trying to catch a glitch in the code. Then, with a slow breath, he tipped his can in a quiet toast.

“Gut told me not t’pull the trigger that day,” he muttered. A rare smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Figured… maybe there was more t’you than just bad code. Reckon I’m glad I listened.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. Just tired. The kind of tired that settled behind the ribs and never left. They sat in it, sipping quietly, watching the waves distort the sunlight into fractured silver.

“Rules’ve always been my whole life,” Builderman said suddenly, voice low—almost lost beneath the wind. 007n7 glanced over, surprised at how exposed he sounded.

Builderman hunched forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, beer can resting between calloused hands. “No rules? This place woulda buckled years back. There’s gotta be structure. Boundaries. Somebody’s gotta hold it steady. And I—” He paused, jaw tight. “Can’t let myself fail ‘em.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, gaze fixed on the sand. “Every zone. Every admin. Every soul out there… they lean on me.”

007n7 watched him, something tightening in his chest. No wonder Builderman always looked like he was one command away from snapping—or one silence away from fading out completely. He carried so much, and he never let it slip. If he didn’t do it… who would?

A long pause passed before 007n7 finally said, soft but firm, “You’re still human, Builderman. You are. And you deserve... a moment’s rest, at least.”

Builderman let out a short snort, low and tired, clearly unconvinced.

007n7 leaned back, swirling the contents of his can absently. “Have you ever wondered,” he asked softly, “why I became a hacker in the first place?”

Builderman arched a brow, deadpan. “Well? Go on then.”

“It was... because of you, actually.”

Builderman blinked. “That meant to be a joke, or are ya serious—”

“And because of that,” 007n7 went on, voice quiet but pointed, “you couldn’t see what was festering underneath. You were too focused on keeping the system running... too focused on holding everything together. You didn’t notice what was leaking through the cracks."

He paused, watching a distant drone lazily glide across the sky like it didn’t have a care in the world.

“I was angry. Rebellious. I wanted to break it all down—to prove that even the almighty admins could bleed. That they weren’t untouchable. That justice meant nothing... if those meant to uphold it let monsters walk free behind firewalls and titles."

He laughed bitterly under his breath. “I... I failed, of course. But what I said—it still stands. It was allowed to grow. Unchecked.”

Builderman went quiet, his jaw locking tight.

The air thickened—denser now, humming with things unsaid. The kind of silence that pressed down on the chest, like the moment before a storm cracked the sky open. He didn’t respond right away, just stared out past the dock, the tide lapping lazily below. Seagulls called in the distance, but even their cries felt hushed, muted.

007n7 swallowed hard, guilt curling like static under his skin. That comment—he hadn’t meant it to land like that. But now that Builderman thought about it, really thought about it… 007n7 had looked at him the same way on the day he was banned. Not with anger. Not even disappointment.

But failure. Like a broken creation staring up, pleading for the craftsman to open its eyes, to see the world for what it is.

For centuries, Builderman had judged from a distance. He only ever saw the surface—the chaos, the stunts, the label of “hacker.” It was easier that way. Simpler. A black-and-white world with clean lines and no variables.

And now… he saw how wrong he’d been.

“O-of course, I’m not saying you didn’t do your job!” 007n7 blurted, hands rising in nervous defense. “I—I mean, I know you tried, I just—”

“Yer right,” Builderman said quietly.

The words cut through the air like a clean strike.

007n7 blinked, caught off guard. “W-wait... really?”

Builderman finally looked over at him, and his expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even distant. It was honest—and that made it worse somehow.

“I was scared. Still am, maybe,” he admitted, voice gravel-low and roughened by years of silence. “I was blind. Too hell-bent on keepin’ things neat ‘n orderly—figured if every cog spun right, world’d stay clean.”

He dropped his gaze again, watching the dock below as if the answer might be there in the old wood and salt-stained supports.

“All I ever knew was fixin’,” he continued. “Buildin’. Workin’ Grit ‘til the gloves wore through.” He chuckled once, dry. “I don’t know how to live outside that. Or how to be anything else.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t much of a life, reckon? Just a week ago, I still believed people couldn’t change. That once someone broke the rules, they’d stay broken.” His hand tightened faintly on the can. “But you… you showed me different. And truth be told, I’m ashamed it took me this long t’say I was wrong.”

“That’s... not completely true,” 007n7 said softly.

Builderman glanced at him, brow quirking just slightly.

007n7 hesitated—then pressed on, voice careful but earnest. “Just from what I’ve seen... from our recent talks... I don’t think that’s all you are.”

“You’re not just some machine that enforces structure. You’re thoughtful. Intelligent. Still... a little fixated on procedure," he added, a faint smile forming, "but you care. You keep trying. Even when things fall apart... you still hold on.”

He looked down at the can in his hand, watching the bubbles settle.

“You fish. You repair what’s broken. You build. And... even when you’re hurting, you keep going. I think that’s something to admire."

For a long moment, Builderman didn’t move. Just stared out at the horizon where the sun smeared gold and fire across the waves.

Then his shoulders eased—barely. His gaze softened.

“…Reckon you really have changed, Seven,” he murmured. “And maybe that’s for the best.” He paused. “I was wrong. ‘Bout you. ‘Bout a lot. I’m sorry fer’ bein’ so damn stubborn. Hope you can forgive a worn-out fool like me.”

007n7 blinked. That kind of sincerity—from Builderman of all people—left him speechless.

“I—yes. Of course,” he stammered. “You’re forgiven.”

Builderman gave a small smile. A rare one. And just for a moment, 007n7’s heart skipped a beat.

“’Bout time I dropped the old habits,” Builderman said, leaning back slightly, the breeze catching at the edges of his hat. “Funny, ain’t it? Spent years givin’ Telamon grief ‘bout his tunnel vision—didn’t see I was wearin’ my own, stitched up in a fancier coat.”

“I always respected that side of you,” 007n7 said after a breath, voice warmer now. “Even back then. And still now. You’ve always been... admirable.”

Their eyes met. And held. Neither of them looked away.

Something stirred in Builderman’s chest. A pressure behind the ribs—words he hadn’t let himself speak in years. Something honest. Something terrifying.

Then—

“AAAHH! Mister Builder! Your hook thingy’s moving!”

C00lkidd’s shrill voice shattered the quiet like a pane of glass, the moment between Builderman and 007n7 cracking apart as suddenly as it had formed.

Builderman jolted upright, eyes snapping to the fishing rod propped against the dock rail. The line yanked taut again with a sudden twitch.

“What in—?!”

He surged forward, nearly knocking over his can as he grabbed the pole with both hands. The rod flexed under pressure, reel spinning wildly.

C00lkidd danced in frantic circles around him like an overcaffeinated cheerleader. “YOU GOT A BIG ONE! YOU GOTTA REEL IT—REEL IT—REEL—”

“I know how t’fish, runt—!” Builderman barked, boots planting firm on the dock as he leaned back, muscles braced, fighting the pull.

007n7 just watched from where he sat, shaking his head with a quiet, exasperated smile tugging at his lips. But the warmth never left his eyes.

Then his line jerked.

“O-oh!” He scrambled to his feet, fumbling with the reel. “I—I think I may have something as well—!”

C00lkidd, naturally, bolted back to his side. “GO PAPA GO!! BEAT MISTER BUILDER!”

“Please don’t phrase it like that…” 007n7 muttered, but too late.

The rod snapped taut in his hands. The line screamed. He yelped as it tugged too fast—and just as he tried to regain his footing, C00lkidd “helped” by grabbing him around the waist. The result?

Crash!

They tumbled backward into a heap—limbs, feathers, and tangled fishing line sprawled across the dock like two broken action figures thrown by an angry child.

“I... almost had it,” 007n7 murmured with a faint groan, still flat on his back.

Builderman, meanwhile, gave one final grunt and hauled his catch up onto the dock—a wide-bodied, iridescent fish that flopped and shimmered like a glitching texture.

He glanced over at the chaos on the pier. A deep, dry chuckle rumbled from his chest as he leaned the rod aside.

“That yer fishin’ technique, huh? Dive-bombin’ off the dock?”

C00lkidd sat up first, face flushed, seaweed clinging to his shirt sleeve like a badge of failure. When he saw Builderman’s fish, he immediately puffed his cheeks in dramatic betrayal.

"NOOO! Yours is TOO BIG!!” he cried, arms flailing. “We got ZERO fish! Zero like a sad donut!!"

007n7, brushing off sand and trying to untangle himself from the line, leaned over with a sheepish smile.

“S-size isn’t everything,” 007n7 offered gently. “We could always try again—just for a little longer, before the sun sets... if that’s alright?”

"IT IS when it's fish!” C00lkidd huffed, arms crossed. “You promised fish and now my tummy's mad!"

His pout deepened to an exaggerated tremble. 007n7 scrambled for words, clearly struggling to console him.

Builderman, still crouched beside his catch, let out a quiet chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

“Tell ya what,” he said, voice gruff but amused. “I’ll cook us somethin’. Ain’t gourmet, but I can throw together some fish stew.”

007n7 blinked, frowning slightly, embarrassed. "...You don’t have to. Really, I mean that—"

“I want to,” Builderman interrupted, voice steady but gentle. “Let me handle this, just this once.”

He stood, dusting off his hands. “Ain’t fancy. Just fish, salt, and a flame. But it’ll fill our guts.”

007n7 hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Then... thank you. Truly."

He turned to C00lkidd. “What do you say, son?”

C00lkidd’s mood flipped like a switch. He beamed. “YAAAAY!! THANK YOU MISTER BUILDER!! I’m gonna make a table outta seashells and seagull feathers!"

Builderman huffed a laugh, standing tall as the sun dipped lower behind him, casting golden light across the dock. “Alright then. Let’s get t’cookin’.”

And for just a moment—amid tangled lines, bruised pride, and a single gleaming fish—something like peace settled between them.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

They’d set up camp right at the edge of the shore, where the tide whispered up to the sand but never quite reached their boots. The dusk was bleeding in slow across the sky, painting everything in deepening shades of violet and gold. Their fire crackled low, a sputtering orange heartbeat against the encroaching dark.

Builderman crouched beside it, sleeves rolled, hands moving with mechanical certainty as he gutted the fish. Scale by scale, scrape by scrape, he worked. Guts pulled free. Saltwater rinse. Laid it clean over the flames without a word. All of it—routine. Familiar.

C00lkidd sat cross-legged nearby, nose wrinkled like he’d just sniffed a boot.

“EWW!! Was that the EYE?! I saw it wiggle!!”

“Yup,” Builderman replied without looking up.

“Are you gonna keep it?”

“Ain’t plannin’ on it.”

“Can I have it?! I’ll name it Blinky!”

“Not a chance, runt.”

The broth simmered in a dented pot above the flames, already rich with sea salt, dried herbs, and whatever spices Builderman had the foresight to toss in his backpack before coming. It hissed as it bubbled, the scent rising into the air—smoky, briny, sharp and soothing all at once. Wind tugged at the flames and carried the aroma down the shore, mingling with the sea.

When the fish was ready, Builderman ladled the soup into chipped bowls—careful, steady—and passed them out with a low grunt. “Watch it now—soup’s still steamin’.”

007n7 cradled his with both hands, murmuring a soft, polite “Thank you. I… appreciate it.” C00lkidd immediately blew on his with noisy puffs, steam fogging 007n7’s glasses instead.

Then they tasted it.

And froze.

Builderman paused mid-stir, trying to sound casual. “What’s the verdict? Somethin’ off?”

007n7 blinked. His expression shifted—something soft blooming behind his eyes. “This is…” He looked up at Builderman, voice filled with quiet wonder. “This is… really good. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“THIS IS THE BEST SOUP EVER!!!” C00lkidd hollered with a grin, kicking his feet so hard he nearly flung broth into the fire. “TEN OUTTA TEN!! GIMME MORE!!”

Builderman just stared at them. For a second, he didn’t move. Then—just faintly—his weathered face cracked. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A flicker of something raw and stunned in his eyes. Embarrassment? Relief?

“…That so?”

“Yeah!!” C00lkidd beamed, already slurping loudly again.

Builderman let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, shoulders sinking just a little. Not slumped. Just… less braced.

“Well I’ll be... That’s a relief,” he muttered, voice low and a bit rougher now, “Ain’t cooked fer' anyone in a long while. Not really.”

“Why not?” C00lkidd blurted through a mouthful. “You’re, like, the SOUP KING! Even better than Papa’s! Sorry Papa!!”

“Hey—!” 007n7 frowned, flushing. “C00lkidd—please don’t say things like that.”

“Sorry,” he said quickly, glancing toward Builderman with an apologetic look. “He, um… blurts things out sometimes. I’m working on it.”

“Mhm. Heard.” Builderman replied dryly, scraping the side of the pot with his ladle. But his tone wasn’t harsh. Just factual. Maybe even a little amused.

C00lkidd leaned closer, clutching his bowl with sticky fingers. “How come you don’t make soup all the time? You don’t got anyone to slurp it with?”

The question hit the air like a dropped nail—sharp, simple, and far too honest.

The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks into the sky.

Builderman didn’t answer right away.

His gaze lingered on the broth. The flames beneath it. Then shifted, just slightly, toward 007n7 and C00lkidd—huddled beside him, bowls warm in their laps, steam curling up like a silent thanks.

The silence held, heavy as the tide.

And for once, Builderman didn’t rush to fill it.

007n7 moved before he even thought—instinct sharp and urgent—reaching over to clamp a hand over the kid’s mouth.

“C00lkidd. That wasn’t kind. Apologize, please.”

The fire cracked, and the waves pulled back from the shore with a hushed shush, like the world itself was listening.

C00lkidd flinched beneath his hand, shrinking in on himself. His tail curled tight around his legs like a safety rope, and his voice came out a muffled mumble. “...Sorry, Mister Builder... didn’t mean it like that…”

But Builderman didn’t even look up.

He just stared into the fire, motionless save for the slow twitch of his jaw. Then, finally, he shook his head.

“Nah. Let it be.”

A pause. A breath. The crackle of the flames.

Then, quieter—so quiet it almost vanished into the wind—he added, “Kid’s right.”

The flames danced over his face, casting long shadows through the hollows beneath his eyes. He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just let the words sit.

“Ain’t had company in a while.”

​​It hit like stones dropped in still water—ripples spreading with no end.

“I build,” he continued, voice low and even. “Towns. Outposts. Places where folks can breathe easy. Make sure the lights stay lit, code don’t break, bellies stay full.”

He swirled the bowl gently in his hands, watching the soup inside shift with each small motion.

“But what’s the point of knowin’ how to do any of that,” he asked, “if there ain’t no one sittin’ ‘cross from ya’ when it’s done? Nobody t’ share it with?”

The fire popped—sharp, sudden. A spark snapped against his sleeve, and he didn’t even flinch.

“Ain’t much joy in skill… if yer the only one left to use it.”

007n7 didn’t move. Couldn’t. The words burrowed deep beneath his ribs, cold and piercing. Not self-pity. Not grief. Just truth—bare and bruised.

Builderman didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain.

He just fell quiet again, feeding the fire with a fresh log, watching it catch. Then, real quiet—maybe just to himself—he murmured, “hard buildin’ when yer the only one around t’ hold the beams steady.”

The glow of the flames painted him in gold and shadow, dancing across the scarred skin of his knuckles, the lines carved deep into his brow. The look on his face wasn’t longing. Wasn’t bitterness. It was… searching.

As if somewhere in that fire, there was still something left to find.

C00lkidd had already scampered off, oblivious to the tension, giggling as he poked at a tide pool with a stick and tried to balance a crab on his tail. “PAPA!! Check it out! I found a crab with PINCHY HANDS! He’s my new friend!!”

But 007n7 couldn’t look away from Builderman.

Couldn’t ignore the way his fingers trembled slightly as he set the pot aside.

Couldn’t forget the slight crack in his voice on that single word: lonely.

Later, long after the fire had burned down to coals, they’d made their way back through the portal. C00lkidd was asleep before his shoes hit the floor, curled up on the couch, arms wrapped tight around a chipped seashell like it was priceless. His tail flicked once in his sleep, then stilled.

And 007n7?

He lay awake.

Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the quiet hum of the city outside. Remembering the scent of salt and smoke and soup.

Remembering Builderman’s hands—steady, capable, weathered. The way his voice had faltered, just a hair. The silence that followed.

Not just the enforcer. Not the figure from everyone else’s war stories.

Just a man. A man who had given up warmth for responsibility. Who had chosen solitude in service of others. Who was good, and strong, and unbearably human.

A lonely man.

Trying, in his own way, to connect.

And that made something in 007n7’s chest ache long after the night had passed.

But what lingered longer than anything else—what rang through the quiet like the final chord of a song—was the echo of Builderman’s voice by the fire:

“Ain’t much joy in skill… if yer the only one left to use it.”

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

Builderman was bored out of his damn mind.

Vacation was supposed to be relaxing. A chance to breathe. To let the ache in his joints ease and the world spin without him for a while. But solitude hit different once you'd tasted warmth—once you'd shared a fire with someone who didn’t flinch at the cracks in your voice.

Now, the quiet wasn’t peace. It was punishment.

With a grunt, Builderman rubbed the bridge of his nose and pushed himself up from the stiff lounge chair. His boots scuffed against the polished tile as he wandered to the oak desk shoved in the corner of the grand hotel room. It was too pristine. Too damn clean. Like it was trying to look useful.

He slumped down, slid on his old reading glasses—hinges creaking with a familiar tick—and powered up the clunky laptop. The fan wheezed. His inbox groaned to life, a wall of red flags and unanswered requests rising like mold under a broken drainpipe. Complaints. Permission forms. Sentry deployment approvals. Code rollback petitions.

But at least it was familiar.

His calloused fingers scrolled half-heartedly, eyes skimming lines he didn’t read. Mostly he was stalling. Avoiding the truth chewing its way through the back of his mind.

That every damn thought kept circling back to him.

007n7.

That jittery little hacker with nervous hands and a voice that always sounded like he was apologizing for breathing. The same one who sat with him by the fire that night—who looked at Builderman like he weren’t a relic, but something still worth salvaging.

"Ridiculous..." he muttered, flicking through more reports. “Ain’t even got a damn excuse t’ go see him.”

Pipes were fine. No leaks. No busted lines. The safezone grid held steady. And you couldn’t just show up after a weirdly intimate soup-sharing moment and say what, exactly? Hey, heard your plumbing’s still fine. Wanna not awkwardly talk about our feelings some more?

He clicked his tongue, scowling. “Can’t fix what ain’t busted…”

The laptop screen flickered.

He froze.

Then it stabilized. Hummed back to life like nothing happened.

He exhaled—and then it glitched again. A quick blink. A ripple of blue crawling across the interface like static veins.

Then darkness.

“Aw, c’mon now—” he groaned, leaning in, fingers already flying across the keys. Not now. I was just ‘bout done writin’ Doom’s damn memo—”

The machine made a soft pop. He flinched.

Glowing white text bloomed against the void:

Your PC ran into a problem and needs to restart. We’re just collecting some error info. :(

His jaw set tight. He stared, unmoving, as the cursor blinked mockingly.

Then—THUNK. His fist met the desk. Not hard enough to splinter wood, but enough to rattle the lamp and send the pen rolling.

“Yer kiddin’ me,” he muttered, standing so quick the chair skidded behind him. “Figures.”

He yanked the glasses off, shoved ’em into the collar of his shirt, and crouched beside the machine. The plastic casing popped open with a reluctant click. Heat rolled out like breath from a dying beast.

“Alright,” he grunted, squinting into the scorched innards, “let’s see what sorta hell you’re cookin’ in here…”

The stench of melted wire and ozone curled up his nose. Inside was a rat's nest of blackened circuitry and brittle, snapped solder joints. No simple glitch. This was sabotage-grade fryin’.

He worked silently, tongue caught between his teeth, nudging cables aside with rough fingers. Sweat gathered under his collar. The fan was charred. The battery casing warped.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more.

Eventually he sat back on his heels, wiped his hands on his pants, and shook his head.

“Nope,” he muttered, straightening up with a grunt. “Ain’t touchin’ that heap without a fire extinguisher ‘n’ a miracle.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and turned toward the window. The sea glittered like stars. Waves rolled in lazy rhythm. A perfect day. Nothing wrong on the surface.

But his gaze wandered back to the dead laptop—and that flicker of blue.

And it hit him: he could fix it. Or…

…he could find someone who knew more than him. Someone good with tech. Someone he hadn’t seen in days—and couldn’t get out of his damn head.

“...Ain’t an excuse,” he muttered under his breath, already turning away from the busted board. “It’s necessity.”

But how the hell was he supposed to contact 007n7—?

Then he remembered.

A card.

His eyes widened. He’d nearly forgotten—back when the whole pizzeria went up in smoke and he’d ended up footing the fine. The hacker had slipped it to him, almost awkwardly, mumbling something like:

“If you ever need me for anything…”

Builderman spun on his heel.

The pants.

Still in the hamper.

Boots thudding heavy against tile, he stomped toward the bathroom, yanked open the old laundry bin, and dug in. Worn denim lay crumpled and half-buried beneath a nest of flannel and faded workshirts. He rifled through the heap like a man possessed—shirts flying over one shoulder, jeans over the other—until his fingers brushed something stiff in a pocket seam.

His breath hitched. He pulled it free.

There it was.

Bent at the corners, softened from the wash of time—but still intact. A simple card, printed in clean, professional type: a name, a number, and in the corner, a tiny icon—half gear, half glitched-out smiley.

Typical 007n7 branding. Subtle. Efficient. Quietly endearing.

Builderman stared at it for a moment too long, thumb grazing the ink. He could call. His computer was fried—no lie there. He could frame it as tech support. Nothing more.

But the truth gnawed at him beneath the surface—familiar and hard to admit. This wasn’t just about the machine.

It was the quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind that pressed in from all sides—the kind that crept into his chest and curled around his ribs. He missed that voice. Not one barked over radio from an admin post. Not his own gravel echoing off steel walls.

His voice.

“Hah… past me, you sly son of a gun,” Builderman muttered with a crooked grin. “Didn’t pitch it after all.”

He rose with a grunt, crossed the room, and reached for the landline—an old blocky thing mounted to the wall, its cord twisted like nerves. His fingers, usually so sure around a wrench or a gear casing, fumbled slightly on the keypad. He cleared his throat. Dialed.

Ring.

He stared down at his gloves. Calloused palms itched. He adjusted one absentmindedly.

Why the hell was he nervous?

Ring…

Still no answer.

His grip on the receiver shifted. A small weight settled behind his ribs, dull and familiar. Maybe 007n7 was out. Or ignoring him. Or maybe it was a fake number—some half-hearted kindness offered in a moment of pity.

Ring.

He sighed, thumb hovering over the hook switch, ready to hang up.

And then—

Click.

A faint, electronic shuffle.

Then static.

Then—

“H-Hello? Who is this?”

Soft. Wary. That unmistakable tone—gentle, unsure, like he expected trouble on the other end of the line.

Builderman blinked.

His whole chest lit up like someone’d thrown a torch into his ribs.

But his voice stayed level—gravelly, neutral, bordering on gruff. “Yeah. It’s Builderman.”

A beat of stunned silence crackled across the line like static. Then, cautiously:

“…Oh—um, is there something I can assist you with...?”

The nerves were obvious—like 007n7 was bracing for a bomb to drop from orbit. Builderman shifted his weight, scratching the back of his neck as he stared down at the fried rig across the room. The computer blinked mockingly at him, its little blue error light flashing like a smug insult.

“It’s my rig,” he said flatly. “Fried itself. Need someone who knows their way ‘round a circuit.”

Another pause. Not static now—just disbelief.

“…Is that truly all you needed…? I just want to be sure.” 007n7 asked, uncertain.

Builderman’s frown deepened. “Yeah,” he replied, a bit too firmly. “That’s all.”

“…Right. Of course. I-I can come over. If you’d just… give me the address, please.”

Builderman rattled it off slowly, still clutching the phone, eyes fixed on the scuffed floor as he paced a short circle. He could hear faint rustling on the other end—shuffling, a click, something dropping—

Wait—no, don’t touch that!”

Then a familiar voice cut in:

“MISTER BUILDER!!! HIHIHIHI!!!”

Builderman blinked. “...Runt?”

“IT’S MEEEE!! I MISSED YOU A WHOLE BUNCH!!! Can I come?? PLEAAAAASE?? I’ll be SO GOOD!!”

A grin tugged at the edge of his mouth despite himself. He could already hear the scuffle in the background—007n7 fumbling to wrest the phone back, muttering something about how he could totally get a babysitter or literally anyone else, that it really wasn’t a good idea—

“NOOOO I WANNA GO!! I WANNA GO I WANNA GO—PLEAAAAASE—”

“Let ‘im come,” Builderman said gruffly, already rubbing a hand down his face. “Ain’t gonna hurt nothin’.”

There was a pause. Then a shriek of pure joy:

“WOOHOOOOOOO!! THANK YOU UNCLE BUILDER!!! I’M BRINGIN’ MY TOYS AND MY SCOOTER AND MY BASEBALL BAT—BYE UNCLE BUILDER!!”

The line went momentarily silent.

Builderman stared at the receiver.

His heart gave a small, inexplicable jolt.

Then—scrambling. A clatter. Some frantic shuffling and a faint "nonononono—"

“I—I truly apologize! I looked away for a moment and he… got to the phone—!”

Builderman smirked faintly, leaning his weight against the wall.

“Take yer’ time,” he drawled.

“Y-You mean it..? Thank you. I’ll make this as quick as I can. I’m… really sorry about all this.”

And then:

Click.

The line went dead, and the silence that followed was thick—buzzing low like a powerline in winter, taut with something that hadn’t been spoken but felt. Builderman stood there with the receiver still pressed to his ear, shoulders rigid, pulse thrumming behind his ribs like a slow warning drum.

One beat.

Two.

A full minute passed before he finally let the breath out—long and stunned, like air escaping from a cracked pipe.

And then—he laughed.

It started as a soft snort, half-wary, half-wild—something unguarded that tumbled out before he could stop it. Then it rolled deeper, into a rough, chest-warmed chuckle that rumbled through him like gravel shaken loose. It caught him by surprise, made his shoulders shake under the weight of something unfamiliar—something good.

He set the landline down with careful fingers, slow as if afraid to break whatever strange spell had taken hold. His hand lingered on the receiver, thumb brushing the smooth plastic like it was something alive. His face was flushed—he could feel the heat all the way up to the tip of his ears—and he rubbed at the corner of his eye with one calloused thumb, brushing away something faint. Something that might have been moisture.

“…Uncle Builder, huh.”

The words broke loose like a sigh, spoken to no one but the walls. They hovered in the quiet air—delicate, disarming. Sweet in a way he hadn’t tasted in years.

He stood there for a beat longer, letting it settle.

“Uncle Builder,” he murmured again, slower this time—testing the shape of it in his mouth, the way it fit like an old tool rediscovered at the back of a shed. A name he didn’t deserve… but damn if it didn’t sound nice.

He hadn’t expected to hear something like that again, something so affectionate, so intimate.

Not since—

His smile wavered. The warmth in his chest flickered, dimming like a candle caught in a draft. The shadows in the room stretched just a little longer, the corners growing darker, colder.

No.

His jaw set, just slightly. He shut his eyes for a moment, forced his next breath through his nose. No use digging through the ashes. Not when there was somethin’ new sproutin’ up through the soot.

With a grunt, he turned on his heel, the laughter retreating back into his throat, not snuffed—just quiet now. Quieter. But not gone.

His boots thudded softly across the wooden floor as he moved toward the closet. He tugged the door open, scanning the row of shirts like he was choosing a loadout before a mission. His hand settled on one of the better flannels—not too stiff, not too formal, but clean, pressed. Good enough.

“Ain’t like he’ll notice,” he muttered to himself, but his hands lingered just a moment too long on the collar anyway. Smoothing a wrinkle. Adjusting the fold. Would he notice? Would he see the difference—the way Builderman’s hands lingered just a second too long on the collar, the way his breath hitched at the thought of—

Cut it out.

He shook his head, snorting low. Still, the corner of his mouth tugged up against his will. There it was again—that damn smile. Crooked thing. Didn't know when to quit.

Behind him, the busted PC blinked like a sore tooth—mocking, forgotten.

Somewhere on his desk, a half-finished report to MrDoombringer sat unsent, cursor still blinking like a warning light on a cracked dashboard.

He’d regret that part later.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

They arrived by boat—the last leg of the journey winding through an overgrown canal that gave way, suddenly, to manicured perfection.

And that was when 007n7 saw it.

Towering ahead was a monolith of a hotel, almost offensively pristine in the mid-afternoon light. Polished glass panes rose like shimmering shields, reflecting the sky back at itself. The hedges lining the front drive were trimmed with near-military precision—not a leaf out of place. Vibrant flowerbeds exploded in symmetrical bursts of blue lilies, orange primrose, and red tulips, laid out in stark, flag-like stripes.

Even the air smelled expensive. Like filtered pine and polished brass. Too clean.

007n7 stepped off the boat and paused at the edge of the cobbled path, shoulders hunched beneath his faded jacket. He looked up at the looming structure, eyes wide with unease.

“…Is this the right address?” he asked softly, voice barely carrying above the crunch of gravel.

There was no answer.

C00lkidd was already sprinting ahead—boots thudding wildly down the stone walkway, arms flung out like airplane wings. His scooter had been left behind in protest, but he still wore his baseball cap backwards and a mismatched set of oversized baseball clothes that flapped comically as he ran.

“WOAHH!! This is his house?! Uncle Builder’s got a CASTLE!!” he shrieked, spinning in place and nearly crashing into a hedge.

“W-Wait, C00lkidd—please don’t run off—!” 007n7 groaned, dragging a sleeve across his clammy palm before jogging after him, breath already catching. His boots scuffed against the immaculate path, gravel clicking underfoot.

They reached the marble steps, and he nearly tripped as they widened into a sweeping, open-air lobby.

The moment they stepped inside, the world went quiet.

Not peaceful—quiet.

Polished white stone floors reflected their silhouettes like a mirror. Brass railings traced the edges of sweeping staircases. Massive chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting soft, honey-gold light that pooled like syrup across the tiles. There was a reception desk, but no receptionist. No music. No guests. No sound.

Just stillness.

And one man standing dead center, like he’d never moved.

Builderman.

He was a silhouette of quiet strength, arms crossed, leaning against the edge of an antique oak desk with the effortless confidence of a man who had shaped worlds with his own hands.

And perhaps he had.

The moment his eyes found them, he pushed off, his movements deliberate—each step steady, echoing faintly through the marble hall with the kind of grounded certainty that made the earth seem like it leaned into him rather than the other way around.

He wore a fresh pair of flannels, sleeves neatly rolled, the deep, earthen hue striking against the white-gold opulence of the lobby. It was a good look on Builderman—unassuming, but precise. The shirt clung to the solid curve of his arms—corded muscle beneath sun-kissed skin, marked by the faint scars and callouses of a lifetime of labor.

There was a rugged softness to him—somewhere in the slope of his shoulders or the faint give at his middle—but 007n7 wasn’t fooled. Not even for a second. If it came down to strength, Builderman could dismantle him with the ease of folding paper.

No hardhat. No headset. Just a pair of reading glasses perched low on his nose, and his hair—usually a mess of loose strands—gathered back with a leather tie into a low, practical ponytail. A few wisps had escaped, curling along his cheek.

“Hey there.”

His voice was low and rough, worn with gravel and something quieter beneath it—warm, almost shy, like a man uncertain of how much welcome to show. “Good t’see ya made it.”

007n7’s breath caught.

The air between them had weight now. Like standing at the edge of something vast and not quite speaking it aloud.

He swallowed, voice barely a whisper. “Y-Yeah. You weren’t joking when you said it was a castle…”

Builderman chuckled—a low, hearthfire sound that rumbled deep in his chest and warmed the chill between them. “Eh, it ain’t so bad. Place’s too dang big if ya ask me. Still get turned around on floor six. You will too if I don’t steer ya proper.”

“WAIT.” C00lkidd spun a full circle on the marble, his sneakers shrieking like banshees. “YOU HAVE SIX FLOORS?! This place is bigger than a museum!!”

“Eight,” Builderman corrected gently, quirking a brow. “But only two’re worth livin’ in. Rest’s just playrooms, storerooms, and stuff I ain’t had the guts t’ toss.”

C00lkidd’s eyes sparkled like he’d stumbled upon a hidden treasure hoard. “Can I go LOOK?? Pretty pleaaaase? I’ll be good—”

“No,” both adults answered in unison.

Builderman added with a lopsided smile, “But if yer papa gets my rig hummin’ again? Then sure. Go nuts.”

C00lkidd let out a triumphant whoop, tail swishing behind him like an overexcited metronome. “PAPA HURRY!! FIX THE THING!!” he chanted, grabbing 007n7’s hand and swinging it wildly. “I WANNA SEE THE SECRET ROOMS!! MAYBE THERE’S LOOT!!!”

Builderman gave 007n7 a sidelong glance. Not scolding. Not exasperated. Just… amused. The kind of look that said, You’ve got your hands full, huh? But beneath it—something else. Something quieter. A flicker of softness that hadn’t been there last time. Familiarity.

007n7’s pulse fluttered. He pretended not to notice.

“So, um…” He cleared his throat and motioned awkwardly. “S-Should I… follow you...?”

Builderman nodded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “C’mon then. This way.”

He turned, boots striking soft against the tile as they approached the elevator tucked in the far wall. The doors slid open with a quiet sigh, polished metal gleaming under chandelier light, their reflections warped and rippling in the steel.

007n7 stepped in behind C00lkidd, who was already jabbing every button in sight with the urgent glee of a child on a mission.

“Stop that.” Builderman reached out, effortlessly swatting the kid’s hand away before pressing the single button marked PH. A soft ding followed—ceremonial, almost sacred in the stillness.

“Only one o’ these does anythin’,” he muttered, under his breath.

The elevator began to ascend with a gentle lurch.

007n7 kept his eyes forward, trying not to glance sideways—not at how Builderman’s frame filled the space beside him, broad and solid and frustratingly composed. His presence was like a wall of quiet warmth, steady and unshakable, and it was doing awful things to 007n7’s nerves.

He fiddled with the strap of his satchel, thumbing the edge where his toolkit was tucked inside—along with a tube of thermal paste, a handful of screws, a snack bar in case C00lkidd got cranky, and a change of clothes because… well… just in case.

C00lkidd, utterly oblivious to the tension, was humming a shrill, off-key version of a song theme he heard on the radio and poking the elevator buttons that were already lit.

With a soft ding, the elevator came to a stop, and the doors slid open with a hush.

007n7 froze in place.

The penthouse was… something else.

The penthouse wasn’t grand—it wasn’t opulent or sterile like the lobby—but it had a kind of weight to it. A quiet presence. Lived in, but in a Builderman sort of way: dark wood floors, exposed steel beams, half-finished projects spilling across side tables, with a scattering of tools like breadcrumbs. The far wall was made entirely of glass, sunlight pouring in to reveal a rooftop garden just beyond—untamed and green.

It smelled faintly of cedar. Machine oil. And… was that cinnamon?

Builderman walked forward with practiced ease, gesturing casually over his shoulder. “It’s in my room. Don’t go judgin’. I been meanin’ to clean, just ain’t got ‘round to it.”

007n7 followed, ducking his head. “I-I wouldn’t judge. I mean… it’s actually really nice. Warmer than I thought it’d be.”

It wasn’t messy. Not really. Just cluttered, like a mind that never stopped turning. Blueprints were pinned to the walls with carpenter’s tacks, two heavy-duty toolboxes were stacked on the coffee table like furniture, and a comically large fish plushie was half-squished on the couch—its gaping felt mouth aimed skyward like it had witnessed things no fish should.

C00lkidd flopped down into the cushions beside it with a dramatic “OOF!”

“It’s sooooo cozy!! Can I move in, Papa?! I’ll bring my scooter!!”

Builderman snorted as he passed. “Say that now, but one night hearin’ server fans whinin’ at two in the mornin’, you’d be out the door faster’n a bug fix.”

“DIBS ON NAMIN’ THE FANS!! This one’s Sparky! The loud one’s Greg!!” C00lkidd shouted, already burying himself under the plush fish like a nesting goblin.

Builderman chuckled under his breath and kept walking, leading 007n7 through a side hall into a more private room.

The master bedroom was dimmer. Thick curtains blocked most of the sunlight. The furniture was heavy, practical, lived-in. An open flannel shirt had been tossed haphazardly over the footboard, a dog-eared manual on AI-driven construction systems rested beside the alarm clock.

And at the far desk, beneath a dim reading lamp, sat the culprit: Builderman’s PC.

The screen blinked a dull, panicked blue. A guilty little box of light pulsing like a dying star.

“There’s the patient,” Builderman muttered, stepping over to clear a stack of mugs and a screwdriver from the desk. “Fried on me this mornin’. Whole rig quit mid-report. Ain’t dared poke it since.”

007n7 knelt beside the desk, setting his satchel down with a gentle thump and sliding out his toolkit. “I’ll take a look.”

He popped the side panel open with practiced fingers, eyes narrowing. “O-Oh… this rig’s been through a lot, hasn’t it..?”

Builderman leaned over him, bracing one hand on the desk. “That rough, huh?”

“Did you… wire the fans straight into the power rail..?” 007n7 asked, gently lifting a blackened cable with the tweezers.

Builderman shrugged, half-defensive. “Figured it’d cool better. Run quicker. Guess I figured wrong.”

“You melted your I/O bus.” His voice cracked just slightly with disbelief. “It’s a miracle this didn’t catch fire.”

Builderman rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I build stuff with rebar, not wires. I’m good with concrete, not clickin’ boards. Folks think I’m some kind of tech wiz, but truth is—I been guessin’ my way through since day one. Got lucky. ‘Til now. Guess even I got cracks in the wall.”

007n7 paused, one hand still holding a connector. He looked up—not at the machine, but at Builderman.

“That’s… honestly kind of nice to hear.”

Builderman raised a brow. “Nice?”

“Well… yeah. It’s human. We’re not all good at everything. You build zones, cities, safety. But even you have your gaps. And when someone else fills in those gaps, things work better. That’s... how it should be.”

Builderman blinked.

“I-It’s okay to let someone in… it doesn’t make you weak,” 007n7 continued, voice quieter now. “It just… makes things easier. You’re not broken for needing help, I mean. You’re—”

He faltered. The next word stuck in his throat, refusing to leave.

Adorable.

"—you’re doing your best..."

Builderman caught the hesitation. One brow arched slightly, amused.

But he didn’t press. Didn’t tease.

Instead, he gave a small, thoughtful nod, one corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“Y’know,” he said slowly, settling back against the desk, “you came here t’ fix my machine… but you’re patchin’ up more than just that.”

The PC blinked. C00lkidd, in the other room, was yelling something about naming a screwdriver Sparky Jr.

007n7 ducked his head quickly, pretending to re-check the thermal paste tube. “J-Just… trying to be useful.”

C00lkidd poked his head through the half-open door, eyes wide with barely-contained chaos.

“DID IT GO BOOM?! Can I peek?! Just a lil’ peek!!”

“No,” 007n7 replied at once, not looking up from the wires.

Builderman, who stood nearby, waved the kid off with a grunt.

“Go poke ‘round the garden, runt. Up the stairs. And don’t go fallin’ in the pond.”

There was a long, stunned pause.

“WAIT—THERE’S A POND?! Is there FISH?! Can I cannonball?!?”

Then came the thunder of retreating footsteps, rapidly ascending.

007n7 flinched. “What if he falls—?”

“Don’t fret.” Builderman scratched behind his ear, voice casual. “Roof’s got a bounce shield. He falls, he’ll pop right back up like a dandelion in a wind tunnel.”

007n7 sighed, shoulders easing slightly as he refocused. The room settled into a hush, save for the soft whirr of the laptop fan and the occasional clink of tools. Builderman, to his credit, didn’t hover—he just leaned back against the workbench, arms folded, boots crossed at the ankle.

The hacker’s fingers moved with practiced rhythm—switching out melted wires, replacing the thermal paste, gently brushing dust from the motherboard with a soft bristle brush. His bag lay open nearby, bits of copper and spare fans peeking out between snack wrappers and C00lkidd’s emergency juice box.

Time passed—quiet, warm.

“…You’ve been quiet,” 007n7 murmured eventually, not daring to glance up. His voice was soft, uncertain.

Builderman blinked, like he’d been pulled from a long drift of thought.

“Didn’t mean t’ throw off your focus.”

But the weight of his gaze said otherwise. Heavy. Focused. Not judging—just… watching. And somehow that was worse.

007n7’s grip faltered for a moment on the tweezers.

“Y-You’re still… staring,” he mumbled under his breath, ears pink.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Builderman let out a low chuckle, rubbing the side of his jaw. “Guess I’m the one feelin’ twitchy.”

007n7 blinked, fingers stilling. “…About?”

There was a beat. Then another. Builderman exhaled slowly through his nose, voice quieting.

“‘Bout you bein’ here,” he said. “Kinda odd, admittin’ I missed ya after just one dinner and a campfire.”

The words hit like a spark to dry kindling.

007n7 nearly dropped the screw he was holding, his face burning.

“W-What did you just say..?”

“I said—”

Builderman’s lips quirked, and—oh no—he was really about to repeat himself, bold as sunrise, and 007n7 couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let him say it again when his heart was already hammering like this—

“N-No—!” 007n7 waved a flustered hand in the air, face burning. “I heard you! L-loud and clear, actually!”

Builderman arched a brow, amused, but 007n7 was already scrambling to recover, to breathe, because—missed him? Him? An admin to an ex-hacker? To him?

007n7 blinked hard, trying to gather himself, eyes flicking back to the circuit board. “N-Not that it’s weird or anything—wait, I mean—maybe it is?” he said quickly. “I—I should just… focus. Sorry.”

Builderman’s grin was slow, knowing, but he didn’t press. Just let the moment settle, his gaze softening like sunlight through leaves.

And for once, 007n7 didn’t mind the silence that followed.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

Eventually, with one final click, 007n7 closed the side panel of the tower and pressed the power button.

The PC gave a soft whirr. Fans spun to life, lights flickered, and after a brief pause… the screen blinked on. BIOS loaded. Then desktop.

Clean boot.

Fixed.

“There,” he mumbled, pushing himself up and brushing the dust from his knees. “She’s running again.”

Builderman let out a low whistle, arms still folded, his weight leaning slightly against the desk. “Well, I’ll be. That all it took?”

007n7 wiped a sleeve across his forehead, trying to hide the sweat. “Simple enough… if you know where to look.”

Builderman gave a small grunt. “Reckon I’ll keep actin’ clueless—gives you a reason t’ swing by again.”

That earned a beat of silence.

007n7 blinked, caught halfway between tucking his tools away and processing the words. He turned slowly, eyes wide and uncertain, like a stray expecting a boot instead of kindness. “…You mean that?”

Builderman met his gaze and stepped forward—not imposing, just present. His voice dropped into something rough but quiet, steadier than before. “Meant every word. Feels good, havin’ you ‘round again.”

The words landed with a weight 007n7 didn’t know how to carry. It wasn’t just the sentiment—it was the way Builderman said it so easily, like it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. Like kindness didn’t cost him anything.

And 007n7 hated how much he envied that. How someone could swing from teasing to sincere without tripping over himself. Over his own feelings—and being so accepting of them.

Before he could respond—

“I FOUND A FROG!! HIS NAME’S LARRY NOW!!”

C00lkidd’s voice echoed down from the rooftop garden like a cannon blast through the moment.

007n7 visibly winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re… absolutely going to be banned from this place.”

Builderman chuckled, dry and warm. “Let ‘em try. I built the place.”

He was halfway through zipping the pouch when Builderman cleared his throat behind him.

“Y’ever been down to the lower pool?”

007n7 blinked.

“You have a pool here…?”

Builderman shrugged one shoulder, casual as ever. “It’s huge. Was s’posed to be public once. Back when this joint still had guests.” He nodded toward the ceiling—toward the garden above. “Figured the runt might get a kick outta it.”

Right on cue, C00lkidd’s voice rang from the rooftop like thunder in a paint can:

“YOU SAID POOL?! Too late, I’m already SOAKED!!”

007n7 winced. “I—I can’t just… make use of your space like that. This is your home, and the costs—”

“It’s filled ‘n ready,” Builderman said simply. “Just sittin’ there collectin’ dust. Figured it deserves a little light.”

007n7 opened his mouth, then closed it again like a confused goldfish. “…I don’t exactly have a change of clothes for this.”

“Didn’t say you had to jump in,” Builderman said with a half-grin. “Just think the kid earned a bit o’ fun.”

007n7 hesitated again.

Builderman added, casually, “Bet you packed a full outfit fer’ him. Knew you would. Yer’ careful like that.”

That shut him up. Completely.

007n7 looked away, voice barely above a mutter. “…Alright. I’ll help him change.”

Builderman turned, already leading the way back through the penthouse’s wide halls. “Knew it. Got two sets for the runt, snacks, backup towel... but nothin’ for yourself, huh?”

“I… try to be prepared. But I just… wasn’t exactly planning for this,” 007n7 muttered, ears going pink.

“Didn’t you mention the elevator only travels upward…?”

“I did.”

007n7 frowned. “Then… how are we supposed to—?”

“Was fibbin’.”

Builderman grinned as the elevator dinged to life at his touch. He didn’t break stride even as C00lkidd came flying in from the hallway and leapt onto his back like a monkey.

“UNCLE BUILDER TOLD A LIEEE!! BAD MAN!! BAD!!” the kid yelled, clinging to him upside-down.

“Hey! Gerroff me, you little runt!”

“YOU LIED ABOUT THE BUTTONS!! THAT’S SABOTAGE!!”

007n7 stood frozen for a second—helpless but fond, one hand over his face, trying to hold back a laugh. His shoulders shook anyway.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, revealing polished stone, recessed lights, and the faint scent of chlorine and cool tile.

And then—the pool.

They stepped out into the golden hush of late afternoon, where the tiled walkway gave way to smooth stone edging a vast, mirror-clear pool. Dark stone framed the water’s edge, worn slightly with age, and potted trees lined the far corners—olive, citrus, and a few old lanterns hanging lazily from iron hooks. The air smelled like wet stone and chlorine, with just a hint of something floral drifting down from the upper balcony.

007n7 had kicked off his boots and rolled his pants to the knees, sitting at the edge with his bare feet dipped in the cool water. His hands braced behind him on the tile, elbows locked, head tilted just slightly to the side as he tracked the blur of movement in the pool.

C00lkidd was pure chaos.

He’d wriggled out of his oversized shirt in the elevator and bolted into the water before 007n7 could even tie the drawstring on the kid’s makeshift swim shorts—a plain black pair that looked suspiciously like gym wear.

Now he was splashing through the shallow end like a wild minion, arms flailing, foam erupting in every direction.

“READY SET CANNONBAAALL—!!”

“C00lkidd—don’t—!”

SPLASH!!

A tidal wave erupted across the tile.

007n7 flinched as a spray of water slapped his side, but he didn’t scold him further. Just sighed—exhausted, maybe, but not unhappy. He tucked his legs in a little, the hem of his pants clinging damply to his calves, and let himself relax again. His expression was loose, soft in a way that was rare.

He looked peaceful. Like—for once—he didn’t think anyone was watching.

Builderman was watching.

Not staring. Not hovering. Just standing a little off to the side with his arms folded, boots planted firm on the tile, his shadow stretching long behind him in the golden light. The way his gaze lingered on 007n7 wasn’t guarded, wasn’t sharp—it was quiet. Steady. A craftsman’s kind of attention. Someone who noticed the way the light hit a thing just so.

The sun caught 007n7’s cheek in a warm sweep of amber. Pale skin, wet lashes still clinging together from earlier spray, hair slightly rumpled from wrangling the kid. There were tired shadows under his eyes, but they looked honest. Lived in. And when he smiled—faint, crooked, just proud enough to show he meant it—Builderman’s chest gave a slow, unfamiliar squeeze.

He’d seen 007n7 stammer. Seen him panic over every misplaced syllable. Seen him step like a ghost in his own body, always apologizing for breathing too loud.

But this…

This was different.

There was something real about the way he sat there.

Something solid, even in his fragility—like sunlight through cracked glass. Flawed, sure, but beautiful because of it. A kind of quiet resilience that didn’t beg to be noticed, but still drew the eye like gravity.

“…You’ve been staring,”

The words drifted out softly—007n7’s voice barely louder than the hush of water lapping at the edge of the pool. He didn’t turn, but the faintest flush warmed the back of his neck, betraying the awareness humming beneath his skin.

Builderman blinked, caught—but he didn’t mind being caught.

Not when the sight before him was this mesmerizing.

“Caught me, huh?” he murmured, voice thick with something like wonder.

A soft breeze stirred the surface between them, ruffling the water into sunlit ripples. The air smelled of warm stone, chlorine, and the faint perfume of overgrown jasmine from the garden wall.

“I have peripheral vision, you know,” 007n7 replied, but there was no bite to it. Only a quiet, flustered amusement.

Builderman smiled, barely. The kind that tugged at one corner of his mouth and disappeared just as quick. But still, he didn’t look away.

“You look real good like that, y’know,” he said at last.

The words were simple, raw. No fanfare, no pretense—just truth, spilling from his lips like sunlight through parted clouds. Like he hadn’t planned to speak them until they were already out.

007n7 turned slowly, hesitant—as if afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast. His eyes—wide, luminous—searched Builderman’s face, confusion and something softer flickering in their depths.

“…How do you mean?” he breathed.

Builderman’s gaze didn’t waver. His smile stayed—thin, a little tired, but real. “When you’re not apologizin’ for existin’,” he said, voice dipping into tenderness. “When you’re just... sittin’ there. Bein’ here. With him.”

With me.

The unspoken words hung between them, trembling in the golden air. Had he said it aloud?

He must have, because 007n7’s breath hitched, his lashes fluttering like startled wings.

“…This isn’t something I’m used to,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Being around people?”

“Being… someone others want around.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It held weight—held years of hurt neither of them had the words for. Builderman’s chest ached. Without a word, he shifted closer, settling beside 007n7—near enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, but not so near as to crowd.

Their ankles brushed. A quiet, accidental touch.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Builderman murmured, voice softer than the dusk settling around them. “Stick ‘round long enough, and I just might fall for ya.”

A tease.

A truth.

A promise, tucked in the drawl of his voice.

007n7’s cheeks burned bright red, but he didn’t retreat. Didn’t scold. Instead, he blinked once—then again—and smiled. Small. Hopeful. The kind of smile that looked like a star peeking through thick clouds.

Builderman’s own heart gave a traitorous lurch, pounding harder than it had in years. He didn’t know when it had started. Only that it had, and somehow, inexplicably, he was at peace with it.

For a long, breathless moment, they simply existed—side by side, the world around them softening into a dream.

The sun had melted into the horizon now, painting the water in liquid gold, the pool’s surface shimmering like a scattered promise. Nearby, C00lkidd’s joyful shrieks had mellowed into drowsy murmurs, the boy floating lazily in the shallows, whispering to a leaf clutched in his small hands.

“Leafy says I win,” he mumbled, half-singing. “I win everything. Even tag. Especially tag.”

The wind sighed through the trees, their leaves rustling like a lullaby, and the ocean beyond the glass ledge glittered—distant, unimportant.

Builderman hadn’t spoken in what felt like lifetimes.

He was still beside 007n7, their ankles brushed by the water, shoes abandoned like afterthoughts.

But his gaze wasn’t on the sky, or the dying embers of the sunset, or even the diamond-bright skyline.

He was watching him.

Only ever on him.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

“Are you alright…?”

007n7’s voice barely rose above the hush of water and wind, yet it cut through the golden hush of evening like a dropped blade.

Builderman didn’t answer.

His gaze—once so steady, so heartbreakingly warm, locked on 007n7 like he was the only light left in a dying world—had shifted.

Now, it rested on C00lkidd.

The boy floated aimlessly in the shallows, still talking to his waterlogged leaf with sleepy delight. A world away. Oblivious to the weight pressing down like thunder.

Builderman stared, unmoving. There was affection in his eyes—deep, quiet, immovable. But underneath it—

There was grief.

Sorrow.

The kind that settled in the marrow. The kind that never faded, never softened, only grew quieter with time, like an old wound that ached when the rain came.

007n7 saw it. Felt it throb like a pulse between them.

He turned his head, slowly, the last sunbeams casting gold and shadow across his face. “…Builderman?”

A beat. Then another.

The wind sighed through the trees, carrying with it the ghost of laughter from the boy in the water.

And finally, Builderman spoke—so soft, the breeze nearly swallowed it.

“Had a boy, once.”

The words struck 007n7 like a physical blow. His breath caught.

Builderman’s voice was gravel—worn smooth by time, cracked at the edges. “Weren’t mine by blood. Just a scrappy lil’ thing I found hidin’ out in one o’ the server bays. Covered in grease. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t stop glarin’ at me, neither.”

A pause.

The water lapped at their ankles, indifferent.

He let out a breath, slow. “But he stuck ‘round. Followed me like a damn shadow. Started callin’ me ‘Dad’ ‘fore I even knew how t’be one.”

His gaze didn’t leave the pool, but it was obvious he wasn’t seeing the ripples anymore. He was somewhere else. Somewhere far away, and long ago.

“I raised him.” Builderman continued, tone rougher now. “Cooked fer’ him. Showed ‘im how t’solder without blowin’ his fingers off… how t’hold a drill steady. How t’read system logs. Boy was sharp. Caught on quicker than I could teach.”

A laugh—low and humorless. “But I weren’t ready. Not for that kinda love. Couldn’t let myself get soft. Not when someone needed me like that.”

His gaze didn’t lift. His hands, braced on the tile, flexed once—fingers curling tight.

“Funny, ain’t it? Built an empire outta order—rules, codes. But the second a kid looked at me like I hung the stars… I broke. Froze up. Shut down, built walls ‘stead o’ bridges. Kept busy with tools, not talk.”

The admission hung between them, raw and bleeding.

“He waited, though. Damn fool waited.” His voice cracked. “Always so patient with me. Even when I didn’t earn it. Even when I pretended not t’see the hurt behind his eyes.”

“Too good, that boy. Bright as a flare. Born t’fix things. Never could figure why he clung to me. I gave him nothin’ but half-busted tools and a whole lotta silence. But he stayed. And bit by bit… I let ‘im in.”

A shuddering breath. “First time in centuries I thought… maybe there’s still somethin’ worth holdin’ onto. Somethin’ worth livin’ for.”

The sun dipped lower, staining the water crimson.

“Then he brought home a girl. Smart. Shy. Name was Jane.” A real smile this time, fragile and fond. “Teased him somethin’ fierce for it. Thought he’d short-circuit on the spot. But he loved her. God, he loved her. Course he did. And she loved him right back.”

“My John. My boy. Someway, somehow… he found her. Made her his.”

007n7’s heart thudded. His hands tightened around his knees. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Careful.

“…Wait—just a moment.”

A pause. “John… as in—?”

Builderman didn’t look at him. Didn’t have to.

“John Doe.”

The name dropped like a stone into still water.

He gave a short, brittle laugh—wet at the edges, more pain than humor. “Unbelievable name, ain’t it? Gave it to ‘im as a placeholder. Figured he’d drop it once he got older. But nah, he—”

His voice caught—splintered on something too old to cry over, too deep to dig up clean. “He treasured it. He kept it. Said it was special ‘cause I gave it to ‘im. Said it made ‘im mine.”

Across the pool’s edge, 007n7 felt his throat tighten. His gaze flicked to the rippling surface of the water, unable to meet the weight of that grief. “John Doe… the myth?” he asked softly. “He… he is your son?”

Builderman stilled. Then—like the sun cracking through storm clouds—he barked out a laugh, real and full-bodied, all gravel and warmth. For a second, he looked almost young again.

“Pfft—hell, that whole ‘John Doe’ myth? Just somethin’ we cooked up t’scare the rookies. You’re tellin’ me you—” He broke into more laughter, wiping at the corner of his eye with a thick knuckle. “Aw, don’t say you fell for that too—”

007n7’s ears flushed deep red. He turned away sharply, mortified. “Ah—I… I did know. Of course I knew, I just—”

But it was too late.

C00lkidd, still flailing dramatically in the pool, had clearly heard every word. He froze mid-kick, leaf weapon forgotten, eyes wide with horror. The splash of water fell into sudden silence.

“Papa,” he breathed, horrified. “John Doe is here?!”

He scrambled toward the pool’s edge, water sloshing wildly around him as he clambered up with the desperation of a hunted animal. “But I been GOOD, I SWEAR!! Don’t let the VOID MAN EAT MY FACE!!”

Builderman shot 007n7 a look—half amusement, half disbelief, all exasperated fondness.

“Good grief. Yer’ face’s goin’ redder’n a busted power coil. Look what ya gone ‘n stirred up now,” he muttered.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” 007n7 hissed, flustered beyond recovery as he bent to soothe the soggy panic-machine now clinging to his leg.

“Didn’t say ya meant it. Jus’ said ya did.”

“Easy now,” he murmured, brushing wet hair from C00lkidd’s face, voice low and steady. “John Doe’s not here. He’s just a name. Just an old story, that’s all…”

The boy sniffled, then peered over 007n7’s shoulder toward the pool shadows, clearly not convinced. Still, after a long moment, he let himself be peeled off and allowed to slosh back toward his floating leaf, now fully engaged in a solemn, whispered conversation.

The silence that followed was thick—007n7 fuming in quiet embarrassment, Builderman’s shoulders still shaking with suppressed laughter.

But then—quietly, like a hand reaching through the dark:

“…And… what became of him?” 007n7 asked. “Your son, I mean.”

The question floated between them—gentle. Heavy.

Builderman’s laughter faded. His smile slid away like sand off calloused palms.

His eyes didn’t move. His voice dropped.

“One day,” he said, “he just up ‘n vanished.”

007n7 inhaled sharply.

“No signs. No struggle. No logs. Not a damn trace in the system. Just—gone. Like he never even existed,” Builderman’s hands curled slowly into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking at the seams. “And I—”

He stopped. Swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was raw enough to bleed.

“Tore through half the servers tryin’ t’find ‘im. Spent weeks rerunnin’ old code. Dug up logs so old I had t’boot up dusty backups just t’read ‘em. Paid folks. Begged ‘em. Ain’t proud o’ that.”

His gaze finally flicked to 007n7—just briefly. Enough to show the crack beneath the steel.

“But nothin’. Nothin’ but silence.”

“…There wasn’t even a farewell?” 007n7 whispered.

Builderman didn’t answer.

And between them, grief lingered. Unspoken. Unresolved.

Thick with the weight of absence.

Builderman leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his silhouette carved sharp in the amber glow of the setting sun. His shadow stretched long across the stone tiles, quiet and unmoving.

"And after that… I stopped.”

His voice was low. Rough. Like something rusted over and only just beginning to move again.

“Stopped livin’. Shut it all down. Locked the whole thing up. Let folks think it was maintenance, but truth is—I just couldn’t face it. Couldn’t keep lookin’ at the world without him in it.”

He exhaled through his nose—slow, heavy. Like he was breathing out pieces of himself.

“Buried myself in tools. Blueprints. Paperwork. Anythin’ that kept my hands busy.”

He shook his head, the motion barely more than a tilt.

“Truth is… If I stopped… I’d hear him.”

The wind stirred gently through the garden—whispering through branches, rustling faded banners, tugging at the loose threads of the world.

“I’d remember the way he used to laugh. The way he used to say ‘Goodnight, Father’ when I fell asleep at my desk. Always thought he sounded too old when he said that. Too serious fer’ a kid.”

His voice cracked then, fracturing at the edges.

“I’d start askin’—where’d I go wrong? Where’d I lose ‘im? Did I miss somethin’? Was I too slow? Too late?”

A long pause. The wind picked up faintly, carrying with it the distant echo of a child’s laughter—C00lkidd, still splashing around the pool, his chaos softened by distance.

“Still dream about him,” Builderman admitted, so softly the words barely existed. “Dreams where he’s just walkin’ ahead, always outta reach. Thought ‘bout takin’ somethin’ to help me sleep, but even that don’t stop the dread.”

A dry, bitter chuckle followed.

“Can’t even face Jane. She’s been reachin’ out for years. Stubborn girl. Kind.” He paused, jaw tightening. “But every time I see her name in the inbox, I freeze up.”

007n7’s brows furrowed. His voice came carefully, like stepping across fragile glass. “I… I’d like to believe she understands. That you did everything you could—”

“Yer optimism never fails t’amaze me, hacker.”

Builderman cut in sharply, but not cruelly—his words wrapped in something wounded. His smile, when it came, was shallow and broken.

“I’m a coward. Can’t even open her letters. What the hell am I s’posed to say, huh? ‘Sorry I lost him’? ‘Sorry I wasn’t enough’?”

His breath shuddered.

“Ain’t just a bad father. I’m a bad father-in-law, too.”

The silence between them cracked—like frost on water, like a heart giving way.

007n7’s chest ached, a slow, relentless throb that pulsed with every unspoken word between them.

The weight of Builderman’s confession hung in the air—fragile, raw, like the last trembling note of a song played too many times.

He didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

What words could possibly cradle a grief so vast?

To offer empty reassurances would be a cruelty. To deny the pain would be a lie.

So instead, 007n7 did the only thing that felt true—the only thing that mattered.

His hand drifted across the space between them, trembling slightly. Knuckles brushed against Builderman’s—just the lightest contact. A whisper of skin on skin. A question, unspoken.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then—

Builderman’s hand turned. His palm, calloused and rough, found 007n7’s fingers. And then, like the quietest surrender, their hands laced together.

No speeches. No promises. Just a shared warmth.

Builderman’s breath caught—soft, almost imperceptible. But his shoulders loosened, ever so slightly. Something inside him gave way. Not shattered. Not broken. Just… loosened.

Like, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to carry the whole sky alone.

007n7 didn’t look up. He kept his gaze steady on the water, where the sunset painted streaks of gold and rose across the rippling surface. Where C00lkidd’s laughter floated like wind chimes on the breeze.

But his grip tightened, just a little. Just enough to say:

I’m here. I’m staying. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.

And for a fleeting, quiet moment, neither of them felt alone in their grief.

The wind sighed through the trees, rustling the leaves like pages of an unfinished story. Lanterns flickered in the dusk, casting dappled shadows across the worn stone tiles.

Somewhere beyond them, water lapped gently against the edge of the pool—a rhythmic, soothing murmur that echoed like breath between old friends.

C00lkidd paddled in lazy, off-balance circles, humming some nonsense tune that trailed off into giggles whenever he splashed too hard. "LOOK!! I'm making whirlpools! Papa, LOOK!!!” he crowed, arms flailing like helicopter blades.

007n7 managed a faint smile, lifting one hand in acknowledgment but never turning his head. His gaze stayed fixed on the water’s surface. Still. Reflective. Unforgiving.

Then, softly—barely more than the wind brushing the leaves—came his voice.

“...I’m sorry.”

Builderman blinked, slowly turning. His brow furrowed, caught off guard. “For what?”

007n7’s throat bobbed with the effort to speak. His fingers trembled where they were still loosely entwined with Builderman’s—clinging, like letting go might make the moment vanish entirely.

“For what I said before… back at the shore,” he murmured, voice already breaking. “I said you were hiding. That you’d shut yourself off from everyone—just because you could.”

His hand tightened, desperate. “I understand now. You weren’t hiding. You were just… surviving. Keeping yourself together with whatever you had left. And I—” He choked on the words. “I made light of that.”

His shoulders hunched, trembling beneath the weight of his own self-contempt. “I acted like the others. The ones who judged from a distance… who turned away. Like your grief was too inconvenient to acknowledge.” A bitter, helpless sound escaped him. “I’m no better. I’m—”

“Hey.” Builderman’s voice was rough, but not unkind. He gave 007n7’s hand a squeeze. “That’s enough.”

007n7 looked up, startled—but Builderman wasn’t angry. Just… tired. That same weariness that settled deep into the joints, deeper still into the heart.

“Y’weren’t wrong, y’know,” Builderman admitted, gaze distant. “Back when I had John… I thought I knew what I was doin’. Thought I was some righteous damn foreman sittin’ on a high horse, buildin’ a world folks could be proud to stand on.”

He exhaled, slow and aching. “Then it all came crashin’ down. Ain’t built much of anythin’ worth keepin’ since.”

Silence stretched, long and golden. C00lkidd’s voice echoed from across the pool—“CANNONBAAAAAALL!!!”—followed by a tremendous splash.

Neither of them moved.

Builderman’s thumb brushed gently over 007n7’s knuckles. A small motion. Quiet forgiveness, offered without demand.

“I didn’t realize it… not fully,” 007n7 whispered. “How much it hurt. How much you’ve been alone.”

The words hung between them, soft and painful as a bruise.

Builderman’s breath hitched. His lashes lowered, casting faint shadows over the hollows of his cheeks. And when he looked back up—

Their gazes met.

The world around them seemed to dissolve into a hushed, golden haze, time itself holding its breath as their gazes locked—crimson meeting amber, fire melting into honey.

007n7’s piercing red eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, softened under the weight of something unspoken, something achingly tender. Builderman’s storm-gray irises, once cool and composed, had warmed—touched by molten gold, that quiet glow he never let anyone see. Not unless it slipped—a telltale sign of emotions too fierce to hide.

The air between them hummed, charged with the quiet electricity of a moment suspended between longing and surrender.

Unconsciously, they leaned closer.

Closer.

Their breaths mingled, warm and uneven, fingers still loosely tangled together as if neither could bear to sever the fragile connection. Builderman tilted his head slightly, just enough for the fading sunlight to catch the curve of his lips, his expression so unbearably fond that 007n7’s chest tightened.

007n7’s usual tension flickered—hesitation, fear, want—before his lashes fluttered shut, yielding to the pull between them.

They were inches apart. One heartbeat.

And then—

“GUESS WHAT I NAMED THE OTHER FROG?!”

The spell shattered.

Both men jolted apart like startled deer. Their hands flew apart. Builderman nearly tripped over his own heel trying to stand, while 007n7 swore under his breath, one hand clapped to his face to hide the sheer volume of scarlet spreading across it.

C00lkidd skidded to a halt in front of them—soaked to the bone, barefoot, and grinning like a kid who had just discovered gravity. His wet hair stuck to his forehead in wild curls, and cradled in both hands was a very damp, very smug-looking frog.

Builderman cleared his throat. Twice. Failed both times. “Wh—uh, named what now?”

They both tried to act casual.

They both failed spectacularly.

007n7 exhaled through his nose, dragging his hand down his face. “Just… please tell me it’s not Wrenchie—”

“WRENCHIE JUNIOR!!” C00lkidd crowed, thrusting the amphibian toward them like it was a sacred offering.

Builderman coughed again, turning away before the twitch of a smile could betray him. 007n7 groaned and looked skyward, as if the heavens might deliver him from this child.

“Of course it is,” he muttered.

C00lkidd blinked. “Why are Papa and Uncle Builder’s faces all red? Did the sun get mad at you?! Are you being PUNISHED??” His tone was so innocent it hurt.

Builderman huffed out a breath—half laugh, half flustered grunt—and stood up properly, brushing nonexistent dust from his pants like it gave him something to do with his hands. “Alright, alright, that’s enough frog-namin’ for one day. Yer soaked. Let’s get ya inside ‘fore ya catch somethin’.”

“But I’m NOT cold—!” C00lkidd protested mid-giggle, as 007n7 began attacking him with a towel. “I’m WARM-BLOODED!! Like a DINOSAUR!!”

Builderman turned to lead them back inside. But just before he did—he paused.

His gaze lingered.

Just a second. Maybe two.

007n7, kneeling beside the boy, was drying C00lkidd’s hair with small, careful motions. His brows were drawn, expression unreadable. But his fingers hesitated—just briefly—like they missed the weight of someone else's hand in his.

Builderman’s own hand pressed flat against his chest. Not long. Just enough to still something wild beneath the ribs.

Then he exhaled through his nose, squared his shoulders, and walked on ahead—leaving the moment behind.

But not the memory of it.

…

…

The towel moved mechanically in 007n7’s hands, ruffling through damp strands of crimson hair, but his thoughts were far from the task. His gaze had gone distant—lost in the phantom warmth of a moment that had nearly happened.

He’d almost kissed him.

The memory struck like a jolt of static. It shouldn’t have felt so natural. And yet, it had—like the world itself had carved out a pause, a breathless silence meant only for them. A space where time bent. Where Builderman’s amber eyes—burning, molten gold, like sunlight through whiskey—seared into him.

They had looked at him with something dangerously close to hunger, and 007n7 had wanted to be devoured.

His fingers faltered.

The image flashed again—Builderman’s face tilted in close, the heat between them thick enough to taste. He could still feel the roughness of calloused fingers brushing his own. Still see the glint of something unspoken in those eyes.

A soft prod broke the spell.

“Papa looking weird~ You okay, or you broken?”

He blinked, reality snapping back in like a rubber band. C00lkidd was peering up at him with a dripping pout and suspiciously narrowed eyes. The boy’s hair stuck out in damp tufts, the towel now haphazardly draped around his shoulders.

“I’m alright. Really.” 007n7 said—far too quickly.

C00lkidd didn’t buy it.

He squinted, then pointed, grinning wide. “HA! Papa’s tail going WAG-WAG-WAG!”

007n7 froze. Slowly—horrifyingly—he turned his head just enough to confirm.

Sure enough, the sleek, devil-skin appendage flicked eagerly behind him, betraying him entirely. He gritted his teeth, willing it to stop—stop, damn it—but the traitorous thing only twitched faster, as if laughing at him.

“It’s nothing. Just... ignore it, please,” he mumbled under his breath, one hand shooting down to clamp over the base of his tail, as if sheer willpower could smother the mortifying motion.

C00lkidd poked him again, delight bubbling out in a peal of giggles. “It’s wagging harder now! Tail’s going turbo!”

“C00lkidd—”

“Papa’s SMILING INSIDE~ I see it! I see it!!” the boy sing-songed, thoroughly entertained.

007n7 groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

“Smiling,” he said it like the word offended him.

And yet—

His skin still tingled where Builderman’s fingers had brushed his. His chest hadn’t stopped fluttering. That single heartbeat of almost had rooted itself somewhere behind his ribs and refused to let go.

It took a few more agonizing seconds before his tail finally relented, settling into a slow, lazy sway behind him. 007n7 exhaled, guiding C00lkidd into dry clothes with a bit more care than necessary—straightening seams, adjusting a sleeve, smoothing his damp hair—anything to keep his hands occupied.

By the time they padded down the long corridor toward the elevator, C00lkidd skipping at his side, small hand curled around his fingers, 007n7’s nerves were sparking again.

Because Builderman was already waiting.

He stood near the door, arms crossed loosely, framed in the warm amber glow of the setting sun. His expression, as always, was schooled into impassivity—neutral, unreadable. Like nothing had happened. Like the air between them hadn’t nearly caught fire.

But then—

Red.

Just at the tips of his ears. A flush, barely there, but there.

007n7 nearly missed a step. His chest stirred with something sharp and smug and stupidly hopeful.

So. He was affected.

That knowledge—small, flickering, precious—settled something wild in him. Builderman might have looked away. Might have shut the door on the moment. But he hadn’t forgotten it.

Neither had he.

And—for now—that was enough.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

As the elevator groaned its way down to the first floor, the air thickened—cool, quiet, laced with the scent of dust and distant oil. Past steel beams and rusted signage, the old public canteen revealed itself like a memory half-remembered.

The space stretched wide beneath a sagging ceiling, where amber lights flickered gently against exposed piping. Warm string lights—cheap, tangled things Builderman had once stuffed away in a supply crate—now glowed softly overhead. They cast golden pools across the empty tables, catching on chrome, faded decals, and the long-forgotten chalkboard menu above the counter. It was cozy in a way it hadn’t been for years.

“Sit yerself down,” Builderman murmured, already moving toward the back kitchen. His voice held none of its usual bite—just low warmth, a gravel-soft invitation. He jerked his chin toward the counter, eyes softer than 007n7 had ever seen them. “Ain’t much, but I’ll rustle up somethin’.”

“You don’t need to, if it’s trouble…” 007n7 started, still dabbing at C00lkidd’s damp curls with a fraying towel. His touch was feather-light, instinctive. The boy had gone limp against his chest, half-asleep, cheek smushed to his shoulder and arms looped around his neck in a loose hug. His eyelids fluttered like moth wings—dream-heavy, worn down from too much splashing and chaos.

Builderman didn’t wait for more protest. “Wanna do it,” he said, quiet but sure, like the words had already been decided hours ago.

He lingered for a breath longer than necessary, watching the way the string lights traced the curve of 007n7’s cheek, the slope of his shoulders, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips as he cradled C00lkidd closer.

A tightness stirred in Builderman’s chest. Familiar. Unwelcome. Sweet.

“Yay… Uncle Builder is cooking again…” C00lkidd mumbled against 007n7’s collar, voice thick with sleep. His breath hitched on a yawn before he nuzzled in deeper, his fingers twitching faintly.

Builderman let out a breath—almost a laugh, almost a sigh. He turned before the moment could grow too fragile, but not before 007n7 caught the glance he tossed over his shoulder. Their eyes met—amber and crimson—and in that silence, something passed between them, something warm and grateful and so impossibly fragile that it made Builderman’s pulse stutter.

“Please don’t strain yourself on my behalf,” 007n7 said softly, his voice barely more than a thread. “I can handle things, I think… but thank you.”

Builderman just grunted, the corner of his mouth twitching up into something almost fond. “Ain’t pushin’ nothin’. Just… rememberin’, is all.”

He rolled up his sleeves with slow deliberation, thick fingers folding the worn flannel over scarred forearms. The apron still hung beside the pantry, its strings tangled and coated in a fine layer of dust. He shook it out, tied it on with quiet efficiency. The scent of thyme and flour clung to it—ghosts of a past he had tried so hard to bury.

The pantry door creaked on tired hinges. Inside, shelves stood stocked like someone had once hoped for company—fresh herbs tucked in paper, garlic bulbs still plump, dried pasta sealed in jars. A whole roast chicken, vacuum-sealed, sat waiting on the middle shelf, carefully preserved, waiting for "a someday that never came."

His fingers brushed over them all with reverence.

He had kept everything pristine, as if by some miracle, the act of maintaining this space could turn back time—could bring back the son who had once loved his cooking.

But now, for the first time in years, the kitchen breathed again.

Butter hissed in a skillet, the scent of garlic bursting forth as he crushed it with the flat of his blade. The rhythmic chop of herbs followed—clean, methodical—before he tossed them in with a handful of sliced onion. The pan sang with each motion, and behind him, the oven hummed to life, bathing the tiles in amber light as the roast began to crisp, its aroma mingling with the earthy scent of pasta, the sharp tang of Parmesan—a symphony of comfort, of home, of something he had thought lost forever.

007n7 had shifted closer, settling at the counter with C00lkidd nestled safely in his arms. The boy’s chest rose and fell in slow, even waves, his lashes casting delicate shadows over his cheeks.

And Builderman…

Builderman stole a glance as he stirred the pot, the wooden spoon steady in his calloused grip. The bubbling broth hissed softly as herbs steeped in golden swirls beneath the surface, steam curling into the low kitchen lights.

At 007n7—his frame a perfect contradiction of softness and strength, bathed in the honeyed glow of the string lights above. His fingers combed gently through C00lkidd’s tangled curls, the boy tucked against him like a sleeping star. Builderman watched the motion—small, instinctive, endlessly tender—and something in his chest twisted, then softened.

There it was again. That ache.

007n7 was a contradiction Builderman couldn’t blueprint his way around—steel and softness, silence and presence. He didn’t draw attention like the others. Didn’t posture. Didn’t demand. And yet he filled the room with something real just by being in it.

Builderman had spent years convincing himself that love was not meant for him, something he no longer deserved. That it was a wildfire—something all-consuming, something that burned too bright and left only ashes in its wake. He had built empires, shaped worlds with his hands, yet he had never been able to hold onto the things that mattered most.

Love, he’d always thought, was for those who could protect it. And he—

He had failed at that once.

But this.

This kitchen.

This boy.

This man.

They weren’t codes to debug. Weren’t variables to solve. Weren’t part of the job.

And that truth settled over him not like thunder—but like the first rays of dawn after a lifetime of storms. Not with a crash, not with a roar—but with a quiet so profound it stole the breath from his lungs.

This wasn’t the love he had known before.

It wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t loud.

It was the warmth of sunlight spilling through half-drawn curtains.

It was the hush of snowfall, soft and forgiving.

It was the steady, unwavering presence of someone who didn’t need grand gestures—just this. Just them.

His heart didn’t race.

It settled.

Oh.

He loved him.

Loved the way 007n7’s brow unknotted when he thought no one was watching. The way his laughter came in quiet huffs, barely there but so real. The way his shoulders dropped when C00lkidd brushed up against him, horn to horn, seeking comfort without asking.

And C00lkidd—bright, mischievous, alive—curled trustingly against him, as if he had always belonged there.

Builderman blinked, surprised at the clarity of it. At the peace in his chest where there had once only been static and silence. His gaze lingered—just a little longer—on the way 007n7 smiled faintly as the boy snored against him. On the way his hand traced slow, absent circles along C00lkidd’s back. On how soft he looked in this place. In this light. In his light.

“...Yeah,” Builderman murmured under his breath, barely audible above the simmering pan. He exhaled, slow. The scent of rosemary and garlic lingered on the air.

His chest didn’t hurt.

It tightened.

But not with fear.

With something far more terrifying.

Certainty.

“...I love ’im,” he said again, quieter this time. “Love ’em both.”

And the thought of them being different—so strange, so unpredictable, so unlike anything he’d ever planned for—it didn’t scare him anymore.

That alone was confirmation enough.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The meal was a feast.

The roast chicken sat at the center, its skin crisped to a perfect, honeyed bronze, glistening with melted butter and flecks of rosemary, thyme, and garlic—each herb a whispered secret against the tender flesh beneath. Beside it, the garlic mashed potatoes were clouds of velvet, so impossibly creamy they dissolved on the tongue like a sigh. Green beans sautéed with lemon and scattered with toasted almonds carried the brightness of spring, while the warm rolls—flaky, golden, and impossibly soft—fell apart in buttery layers that melted against fingertips.

And then, the pasta.

Handmade, rolled from dough Builderman had kneaded with absent-minded devotion, each strand coiled in a rich, velvety sauce that clung to the fork like a promise—something slow, something sweet.

They ate beneath the delicate glow of string lights, their radiance soft as stardust, casting everything in a dreamlike shimmer. The canteen around them was hollowed out by silence, the world beyond their table forgotten, unimportant.

C00lkidd, who had been moments away from drifting into sleep, stirred at the first scent of food, his drowsy eyes widening as he reached eagerly for a roll with both hands.

007n7 caught his wrist—not with a scold, but with a touch so gentle it could have been mistaken for a caress. “Maybe try the fork this time…? Just so you don’t get crumbs on your clothes again,” he murmured, his voice a low hum against the quiet, pressing the utensil into C00lkidd’s palm with lingering fingers.

The reprimand was featherlight, softened by something unspoken, something tender.

Builderman had sat across from them at first, content to watch, to let the warmth of the meal settle between them. But halfway through—after witnessing 007n7’s quiet struggle to cut meat one-handed while simultaneously intercepting C00lkidd’s attempt to dunk a roll into his water—he rose without a word and slid onto the bench beside them.

The shift was seamless, natural.

Like everything between them.

007n7 was quiet at first, chewing slowly, the tension in his shoulders betraying the words he couldn’t quite form. But with each bite, something unraveled within him. His posture softened, the rigid line of his spine easing into something looser, something at peace. And when he tasted the potatoes—smooth, garlic-kissed, impossibly perfect—a sound escaped him, unbidden. A soft, breathy hum, something between surrender and contentment.

Builderman’s lips curled, just slightly, in quiet triumph.

“Did… did you make all of this yourself?” 007n7 finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.

Builderman shrugged, but his eyes never left him. “Saw me do it, didn’t ya’? What’re ya askin’ for?”

007n7 flushed, a beautiful, rosy hue blooming across his cheeks. “You—I just meant it as… small talk. Sorry, that came out odd.”

Builderman’s smirk deepened, something fond and knowing in his gaze. “Ain’t we past all that by now, Seven?”

The nickname slipping out before he could stop it.

The effect was immediate.

007n7 stilled, his breath catching, his pulse a sudden, fluttering thing beneath his skin. That name—spoken so softly, so fondly—settled in his chest like sunlight, warm and undeniable. “I think… yes. We are,” he admitted, the word barely audible.

But Builderman, ever merciful, spared him.

“Used t’cook like this all the time. Back then. Fer… him,” he scratched at his neck, voice hitchin’ slightly. “Guess muscle memory kicked in. That make ya happy?”

He tried to lighten the mood, but the roughness in his voice betrayed something deeper.

007n7 didn’t ask who. He simply nodded, his gaze steady, sincere. “It’s… really good. Thank you for making this.”

Builderman exhaled, his voice rough but impossibly soft. “Ain’t half as amazin’ as watchin’ you two eat it.”

And for a moment—just a moment—there was nothing else.

No words, no past, no weight beyond the clatter of forks, the soft hum of the lights, the quiet, shared breaths between them.

Peace.

Simple. Real.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

By the time the plates were cleared, evening had thickened into gold—soft and syrupy, the canteen bathed in a low amber glow. The string lights above buzzed faintly, warm against rusted steel and cracked tile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to feel like something close to home.

C00lkidd had surrendered entirely to sleep—curled up against 007n7’s side like a smug cat in a sunbeam, his breathing slow and even. One small fist still clutched half a dinner roll, knuckles pale from how tightly he gripped it, as if it were some precious treasure won in a dream.

007n7 exhaled a quiet, fond sigh, brushing a stray lock of hair from the boy’s forehead before nudging him gently. “C’mon, kid… somewhere safer than a bench, hm?” he murmured, voice a velvet whisper. “Let’s head home—”

He tried to shift him, awkward with one arm, but C00lkidd only clung tighter, pressing his face stubbornly into 007n7’s side with a sleepy, incoherent mumble. His little red tail flicked once in protest, curling possessively around 007n7’s wrist as if to say, No. Stay.

007n7 sighed, defeated, but fond. His hands hovered uncertainly, unsure where to even begin without setting off an alarm.

Then—

A shadow stepped in.

“Here,” came Builderman’s voice—low, steady, and wordless in its reassurance.

007n7 startled. Before he could respond, Builderman had already bent down and gathered C00lkidd into his arms with effortless care. The boy barely stirred, his body melting into the embrace as naturally as moonlight spilling over water. A sleepy mumble spilled from his lips, incoherent but happy.

“...frogs ‘n mashed potatoes...”

His tail gave one lazy curl around Builderman’s forearm, then stilled, content.

007n7 froze.

Because C00lkidd didn’t let anyone touch him while sleeping. Not unless he felt safe. Not unless he trusted them. Not unless something deep in his corrupted little core whispered: This one won’t hurt you.

And yet here he was, purring low in his throat like a sun-warmed creature, his face buried in the curve of Builderman’s neck, as if he had always belonged there.

007n7’s breath caught, chest tightening with something fragile and impossible to name.

“A-Are you certain...? I—We’ve already taken too much of your time…” he began, voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “It wouldn’t be right to impose any further...”

Builderman looked at him.

Not sharp. Not tired.

Soft. Unbearably soft.

Like he didn’t mind. Like he wanted them to stay.

“Sure as rain,” he said, voice rough like gravel but firm like stone. “C’mon. Follow me.”

The words left no room for argument—not because they were cold, but because they were kind. Steady. A shelter in the storm.

007n7’s lips parted as if to protest, but nothing came out.

Instead, he just followed.

Silently. Willingly. Like a moth drawn to warmth.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

They padded quietly through the old hotel, the hush of night wrapping around them like a thick, golden shroud. The corridor lights flickered in low, muted tones—honey and brass stretched across faded carpet, where shadows clung to every corner like breathless whispers. Their footsteps were near soundless, muffled against the worn fabric beneath their boots, as though even the building held its breath for them.

Builderman moved with the careful grace of someone carrying something precious. The boy had gone boneless with sleep, head tucked against Builderman’s shoulder, his breath warm against the older man’s collar. One small fist was curled loosely against Builderman’s flannel, the other dangling at his side, fingers twitching now and then with the remnants of dreams.

Beside him, 007n7 kept close. His arms were folded across his chest—not against the cold, but against the ache in his ribs, the way his heart thrummed too loudly in the silence. His eyes kept drifting to Builderman, watching the subtle tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze never strayed from the child in his arms.

Builderman paused outside the guest room, shifting slightly to nudge the door open with his shoulder. The hinges gave a soft groan, the sound quickly swallowed by the hush of the space beyond—a room half-swallowed by time. The sheets were neatly folded, untouched, though faint dust clung to their edges. The pillows sat plump and waiting, bathed in the pale hush of moonlight that streamed through the slats of the blind. A forgotten shelf stood crooked in the corner, lined with old books whose spines were cracked and faded, their titles nearly worn away.

The air smelled faintly of lavender and aged paper—like memory preserved under glass.

With infinite gentleness, Builderman lowered C00lkidd onto the bed, his hands lingering as he brushed damp strands of hair from the boy’s forehead. His fingers trembled, just for a second—so slight it could have been a trick of the light.

But 007n7 saw it. He always did.

Builderman didn’t move after that. He stood over the bed like a monument—shoulders squared, head bowed slightly, gaze fixed on the boy’s peaceful form. As if the weight of the moment had rooted him in place, as if the past and present had collided in the rise and fall of C00lkidd’s sleeping breaths.

007n7 stood nearby, fingers loosely curled at his sides, heart beating somewhere too high in his throat. His voice came out soft, rasped raw by something he didn’t have the words for.

“You handle him well… better than most would.”

Builderman didn’t react, not right away. The shadows clung to him—heavier than they had any right to be.

“You didn’t have to be kind, but… you are,” 007n7 added, quieter. “Even now.”

There was a pause. A long one. Then Builderman’s voice came low—gravel dragged through sorrow.

"...Reckon it feels familiar."

That was all he said. But the weight behind it echoed like a memory through the walls.

007n7’s gaze flicked to him, gentle. “Does it… still ache?”

The words hung there, suspended—too fragile to fall, too sharp not to cut. Builderman exhaled, slow and shuddering, like the air itself caught against his ribs. He stared down at C00lkidd a moment longer, then finally nodded.

"Yeah... still does."

A single word, and yet it held everything—the grief, the guilt, the quiet, ceaseless ache of a wound that never quite healed.

But this time, he didn’t hide it. This time, he let 007n7 see the cracks in his armor, the raw edges of his heart.

He stood in it, let it breathe.

Then—he turned. And for once, Builderman looked stripped of everything that wasn’t true. No mask. Just a man with tired eyes and hands that still remembered how to hold something gently.

"Y’know…” he said slowly, voice rough like stone worn smooth by time, “don’t hurt near as bad when you’re ‘round."

007n7 blinked.

Builderman’s gaze stayed steady, the words dragging up like they didn’t want to leave his throat. "The more time we pass like this... the more the worst fades off."

The silence that followed was soft. Not empty—just full of everything neither of them had the courage to name. A kind of warmth settled in the room, not loud, not bright—just real.

Like the world, just for a moment, had forgiven them both.

007n7 stepped forward—just a fraction, just enough that their breaths mingled in the quiet space between them. His voice came low, barely more than a murmur. A secret laid bare in the hush of a hallway thick with memory.

“I meant what I said back then,” he murmured. “You never deserved that pain. You… deserved someone who wouldn’t leave.”

Builderman’s breath caught—sharp, like a misfired gear. He looked at 007n7 then. Really looked. Not with shock, not even with suspicion, but with something slower. Something weighty. Recognition, maybe. Or that old, aching fear of losing what mattered most—met now with something else entirely: the quiet miracle of still being seen.

“…Thank ya’,” he said, and the words came rough, stripped bare of all armor. “I… appreciate it. Means a whole lot.”

007n7’s lips curved—small, uncertain, but sincere. “It’s alright. I’m just… glad I could say it.”

Their hands brushed again, faint contact. This time, neither pulled away.

And there they stood, caught in the soft hush outside the guest room door. The world felt paused—bathed in that honeyed hotel glow, the quiet breathing of a sleeping boy behind them, and the fragile weight of something healing.

Builderman shifted, gaze still locked on him. When he spoke, his voice was low—a tender rumble, like the whisper of distant thunder on dry earth.

“C’out with me,” he murmured, the word gentle, intimate. “Got somethin’ I wanna show ya’. Won’t take but a minute.”

They moved past creaking support beams and dormant vending machines, through a side corridor that curved like an old memory. The lights dimmed the farther they went, and the air changed—drier, touched with copper and dust. Builderman’s pace stayed slow, steady, as if walking through something sacred.

Then, the door.

He pushed it open, revealing a wide, half-lit studio cloaked in silence.

The air inside was still, heavy with old metal and time. A skylight framed high in the ceiling cast a narrow pool of moonlight across the room, catching the dust as it swirled in lazy spirals. Blueprints cluttered the walls—some tacked up, some curled in forgotten crates. Shelves overflowed with brass parts, cracked monitors, and odd contraptions that had never seen the light of day. This wasn’t just a workshop—it was a reliquary. A graveyard of ideas and half-finished hopes.

At the center of it all, beneath a draped cloth, tood something waiting. Covered. Preserved.

The cloth fell away.

Builderman stepped forward, his fingers curling around the edge of the fabric. With a slow, reverent pull, he unveiled what lay beneath.

Beneath it sat a small machine—sleek, strange. Somewhere between a hoverbike and a scooter mech. It wasn’t armored. No weapons. Just clean curves, polished steel, and unfinished wiring along its side. A half-built dashboard, some of it still marked in pencil. Like a child’s project, done with the hands of an engineer and the heart of a father.

007n7 stared.

“Built it fer’ John,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “My boy.”

His fingers grazed the console, brushing away the dust like he was tracing something sacred. A life once held. A name once called.

“His project,” he went on, slower now. “First thing he ever built without me breathin’ down his neck. First time he called me ‘Dad’ an’ meant it.”

A soft huff escaped him—half laugh, half ache. “Already grown. Smarter’n I’ll ever be. But he stuck with it. Kept tinkerin’. Kept dreamin’. Wanted to call it the Crimson Comet.” He snorted. “Fool name.”

His thumb ghosted over the corner of the seat, lingered like it didn’t want to leave.

“Loved racin’ games. Always wore that stone-cold face—’til he played. Then he’d laugh. Just like when he was little.”

The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken grief, with longing. 007n7 stepped forward quietly, drawn in like a moth to the flickering warmth of a memory. His hand hovered just above the machine’s edge—close, but not quite touching.

He didn’t want to disturb the fragile beauty of it.

“Stopped after he vanished,” Builderman admitted, his voice rougher now, the words scraping against his throat. “Couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t even step in here. Felt like walkin’ into winter.”

He breathed in. Held it. Let it out like something heavy.

“But tonight... tonight I came in and didn’t feel cold no more.”

Their eyes met.

Builderman’s amber eyes held his, steady and unflinching, yet so unbearably vulnerable it made his chest ache. The moonlight caught the faintest tremble in his hands, the way his throat worked around the words before they finally spilled free—

“…I like ya, Seven.”

A whisper. A confession. A truth laid bare.

007n7’s lips parted, but nothing came. His eyes were wide, caught between panic and disbelief.

“Wh… What?”

Builderman didn’t move. Didn’t retreat. He simply stood there—honest, unflinching.

“Said I like ya.”

His voice was level. As steady as his blueprints. As firm as steel beneath calloused hands.

“Y’make the silence bearable,” he continued, quiet but certain. “I know what this is. Ain’t no crush. Ain’t confusion… I’ve lived long enough to know the difference… ’tween bein’ lonely and…” He exhaled, throat tight. “This right here.”

The silence between them was thick, trembling—like the air before a storm breaks.

007n7’s fingers curled at his sides. His voice cracked when it came.

“You can’t just... say something like that out of nowhere…”

Builderman blinked. “Why the hell not?”

“Because I…” 007n7’s breath hitched, heart thudding like thunder in his chest. “I don’t know what to do with that. With any of this.”

Builderman’s mouth tugged into a weary, crooked smile. “Ain’t gotta do a damn thing, partner.”

He took a step closer—close enough now that 007n7 could see the worn edges of his flannel, the gold flecks in his eyes, the way his hands shook just a little.

“Just needed ya to hear it. Plain ‘n simple.”

“…Why tell me now?”

A pause. Then, quietly—raw:

“’Cause I’m done pretendin’.”

His voice was roughened by rust and time.

“’Cause every time I see ya’, I forget how to breathe. An’ when ya’ laugh... it’s the only sound I care to hear the rest o’ my damn life.”

He swallowed hard, like it hurt to say it. Like it hurt worse not to.

“An’ I’ve wasted too many years living in the past. I ain’t gonna waste another second not tellin’ you.”

007n7’s breath hitched. “You don’t even know me,” he whispered, voice tight with disbelief. “Not truly.”

He glanced down, arms drawing close around himself like armor. “You’re just… seeing the parts I let you see. The cleaner bits. I’m not—” his voice cracked, “—not like you think. I’m not good. I’m not kind.”

Builderman didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached out—slow, deliberate, giving every chance for retreat. His calloused thumb brushed gently along the edge of 007n7’s jaw, rough fingers cradling his hesitation.

“I know enough,” he said, low and certain. “Yer reckless. Bright as hell. So damn stubborn it near drives me mad…Act like nothin’ sticks to ya, but I see through it—ya feel everythin’, don’t ya? Maybe too much. An’ I know—”

His voice softened into a raw ache.

“—I know this—when I look at ya’, I see someone worth stayin’ for.”

007n7’s eyes burned. The weight of the words curled in his chest like fire.

“What if I wreck it?” he choked out, barely audible. “I’ve ruined things before. I always do. I-I…”

His hand slid up, fingers curling around the back of 007n7’s neck—warm, grounding, the way someone might anchor a storm.

“Together—if you’ll have me.” He paused, eyes searching his. “Let me in... into yer’ life. The kid’s too.”

The words caught 007n7 like a punch to the ribs. He sucked in a shuddering breath, the room spinning too fast, too close.

And then—

Color bloomed across his face, a deep, burning flush like sunrise cresting the horizon. His breath stuttered, hands twitching at his sides, unsure of what to do—what to hold, what to release.

“But…” he stammered, retreating half a step. “I’m—007n7, A hacker. I used to break into servers just for the thrill of it. And you… you’re Builderman. You’re you. You’re the admin of admins. If this… if we became anything, it’d be a disaster waiting to unfold. A crash in real time. And I—I’m not even—” he faltered, flustered, every word unraveling. “I’m not the kind of person people fall for. I’m difficult. I panic. I overthink. And you… you just…”

Builderman’s expression didn’t waver. If anything, it grew softer—tired, fond, unshakeably steady. His gaze cut through every brittle defense 007n7 tried to rebuild.

“There ya go, thinkin’ too damn much again,” he murmured, the corners of his lips tilting into a tender, knowing smile. “Ain’t losin’ sleep over the hacker junk. Yer changin’. Already have. Hell, you even taught me a thing or two.”

He stepped closer again. Their breaths mingled in the quiet space between.

“I seen ya with the kid,” he said. “And I like that guy. That man.”

A pause. A breath.

“Fell headfirst. Plain as it gets.”

007n7’s breath caught. His heart thundered in his ears. “And you’re a man,” he whispered, one last, desperate card. “A man who…”

“…Who stays true to what I feel,” Builderman finished for him, quiet but unyielding. “Ain’t never done anythin’ else.”

Silence stretched between them, fragile and trembling, the weight of his confession settling like stardust over 007n7’s shoulders.

“I know how different we are,” Builderman said quietly, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of 007n7’s hand, sending sparks skittering up his spine. “Admin an’ hacker—ain’t that somethin’? Like fate’s idea of a joke.”

He gave a small, half-sigh, his voice dipping into something raw. “But you got my heart beatin’ again, Seven. The wounds I never could patch up—they’re startin’ to close. Slow, but they’re closin’. And it’s ‘cause of you.”

His eyes didn’t leave 007n7’s, even as the hacker glanced down, lashes fluttering, fingers twitching nervously at his sleeves. Builderman pressed on.

“Every time ya smile, I wanna keep it safe. Like I’d throw a damn firewall around it if I could. You… an’ that little runt ya raise.”

007n7’s throat worked as he swallowed, gaze still fixed on the floor, like the weight of the moment would crush him if he looked up.

“Ain’t askin’ ya t’say it back.” Builderman murmured, voice low as he reached up—slowly, giving time—and gently tilted 007n7’s chin until their eyes met. “Not yet. Just sit with it. Let it settle. When you’re ready—hell, even if it takes a while—just be straight with me. That’s all I ask.”

The air around them felt charged, like electricity before a storm. A beat. A breath.

007n7 didn’t answer right away. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm. Builderman waited—braced for the retreat, the rejection, the gentle apology that would tear him in half.

But then—

“…I’m not saying no,” 007n7 mumbled, barely louder than a breath. His face was flushed deep red, eyes darting like he couldn’t believe the words had escaped him.

Builderman’s breath caught, his shoulders easing. Time seemed to still around them. Then, slowly, his mouth curved into something unbearably tender. His hand lingered at 007n7’s jaw, thumb gently tracing along his cheekbone like he didn’t quite believe this was real.

“Then I can work with that,” he whispered. “Thank ya kindly, Seven. Fer givin’ me even a sliver o’ a shot. Don’t got words big enough for what it means.”

007n7’s brain fizzled—Builderman liked him. Builderman wanted him. Builderman had confessed. The thought hit like a system overload, and he felt his knees just barely hold him upright. The heat rushing through him had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.

Mercifully, Builderman finally leaned back against the workbench, arms folding across his chest. The look on his face shifted—less raw now, more playful. Still soft, still full of something deep and quiet, but with a familiar glint in his eye.

“You got any time next week?” he asked casually.

007n7’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Wait—are you genuinely asking me out? Right now?”

“Sure am,” Builderman said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Miracle landed in my lap—I ain’t lettin’ it walk out without askin’. You in?”

“I—I suppose so?” 007n7 flailed verbally, hands flapping slightly as if that would help gather his scattered thoughts. “I’ll make time. I can—I mean, I’m free. I’m… definitely free.”

The words tumbled out in a rush, awkward and breathless, and Builderman chuckled—low and fond—watching the man in front of him completely unravel.

007n7 cleared his throat, attempting to regain composure. “I should—probably go check on C00lkidd. He’s still in the guest room and, well… leaving him alone this long doesn’t sit well with me and—”

“Go on, get,” Builderman said with a quiet laugh, waving a hand. “Sleep tight, I’ll see ya come mornin’.”

007n7 gave a flustered little nod and turned sharply on his heel, practically fleeing the room. His boots squeaked faintly on the tile, shoulders hunched as if trying to hide from his own thoughts.

Builderman didn’t call him back.

Didn’t need to.

He exhaled slowly and leaned further into the bench, eyes drifting toward the half-finished Crimson Comet. Moonlight poured in through the cracked window, casting long silver lines across the console and the floor beneath. His chest still ached—but now it was the good kind. The kind that came with hope blooming through old scars.

A dreamy sigh escaped his lips.

“…I’m doomed, alright,” he muttered, pressing a calloused hand over his heart, trying to calm its wild rhythm. “But hell… can’t say I regret a damn thing.”

He let the silence settle, warm and humming.

Because somehow, impossibly, Builderman had fallen head over heels—for the awkward ex hacker who once ran from everything, who still couldn’t believe he was loved, and who held the world together anyway, one flustered breath at a time.

And Builderman would’ve rebuilt the universe, brick by brick, just to see that man smile again.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The morning light spilled softly through the tall windows of the guest room, casting long shafts of gold across the floorboards. Dust drifted lazily in the sunbeams, flickering like static. The bedsheets, rumpled and warm, had turned a pale amber in the glow.

Builderman stood in the doorway, arms folded loose across his chest, slippers silent against the old wood, he said nothing—just watched.

C00lkidd had wormed his way atop 007n7’s chest sometime in the night—limbs sprawled like a little starfish, tail flicked and curled around his father’s arm. 007n7 lay curled slightly on his side, his breathing slow and steady, one hand resting protectively across the boy’s back. His face—usually pinched with nerves or furrowed in thought—was smooth in sleep, his mouth parted just slightly. For once, there was no tension in his shoulders. No fear.

Only peace.

Rare. Earned.

He hadn’t felt this kind of stillness in years.

But eventually, time nudged him forward.

He stepped closer—quiet, careful—until he stood beside the bed, boots barely scuffing the wood. His fingers reached out, rough but warm, brushing feather-light along 007n7’s cheek.

“Up an’ at ‘em, Seven,” Builderman murmured, voice low, gravel-soft, like a campfire crackling at dawn. “Sun’s up. Mornin’s knockin’.”

007n7 stirred, brows twitching faintly as he leaned instinctively into the touch, cheek brushing against Builderman’s palm like a cat drawn to warmth. A soft, sleep-muddled sound escaped him—half sigh, half hum.

Then recognition hit.

His eyes snapped open wide.

And his face went bright red.

“Wha—wait—! I—this isn’t what it looks like—!” he blurted, panicked and scrambling, trying to sit up but failing miserably with a still-snoozing C00lkidd pinning him down.

“Papa...?” C00lkidd mumbled sleepily, lifting his head from 007n7’s chest with a squint. “Is it tag time? Did I miss the start?”

Builderman gave a slow, amused snort and leaned one elbow against the metal bedframe, arms crossed again with the easy weight of someone thoroughly enjoying this.

“Ain’t this a sight,” he drawled.

007n7’s gaze flicked upward, drawn by the soft hush of morning light spilling through the window.

It caught Builderman in a wash of gold and shadow—haloed by dawn, his silhouette warm and worn like an old memory. His usually immaculate grey hair was tousled, strands slipping loose to brush the broad line of his shoulder. Messy. Undone. Unbearably tempting.

And then—oh. 007n7’s eyes drifted lower.

The slope of the broad expanse of his chest, the faint dusting of hair leading down, down, over the gentle swell of his stomach, the happy trails that disappeared teasingly beneath the waistband of his boxers. He was sturdy, solid, beautifully imperfect—soft in all the right places, marred with scars that told stories 007n7 ached to learn with his lips, his tongue, his teeth—

He swallowed hard.

A soft cough broke through the haze.

Builderman was watching him—arms folded, expression unreadable except for the wicked tilt of his brow. Those amber eyes gleamed, full of heat and mirth.

“Well now… don’t stop on my account.”

He knew.

He knew exactly where 007n7’s mind had gone.

007n7’s whole body stiffened. His face went crimson. His throat worked uselessly around half-formed excuses, but none came. What could he even say?

Sorry I mentally devoured you like a warm cinnamon roll?

He had been staring, devouring, imagining the weight of Builderman beneath his hands, the heat of his skin, the way his breath might hitch if 007n7 traced those scars with his mouth—

His mouth opened—

And a sleepy voice shattered the tension like glass.

“Good morning, Uncle Builder,” C00lkidd mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes, blissfully unaware of the thick, honeyed tension hanging between the two adults. He yawned wide, then waved vaguely at Builderman before flopping off 007n7’s chest with a little grunt. “You smell like eggs and robots.”

Builderman gave a warm, rough chuckle in return. “Mornin’, runt.”

But even as he greeted the boy, his gaze flicked back to 007n7. And it lingered—low, slow, teasing. A silent promise. A dare.

007n7 moved fast.

In one breathless motion, he rose from the bed, brushing past C00lkidd and planting himself directly in front of Builderman—tall, pale, and visibly rattled. Their eyes locked. Builderman had to tilt his chin back to meet him, but there was no intimidation in it—only amusement. That smirk, lazy and crooked, curled at the edge of his mouth like smoke.

“W-we should—um, probably get ready,” 007n7 said quickly, flustered beyond belief, trying to usher Builderman toward the door with hands that absolutely did not hover at the dip of his waist.

Builderman allowed himself to be steered, but not without dragging his slippers just enough to make it difficult.

“Oh?” His voice dropped to a rough, molten whisper as he leaned in just slightly. “Didn’t look like ya wanted me gone, Seven. The way ya stared—hell, yer eyes—” He dragged a fingertip down 007n7’s chest, slow, deliberate, “—were speakin’ mighty loud just now. Could damn near hear ‘em beggin’ me t’ stay.”

007n7’s breath caught in his throat.

Heat pooled low in his stomach, electric and undeniable.

The door slammed between them.

Builderman’s laughter rumbled on the other side—rich, warm, unbearably sexy.

“Don’t dawdle now,” he called, voice muffled through the wood. “Got eggs on the fire… an’ I ain’t the only thing heatin’ up.”

And as his footsteps faded down the hall, 007n7 pressed his forehead against the door, his pulse wild, his skin burning, his mind spinning with all the things he wished he could have done—

All the things he would do, given the chance.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

By the time they shuffled sleepily into the canteen, the scent hit them first.

Warm, buttery, and rich—cinnamon curling through the air like a promise. The overhead lights cast a soft golden glow across the cracked tiles and worn countertops, but the real glow came from the stove, where Builderman was already at work.

He stood in front of the skillet, same apron slung over his hips from the night before, though now paired with a plain t-shirt and worn shorts. He was humming low under his breath, something old and tuneless, the kind of sound that filled a space like steam.

“Mornin’, you two sleepyheads,” he greeted without turning.

007n7 blinked at the oversized clock on the far wall. They had slept in. Embarrassingly so. “You’re already cooking?”

Builderman shot a grin over his shoulder. “Someone’s gotta keep the kitchen from collapsin’. And you two need nutrients.”

He gave the frying pan a toss, flipping something golden with practiced ease. “Besides,” he added, “the kid’s gotta grow tall ‘n strong.”

C00lkidd beamed at that. “I’m gonna get so big!” he chirped, fists clenched in determination. “One day I’ll be taller than Papa! Taller than you, Uncle Builder! And then I’ll be cool enough to protect both of you!”

Builderman chuckled, deep and gravelly. “That so? Better eat up then, champ.”

“Eat everything!” C00lkidd nodded furiously, eyes already sparkling at the stacked pancakes on the counter.

The air in the room had grown warm with comfort and spice. Sizzling butter filled the silence with soft crackles. Pancakes were stacked high—golden, fluffy, dusted lightly with powdered sugar. Next to them, soft scrambled eggs folded into glistening layers, and slices of toasted bread were topped with melted cheese and avocado fans.

Builderman slid a plate in front of 007n7 with a casual nod, then passed C00lkidd a tall glass of milk—earning a squeaky, delighted "Thank youuuu!!" in response. For the two adults, he set down mugs of hot, black coffee.

007n7’s hands curled around his cup almost reverently.

He took one sip and blinked—eyes going wide, posture straightening, nearly vibrating. “Th-this is good,” he muttered. “Very good.”

“It’s a feast!! AGAIN!!” C00lkidd shrieked with uncontained glee, already halfway through his first pancake, syrup dribbling down his chin.

“Easy there,” 007n7 said gently, wiping his face with a napkin. “Slow down or you’ll choke.”

“It’s breakfast,” Builderman corrected with a grunt, flipping another pancake. “But yeah.”

007n7 settled onto the bench beside C00lkidd with a quiet, “Thank you,” voice soft but sincere.

And then he took a bite.

The reaction was instant—his eyes fluttered shut for half a second, lips twitching toward a smile he didn’t quite mean to let slip. It was absurdly good. Again.

He tried to hide it, keep his face composed, but Builderman caught the expression anyway.

Their eyes met.

Builderman didn’t say anything—just gave a small, knowing look. Soft around the edges. Appreciative.

They ate like that.

Together.

Comfortable.

Like this was something they always did. Like the night before hadn’t happened. Like the ache, the confessions, the heat—it was all folded away gently in the quiet between them, simmering beneath the surface.

And maybe that was okay. For now.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

They stood in the quiet garden, dew still clinging to the grass beneath their boots, where an admin-forged portal shimmered softly between two stone pillars. Its edges flickered blue and gold, pulsing like a heartbeat against the morning air. The hum it gave off was low and steady—like distant machinery or the purr of a well-tuned engine.

Builderman had opened it himself after some good-natured grumbling about “wastin’ travel fuel” and “ain’t no damn sense in lettin’ ya hike cross a whole grid on yer own dime.”

C00lkidd spun in dizzy circles in front of the portal, arms stretched out like airplane wings, still buzzing with syrup-fueled energy. “Just five more minutes! Five! That’s like… one more pancake, right?” he whined, staggering dramatically. “Pleeeeeeease?”

“We had a deal, remember?” 007n7 said gently, crouching to zip the bag. “If we head home now, you get the candy I mentioned.”

C00lkidd immediately stopped spinning. “Candy?! Now?!”

“If we go.”

He gasped. “I will sprint.”

007n7 gave a quiet sigh. “You have to go first. Then candy.”

While the boy zig-zagged around the portal like a glitchy particle effect, 007n7 stood a little off to the side, fingers fidgeting again with the hem of his sleeve. His gaze lingered on the portal, then the floor, then on the small container Builderman had insisted he take.

The leftovers were neatly packed—sealed tight, still warm. 007n7 had tried to protest at least three times, but Builderman had simply tucked it into his hands with a muttered, “Don’t fuss—it’s just supper in a box.”

He hadn’t won the argument. No one ever did with Builderman.

Bootsteps padded softly behind him.

“So...” Builderman’s voice broke the quiet—rough but unguarded—as he stepped forward, hands tucked loosely into the back pockets of his shorts. “Y’all packed up n’ ready?”

007n7 turned toward him at the sound, standing a little straighter.

“Keep yer heads low out there, alright?” Builderman said.

“...We will,” 007n7 replied softly. “You’ve done more than enough already. I don’t want to impose further.”

His voice stayed polite, but something in his eyes flickered—like he’d been hoping for a different answer.

He turned to call C00lkidd again, taking the boy’s hand with a sigh. They began to walk toward the pulsing light.

“Hey.”

The word came quiet, steady. Just enough to stop him.

Builderman took a slow step forward, rubbing the back of his neck.

“That date we talked about... that still on the table?”

007n7 froze mid-step.

“Ain’t tryin’ t’ rush ya none,” Builderman added quickly, tone gentler. “Only if it still feels right to ya.”

007n7 looked over his shoulder.

He nodded—just once, quick and tentative. “Y-Yes. If... if you still want to.”

His cheeks burned pink, his free hand tightening around the container like it might anchor him to the moment.

Before anything else could be said, C00lkidd gasped dramatically, yanking his hand free and zipping between them like a shockwave.

“WAIT—UNCLE BUILDER!” he shouted, eyes huge. “ARE YOU TRYNA DO THE LOVE-THING ON PAPA?!”

007n7 made a sound not dissimilar to a kettle left on the stove.

“I—I don’t think that’s the right phrasing,” 007n7 stammered, clearly unraveling.

Builderman’s eyes widened. “I—well—”

But then he paused. Smirked. That slow, lopsided grin curling across his face.

“Yeah,” Builderman said with a slow grin. “Reckon I am.”

“WOOHOO!! MARRY HIM!!” C00lkidd whooped, throwing both arms in the air. “Then you gotta make breakfast forever, and Papa’ll smile more, and we can all live together in a pancake castle!!”

007n7 choked on absolutely nothing.

“C00lkidd—please!” he whispered harshly, face burning. “You can’t just... blurt things like that out in public!”

“But if you love each other, you gotta marry, right?” C00lkidd pouted. “That’s what the storybooks do!”

Builderman chuckled, absolutely unbothered. “Kid’s sharp,” he added, eyes warm as they met 007n7’s, “An’ yeah... if two folks care deep enough, they wind up stickin’ together. If the world’s kind.”

He didn’t say yet.

But it was there—in the look. In the silence.

007n7 held his gaze, frozen, breath caught somewhere in his throat.

“I swear, I’m never bringing him out in public again,” 007n7 mumbled, ears red, dignity in tatters. He scooped C00lkidd up into his arms with a grunt, hoisting the wriggling boy onto his shoulder in a last-ditch effort to end the scene.

Builderman laughed quietly, taking a slow step back toward the canteen.

“I’ll be expectin’ that date,” he said, tilting his head just slightly, gaze lingering. “Don’t keep me waitin’, Seven.”

007n7 gave a small, flustered nod—trying, and failing not to let the smile creep up uninvited.

Builderman’s smile softened. “Mind that little rascal,” he added, nodding toward the boy now babbling happily from his perch. “An’ take care of yerself too, while yer at it.”

007n7 nodded, then turned and stepped through the shimmering portal. The light swallowed them whole in a breath—leaving behind only the warm scent of pancakes, the distant sound of laughter, and the echo of a heart that dared, once more, to stay open.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

ARTWORK BY: Angelsdecayy

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

ARTWORK BY: Archangel

Chapter Text

Despite having just returned from a rare break—if one could even call it that—Builderman looked no better for it. He sat hunched at his desk like a worn-out bridge beam, broad shoulders sagging beneath the weight of overwork. The glow of the screen cast stark shadows across his face as his calloused fingers trudged through task after task: scanning breach reports, cross-checking access logs, flicking through comms with mechanical precision.

But something was off.

He was smiling.

Not the usual tight-lipped smirk he gave when issuing a deadpan retort or when someone's request was just plain stupid. No—this was different. It was soft. Private. The kind of smile that sneaks up on a man before he can iron it flat again. It tugged at the corners of his mouth every time his eyes drifted off-screen and lingered—unfocused, faraway.

Which they did. A lot.

More than once that week, he’d blanked mid-task—left the same log feed running for ten minutes, responded to a D-class repair request by calling the applicant “Seven,” and caught himself staring into a bone-dry mug like it might refill itself if he glared hard enough.

He looked like hell. His eyes were rimmed in exhaustion, hair sticking up slightly from where he’d run a hand through it too many times, and the usual iron weight of duty hung from him like a soaked poncho. But underneath that… something was different. He seemed lighter. Like some quiet part of him had finally exhaled.

Even Telamon had perceived it—and Telamon noticed everything. How could he not, when all he did was observe the humans, trying to understand their patterns, their behaviours.

“Telamon observes... serenity. Statistically improbable. Deeply suspicious,” Telamon remarked earlier that morning, leaning against the breakroom counter with a protein bar held like a scalpel. “That alone is cause for alarm. Please do not tell Telamon you’ve acquired... a hobby. Or worse—feelings.”

Builderman didn’t even glance up from his mug. “You observin’, or tryin’ t’ diagnose me again?” he muttered, voice like gravel stirred with molasses.

Telamon took a slow bite of the bar, mechanical. “Telamon analyzed your eyelid oscillation. The pattern mimics... affection. Revolting.”

Builderman exhaled through his nose, sipped what was probably the blandest instant coffee in existence—and grinned. Actually grinned.

“Shut it, Telamon,” he muttered, easy-like. No bark behind it. Just dry—like old bark.

Telamon stared at him. Squinted. Tilted his head like a crow dissecting a puzzle.

“He detects corruption in your behavioral subroutines. Possibly romantic in origin.”

Builderman didn’t answer. Just took another sip, the smile still tugging lazily at the corner of his mouth. Then he muttered low, like to himself, “Nothin’ wrong with catchin’ yer breath, every now n’ then.”

Telamon blinked once, then simply walked off—muttering under his breath, “Telamon requires a full scan—preferably before the infection spreads to your dignity.”

Builderman had merely shrugged it off with a deadpan, “No.”

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

And now, as late light filtered in through the blast-proof windows of his office—striping the room in gold and shadow—the mystery only deepened. No one could quite figure out why the usually gruff, curt overseer had gone... serene. Relaxed. Almost patient.

No one except Builderman himself.

His thoughts circled a single memory like vultures to a warm fire: 007n7’s hand, hesitant and trembling, curling into his own. The faint hitch in the hacker’s breath. The quiet, almost disbelieving yes when he’d asked him to dinner that night.

Just remembering it made Builderman’s heart stutter against his ribs, pounding like it might bust clean through and race ahead without him. He rubbed the back of his neck, stared blankly at his datapad for the third time in two minutes, and smiled—tired, but true.

Across the room, Taph moved in practiced silence, working through the pile of disordered files Builderman had abandoned in his haze. The young demolitionist handled them with quiet care—sort, flick, readjust—like each document might crumble if pressed too hard. He worked with the kind of reverence only the war-born could understand: calm hands, quiet presence, no wasted movement.

But after a few more moments of watching Builderman check the time again, tap his pen, glance at the door—Taph finally stepped forward. His wings shifted slightly, brushing the air as he raised his hands to sign in soft, fluttering motions:

“🕒👀❓🧠💭⬅️” (Is something urgent, sir? You seem... if I may—absent.)

Builderman blinked, eyes snapping up. He’d nearly missed the message, caught somewhere between memory and anticipation. His features softened as he let the pen drop onto the desk. With some effort—clumsy but earnest—he signed back:

“Yeah. Got plans t’night. Need this mess off my plate ‘fore someone drags me back in.”

Taph stilled for a second. He gave a small, bright nod and ducked his head—his black wings casting shadows over the paper pile—as he turned back to the task, fingers flying even faster than before.

Builderman watched him work, and something flickered across his face. Quiet. Sharp. Aching.

Taph didn’t have to help—not this late, not this much. But he did anyway. Still here. Still trying. Still… good.

He reminded him of John Doe.

Not the face—no, the kid didn’t look a thing like him. But the mannerisms. The stubborn diligence. That flicker of hope in a place that had burned most of it out.

And it hurt. God, it still hurt.

But in these last two weeks—real rest, real quiet—he hadn’t recoiled from that resemblance. He hadn’t shoved Taph away for acting like a ghost Builderman still wasn’t ready to bury. He saw the echoes, and this time… he just let them be. Let the boy be himself.

He exhaled slowly, thumb brushing over a dent in the desk’s metal.

“’Preciate it, kid,” he murmured—half to himself.

But Taph heard it. The feathers of his wing twitched, just once, betraying his pleased surprise. His hands worked even faster, shuffling and aligning with renewed, focused energy.

Builderman snorted softly. “Ya damn simpleton,” he muttered with dry fondness, rubbing at his brow. But the tension in his shoulders had eased.

He straightened up.

Just for tonight, he’d let himself have something gentle.

But first—he had to finish this damned pile of reports.

The rhythmic click of keys filled the room again, sharp and unrelenting. It was broken only by the occasional groan of his chair as Builderman shifted, or the soft scrape of paper being shuffled into neater stacks by Taph across the room.

Builderman had buried himself in the work at last. Elbows planted, back hunched like a weathered cliff leaning over the tide of unfiled incident logs and half-redacted communications. The warm flicker of anticipation still thrummed under his skin—he couldn’t lie about that. He felt... alive. Thrilled, even.

But the smile he’d worn earlier had vanished. Replaced by a grim, set line.

He’d gotten cocky. Let himself get soft.

And of course, MrDoombringer had noticed.

The other admin had stood silent in his office earlier that day, arms folded, red tie pressed flat like a blade across his chest. He hadn’t even spoken at first—just furrowed his brow at the unfinished incident report Builderman should’ve sent three days ago. Then, without so much as raising his voice, he’d set a printed version down on the desk like a sentencing decree.

“Zis? Zis is unacceptable,” he said curtly. “Even for you, Builderman. I expect negligence from interns—not from an admin who knew better.”

Builderman had chuckled, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “Slipped my mind, reckon that’s on me.”

But it hadn’t.

Not even close.

He’d been too caught up thinking about 007n7.

He’d been too busy thinking about him. About 007n7—his hand resting against his, the way his breath hitched when they touched, how he’d looked at him like he mattered.

And then there was the kid. That weird little runt who ate like a trash possum and still managed to wrap his tail around 007n7’s leg in his sleep like he was afraid of losing him. The same tail Builderman recognized—his own mutation passed down in code.

He hadn’t sent the damn report. Not because he forgot—because he’d been too busy feeling.

And when he returned from his so-called vacation, still high on peace and low on guilt, the first thing he saw was Doombringer already waiting in his office. Standing rigid by the desk, hands behind his back, eyes sharp as razor fire.

No words at first. Just a glare. Then the file slapped down with surgical finality.

Bam.

Builderman swore he heard thunder behind it.

So now, here he was—clicking away at keys under self-imposed exile. Punished in his own damn office. By a subordinate who had no rank above him, technically—but held enough moral weight to make anyone feel like a delinquent schoolboy caught skipping curfew.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, grumbling, “Ain’t even wearin’ a tie, still feels like I’m chokin’ in one.”

“Fair’s fair,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Messed up. Ain’t proud of it. Fool move.”

Another sigh pushed through his teeth. His voice dropped, barely audible. “Damn hacker’s really somethin’... Head’s full’a him. Can’t think straight, even when I’m tryin’.”

A shift in the air.

A shadow cut across the desk—long and crooked, stretching over the paperwork like a glitch in the calm. Builderman didn’t look up. Not yet. He felt it: that chaotic presence, heavy with the scent of oil and danger and mischief.

Then came the slap of paper on tile.

A stack of files toppled dramatically onto the floor as a face leaned far too close into his peripheral vision.

“Telamon arrives,” came a familiar, teeth-baring grin. Telamon’s voice was a whipcrack wrapped in glee, his chin nearly balanced atop the paper pile. “Did you miss Telamon? Of course you did.”

Builderman didn’t flinch. Just raised a brow, the faintest twitch of annoyance tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Get yer ugly mug outta my breathin’ zone.”

Telamon barked out a laugh and reeled back dramatically. “Still got bite? Good. Telamon feared you’d been replaced by a smiling husk. An imposter in hoodie.” He tilted his head, grin warping into something more sinister. “Had you been compromised… Telamon would have had to… dispose of you.”

Builderman’s glare hardened. “Don’t go sayin’ weird crap while I’m tryna focus.”

Telamon just smiled wider, teeth flashing.

Without waiting for an invitation—because he never did—Telamon spun halfway around and threw an arm across Taph’s shoulders. The younger admin, who had been quietly collecting finished forms near the back cabinet, froze mid-motion, eyes wide as a bundle of files slipped from his hands and scattered with a paper-soft flutter.

“Observe this creature,” Telamon cackled, giving Taph a jostle. “Still convinced Telamon devours mortals. Absurd. Telamon gave that up weeks ago—”

He leaned in with a stage-whisper. “—well. Telamon tries.”

Taph twitched visibly like he wanted to say something, then promptly began fidgeting in silent panic.

“Lay off the kid,” Builderman drawled without lifting his eyes, tapping something onto the tablet in front of him. “Ain’t funny. Never was.”

“Telamon merely graces the void with charisma. You’re welcome.”

“Telamon,” Builderman cut in, voice dropping low, like gravel ground against steel. The tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

That was the sound of patience running thin.

Telamon raised both hands like a stage magician mid-disappearing act. “Fine. Fine. Telamon retracts his magnificence—for now. This office is allergic to flair anyway.”

But before he could conjure up another snide remark, a crisp voice rang from the doorway—clear and firm, slicing clean through the static tension.

“Telamon,” Brighteyes called sweetly, stepping inside with her arms folded neatly across her purple hoodie. “Would you be a dear and go finish that packaged lunch I set aside for you?”

Her smile was warm, but her eyes weren’t smiling at all. They held the kind of steel only a fool tried to bend.

Telamon blinked—then snapped upright like a soldier caught slacking. “Ah, sustenance. Telamon nearly forgot his sacred lunch rites. A rare oversight. You may record the moment.”

He backed toward the door, muttering under his breath, but his grin stayed wide. “Telamon departs. His sandwich awaits. Try not to spiral into mediocrity without him.”

“Greedy damn trashbandit,” Builderman muttered under his breath once the door creaked open and shut behind him.

Brighteyes turned next to Taph, her tone softening. “There’s some in the kitchen for you, too, dear. Help yourself before Telamon finds it.”

Taph visibly relaxed, nodding quickly. “🙇❗” (Yes ma’am. Thank you!)

Taph sighed out in relief from being free from Telamon’s clutches.

He cast one last glance at Builderman—hesitating, as if about to speak—but the old admin didn’t lift his head. With a sheepish bow and a shuffle of boots, Taph followed the scent of food and merciful distance out of the room. The door hissed shut behind him with a pneumatic sigh.

And finally, the office was still again.

Only the low hum of Builderman’s tablet remained, steady as his heartbeat—steady as the thoughts still swirling in his mind, of clumsy smiles and quiet hands and a hacker who haunted him like a sunrise he hadn’t earned.

Brighteyes waited until the silence had properly settled—until the last shuffle of papers had quieted, and the office exhaled again—before stepping fully inside.

Her heels clicked softly across the floor. Every movement she made was graceful, measured. Like someone who never wasted a single breath. She didn’t ask if he was busy. She already knew.

She perched herself on the edge of Builderman’s desk like she always did, casual and deliberate, nudging aside a folder with her hip as she slid into place. Her voice came low, smooth, and just a little amused—coated in that ever-present cool beneath the gleam of her colorful sunglasses.

“So. You’re in love.”

Builderman blinked. His pen paused mid-sentence.

He frowned and finally looked up at her—really looked. That wasn’t a question he’d been bracing for. Not from Brighteyes. And not with that kind of timing.

But he didn’t deflect.

Didn’t grunt or scoff or bury himself back in work like usual.

Because… there wasn’t any shame in it. Not now. Not after everything.

He just hadn’t expected them to catch on so damn fast.

“…Yeah,” he said, voice low and gravel-lined. “Reckon I am.”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes shifting to the side. “Plannin’ on takin’ him out t’night. Just supper.”

Brighteyes’s lips curved, just slightly. Not surprised by the he—only warmed by it.

“Well, it’s about time,” she said, pleased. “Good for you.”

She let him sit in it a moment—let him feel it. That soft, golden kind of quiet where things didn’t have to be hidden. Then she tilted her head.

“Where?”

He hesitated. “Thinkin’ that bar I hit now n’ then. Quiet booth. Food’s decent. Ain’t fancy.”

Brighteyes’s smile vanished.

“Nope,” she said immediately. “Try again.”

Builderman blinked. “What? It’s got food. Ain’t that enough?”

“No,” she repeated, and this time her voice carried weight. “You’re going to wear something clean. You’re getting him flowers. And you’re taking him somewhere with real lighting.”

He frowned. “He don’t seem the type t’ want all that—”

Or at least, he assumed not.

“I don’t care if he likes it or not. Actually, I do.” She adjusted her sunglasses slightly. “But this is your first date, Builderman. After how many centuries?”

“…Ain’t got a clue.”

“Exactly. So you show effort. Show respect.”

Builderman raised a brow. “Y’know damn well I ain’t built for candlelit nonsense.”

“You’re not,” she agreed. “But maybe this time you should be.”

Builderman leaned back in his chair with a groan. “You’re startin’ t’sound like Doom yammerin’ on ‘bout courtin’ Clockwork. That ain’t my thing.”

“And yet,” she said with a calm shrug, “you’re here, trying not to mess this up.”

He grumbled, shifting in his seat. “Yer bossy as hell when ya get goin’.”

“I’m practical when I care,” she countered smoothly. Her tone softened. “And I care, Builderman. You haven’t looked this relaxed since, well… before half the catalog was deprecated.”

Her gaze steadied on his, firm but warm. “I’m happy for you. Genuinely. So please—do this right.”

Builderman held her gaze. Then sighed hard through his nose.

“…Fine. But if he gets squirmy, I’m layin’ the blame square on you.”

Brighteyes grinned, already reaching across the desk for his datapad. “Deal. Now let’s find somewhere halfway romantic, dig something ironed out of your closet, and—oh, right—flowers.”

“Nah, I… I can handle the flowers.” He paused. “Oughta come from me. Needs t’ feel… real.”

She gave him a look—the kind that read through every cracked brick in his foundation. Then smiled.

“He must mean a lot to you.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Means the world.”

And just like that, the nerves coiled in Builderman’s gut twisted into something else. Something lighter. Something warmer.

Anticipation.

Something worth doing right—even if it meant wearing the damn button-up.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The overhead lights in the admin wing buzzed faintly, casting a cold, sterile glow over the command consoles. The air smelled of ozone and static—like electricity bottled into steel walls. Rows of monitors blinked with constant activity: breach alerts, zone telemetry, inventory drift, field unit positions. The room breathed data, and tension hung thicker than the wiring.

The side door hissed open with a gust of recycled air, and Brighteyes swept in like a spark in motion. For once, she didn’t float—she burst. There was a rare spring in her step, and her hands were clasped behind her back as if physically holding in the energy threatening to spill from her every movement.

“Knew it,” Brighteyes chirped, half breathless, a grin lighting up her face like sunrise through glass. “You should’ve seen his face—trying so hard to be all ‘stoic admin,’ but completely falling apart. It was adorable.”

The towering tactician looked up from the delicate swirl of steam rising from his tea set. He blinked slowly, barely pausing in the careful arrangement of porcelain cups.

“Builderman?” he echoed low, with a tilt of his head.

“Yes!” she confirmed, practically bouncing. “He’s in love. Actually in love. And he’s going on a date tonight.”

Dusekkar blinked again—no judgment, just the quiet spark of analysis. “...Fascinating. I presume your hand has stirred the path already walked.”

“I guided,” Brighteyes corrected smoothly, raising a finger with mock solemnity. “Picked the venue. Made the reservation. Told him to wear something that doesn’t smell like a motherboard. He really must’ve found the one.”

Behind the consoles, Taph peeked shyly from behind a stack of datapads. He signed something, his motions neat and practiced:

“👷‍♂️❤️❗😄👏” (Builderman… deserves love. I’m glad for him.)

Brighteyes turned, her expression softening at the sight. “Yes, he does. After everything he’s weathered... I honestly didn’t think we’d see the day.”

She took the teacup Dusekkar handed her and sipped, content—for the first time in a long time.

But the quiet celebration faltered.

A faint clink echoed behind them. A glass meeting metal. Subtle. Sharp.

One figure stood apart from the others, near the far window. Silent. Still. The admin badge gleamed from his lapel, pristine and centered. His gloves were black, boots mirror-polished. He looked every inch the standard. The enforcer. The cleanest lines in a room built for chaos.

His hands were clenched tight. Tighter than anyone had noticed.

Except one.

Clockwork had been watching him for some time now, eyes unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses. He hadn’t spoken—not once—but his posture had shifted subtly. Tense, but calm. A soldier waiting to see which way the fuse would burn.

Brighteyes, oblivious to the undercurrent, smiled again. “Picture it. Builderman. A restaurant. Actual linen napkins. I’d pay double.”

Taph signed something again—small, something kind—but it went unfinished. The room cooled a few degrees when the silent man turned.

His eyes were darker than before.

Not angry.

Disappointed.

Frosted with something older. Sharper.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His gaze swept the room once, then settled somewhere far beyond the monitors—like watching a memory repeat.

Not Telamon, either—who was sprawled lazily against the far wall, arms folded, one foot propped up, chewing absentmindedly on a toothpick. He watched the tension twist in the air like thread drawn too tight. He said nothing. But the amused tilt of his head gave him away.

He noticed.

The silent figure’s jaw flexed.

First came a blind eye. Then tolerance.

Now… this?

A smile?

A date?

He breathed in—slow and deep—and let his fists loosen at last.

Not out of peace.

Out of preparation.

Because if this farce was being allowed to continue… then it was up to him to bring it back to order.

This was beyond sentiment.

This was embarrassing.

…𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝖎𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖋𝖆𝖗𝖈𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖘 𝖚𝖓𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖉, 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖎𝖙 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖘 𝖚𝖕𝖔𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖗.

𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖘 𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙.

𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖆𝖓 𝖆𝖋𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖆𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖆𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊.

The words slithered through his mind like oil in the gears—ritualistic, acidic. Reverent and venom-laced all at once. They rang not as thoughts, but as declarations. Edicts. Ancient, absolute.

𝕻𝖚𝖗𝖌𝖊 𝖍𝖎𝖒. 𝕻𝖚𝖗𝖌𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖒 𝖆𝖑𝖑. 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔𝖔 𝖋𝖆𝖗 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙, 𝖜𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊.

𝕹𝖔 𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗, 𝖓𝖔 𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖞—𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝕮𝖑𝖔𝖈𝖐𝖜𝖔𝖗—

The last word caught like a thorn, bitter and unfinished.

He turned sharply on his heel. The overhead lights barely touched him as he walked—only the soft clink of his boots echoed against the steel floor, trailing behind like distant thunder. He passed the threshold of the command wing without a word. His silhouette dissolved into flickering light, then shadow, then gone.

The atmosphere changed in his wake.

Like pressure had lifted—but only to make space for something worse.

Telamon finally pushed off from the wall, stretching as he exhaled a low whistle through his teeth.

“Telamon senses turbulence,” he murmured, eyes glittering with amusement. “Delightful. Chaos makes such an elegant canvas.”

Brighteyes blinked, mid-sip of tea. Her smile faltered. “Telamon. What did you notice?”

Telamon offered a grin sharp enough to void a warranty.

“Nothing concrete. Just a ripple in the plotline. Telamon suspects Act Two is about to begin—and Telamon loves a good catastrophe.This facility thrives on drama, after all. Without it… boredom. And Telamon does not tolerate boredom.”

Without waiting, he turned and strolled after the fading trail of footsteps, whistling tunelessly under his breath. He didn’t rush—just walked like someone who already knew the second act would be worth the ticket.

Taph glanced nervously between Brighteyes and the corridor, worry etched across his expression.

Brighteyes stood motionless, the warmth in her features gone. Her gaze narrowed as her fingers tightened slightly on the rim of her cup. She’d missed something. Something important.

Dusekkar resumed his tea calmly, setting his cup down with mechanical precision.

“Shall we bear witness, lend him shield or shade?” Dusekkar intoned, setting down his cup with quiet finality.

Brighteyes hesitated, the question hanging like a suspended circuit.

Then, softly—

“No. I think he’s got this one. I hope.”

She meant it. But her voice betrayed the smallest crack of doubt.

Because the air was colder now.

And the light from the monitors—so steady and clinical before—suddenly felt a little too harsh, like it was trying to overcompensate for something dark creeping into the edges of the room.

Something old. Something righteous.

Something coming.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The apartment was never exactly a beacon of order, but today, it looked like a data breach had swept through the bedroom and dumped its payload on every surface.

Not the usual C00lkidd-drew-on-the-wall chaos either—this was a different breed entirely. Shirts were flung over chair backs like defeated flags. A pair of pants hung off the couch arm like they’d attempted a polite exit but collapsed halfway. The curtain rod wore a jacket like a tired mannequin.

In the middle of it all stood 007n7, frozen, clutching two identical black shirts like they were the last defense line before emotional catastrophe.

“This one feels… casual but presentable,” he muttered, holding it up against his chest with both hands. “And this one… well, it says I actually tried, I think.”

He frowned. Switched them. Held the other shirt up. Squinted. Switched again. “Wait—no, this one’s too confident. He might think I’m trying too hard. Or being... ironic, somehow.”

A beat of silence.

“I am trying,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone, almost horrified by the realization.

From the nearby kitchen counter, C00lkidd rested his chin in his hands, swinging his legs lazily while nudging an empty cup back and forth across the laminate with exaggerated boredom. He’d been stuck there nearly the entire morning, subjected to his dad’s fashion-induced meltdown.

“Why does Papa not just wear nothing?”C00lkidd offered helpfully. “Uncle Builder laughs at your weird shirts all the time. With like... heart eyes.”

007n7 looked over, scandalized. “I—I beg your pardon?”

“It’s true!” the boy insisted, sliding off the counter and plodding closer. “Papa dress silly and he still do the lovey-eyes! Like this—”

C00lkidd squinted dramatically and batted his lashes in exaggerated slow motion.

007n7 nearly dropped the shirts. “He… he does?!”

C00lkidd nodded sagely, arms crossed in mock-seriousness. “He doooo. He look at you like I look at candy when I only get ONE piece. The good kinda stare.”

“C00lkidd—!”

“I’m just saying,” he said, turning a slow circle in the cluttered room before flopping belly-first onto the bed. “Uncle Builder always smiles at you, even if you were to fall down the stairs. Or make the eggs on fire. Or wear your thinky-thoughts hoodie.”

“I wasn’t overthinking, I was just… being thorough…” 007n7 groaned, flopping beside him with a hand over his eyes. “I can’t do this. What if I say something completely idiotic? What if I choke and—oh god, die—right in front of him?”

“…Papa.”

007n7 peeked through his fingers. “Yes, son?”

“You’re gonna be fiiiiine,” C00lkidd giggled, rolling over to boop his dad’s nose. “You just got the wiggles 'cause you loooove Uncle Builder. If you marry, I get second dinner every day!”

007n7 blinked. “…That’s… a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“You got the swoons!” C00lkidd declared with a devious little grin. “Papa wants to SMOOCH Uncle Builder! Right! On! The MOUTH!”

“I—I do not—!” 007n7 sat up, flushed, clutching the shirt to his chest. “You can’t just say things like that—out loud!”

C00lkidd shrugged and somersaulted off the bed, landing with a soft thump on a pile of socks. “I whispered it!” he mumbled, before adding in a sing-song voice, “Paaaapa wants to kiiiiiss Uncle Builderrr~!”

007n7 groaned into the shirt.

And somewhere beneath all the stress, a small laugh broke loose from 007n7’s chest—light and fleeting, like a spark slipping free from the wires. C00lkidd’s antics could do that, even now. Even when the world felt like it was crumbling under the weight of sleeves and second guesses.

The moment didn’t last long.

He glanced at the digital clock glowing faintly on his wristband.

“Oh no—no, no—”

Panic snapped back into place like a firewall rebooting.

007n7 bolted upright, eyes darting back to the mess of clothing still strewn across the bed. “Which one—which one’s right?!”

Without missing a beat, C00lkidd grabbed a shirt from the edge of the bed—sleek black cotton, paired with a crisp red tie that had somehow survived the chaos unwrinkled—and held it up with both hands like it was a sacred artifact.

“Pick this one! It’s got date power!” he beamed. “Also do hair. And teeth. And the shiny bits above your eyes. Red makes you look epic. Like ME!”

007n7 blinked, taking the shirt. “…You… actually have a good eye. That’s… mildly concerning.”

C00lkidd puffed up proudly, arms folded.

While 007n7 dressed—sleeves tugged, tie clipped, collar smoothed with trembling fingers—the boy wandered toward the door, his earlier cheer beginning to wilt into a pout.

“I still don’t get why I can’t come,” he mumbled, dragging his socked feet across the tile. “I can be super-duper good. Sit still like a statue. . Eat all the extra food.”

007n7 let out a soft sigh and crossed over to him, crouching until they were eye-level.

“Because it’s… um, a date,” he said gently, brushing a bit of syrup-crusted hair out of the boy’s face. “Which means… no kids allowed, sadly.”

“But if you head to bed on time and, please, don’t break anything—”

“That was only one time!”

“C00lkidd.”

“Fiiiine. But I want compensation. In dessert.”

007n7 smiled despite himself and leaned in to press a quick kiss to the top of the boy’s head.

“If you go to bed like a good kid,” he murmured, “then maybe… maybe you can have ice cream for breakfast. Just once.”

C00lkidd gasped, like he’d just been granted admin powers. “PAPA’S THE BEST!!”

“Not a word of this to Builderman,” 007n7 added with mock severity. “He might steal your ice cream out of principle.”

C00lkidd immediately slapped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide. “Won’t tell! Cross my code and hope to crash!”

Chuckling nervously, 007n7 grabbed his keys, casting one final glance at the apartment—the whirlwind of fabric still unmoved, the faint hum of the heater, the fading echo of C00lkidd’s laughter.

His hands were shaking a little.

His heart was thudding, fast and uncertain.

But under all the dread, all the awkward imaginings of spilled drinks and choked greetings… there was something softer beneath the surface. A flutter. A quiet flicker in his chest he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Tonight might just be the start of something real. Something warm. Something he was still learning how to hold without breaking.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The restaurant stood like a whispered secret from a forgotten era—a sanctuary of amber light spilling through its arched windows, where ivy curled lazily over wrought-iron frames like nature’s own delicate embroidery.

The air was thick with the scent of rain-kissed earth and something sweet—honeysuckle, perhaps—lingering from the storm that had just passed. Every droplet on the cobblestones shimmered like liquid diamonds under the glow of the lanterns, casting the world in a dreamlike haze. From within, the soft, aching melody of a violin wove through the hum of quiet conversation, a serenade meant just for them.

Builderman waited beneath the awning, a silhouette of quiet elegance against the warm radiance behind him.

Gone was the rugged commander, the man of steel and grit.

Tonight, he was something softer, something meant to be touched—his black blazer tailored to the broad lines of his shoulders, the white dress shirt beneath it crisp as fresh snowfall, undone just enough to reveal the faintest hint of collarbone, a tease of skin that made 007n7’s pulse stutter. His beard was still there, but trimmed close, lending him the air of a man who had stepped out of some romantic novel—all quiet strength and unspoken promises.

And in his hand, a bouquet of sunflowers, their petals the color of molten gold, vibrant against the muted tones of the evening.

007n7 skidded around the corner, breathless, his heart hammering as if it might burst from his chest. “Ah—I’m sorry, the transports were... slower than I anticipated,” he gasped, fingers fumbling at his own disheveled state—the black suit wrinkled from haste, the red tie knotted too tight, as though he’d tried to strangle himself in his rush to arrive.

And then he looked up.

The world stilled.

Builderman didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The curve of his lips was enough—a smile slow and knowing, as if he had been waiting for this moment for lifetimes. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched, fingers broad and steady, and the simple gesture felt like the first note of a symphony.

“Shall we?”

Two words, soft as a sigh, yet they unraveled 007n7 completely. His breath caught, his throat tightened, and for a heartbeat, he was certain he had forgotten how to speak, how to move, how to exist in any way that wasn’t utterly, hopelessly consumed by this man.

He stared at the offered hand, then down at himself—suddenly, painfully aware of every flaw, every crease, every way he didn’t measure up to the effortless grace before him. His voice faltered. “I—I'm not sure what to say, I just...”

He felt underdressed. Underdone. Undereverything.

But Builderman only tilted his head, his gaze warm, unbearably fond. “Yer’ lookin’ sharp,” he murmured, the words a velvet caress. “Suit suits ya’.”

007n7 blinked, heat flooding his cheeks. “You’re—well, you’re hardly one to talk...” he said softly, glancing away. “You look... incredible.”

Then, hesitantly, he placed his hand in Builderman’s—and the moment their fingers brushed, the night itself seemed to sigh around them, the stars leaning in just a little closer to witness something beautiful.

Builderman’s hand was warm—so warm—his fingers curling around 007n7’s with a tenderness that made the air between them tremble. No gloves this time, just skin against skin, rough calluses brushing over knuckles in a silent confession. His thumb lingered, tracing the ridge of 007n7’s hand for a heartbeat too long before releasing him—only to press the bouquet gently into his grasp.

“Figured these’d suit ya’ better than roses,” he said, thumb brushing the petals. “Sunflowers. Tougher than they look. Don’t quit easy.”

007n7 stared at them. Sunflowers. Big, bright, open-faced things.

The flowers were alive in his hands—golden, bold, their faces tilted toward him as if they, too, were caught in the gravity of this moment. They were more than petals and stems; they were a language, a declaration, sunlight given form.

He knew what they meant.

Not just because of some old book or the endless flower field C00lkidd once tried to catalog for a pretend bug encyclopedia—he knew because the warmth radiating from them mirrored something he couldn’t name every time Builderman looked at him like that. Steadfast love. Devotion. A kind of loyalty that didn’t ask for anything but to remain.

“Oh,” 007n7 breathed, the sound barely more than a whisper. His fingers tightened around the stems, grounding himself in their solid, living weight. “That’s... that’s very...”

Builderman tilted his head, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—so rare, so precious—before it melted into that familiar, patient warmth. “Too much?”

“No! No, I—” 007n7 clutched the bouquet closer, pressing it against his chest like it might steady the wild rhythm beneath his ribs. The petals brushed his chin, soft as a lover’s touch. “They’re... lovely. I’m just not used to... things like this.”

Builderman didn’t push. Didn’t demand. He simply smiled—slow, knowing—and reached past him to push open the heavy door, revealing the glow of the restaurant beyond. The gesture was effortless, but it felt like the beginning of something.

“Then let’s make it somethin’ we come back to,” he said, nudging the door open like it weren’t nothing. “One step at a time.”

Inside, the world was bathed in candlelight—flames dancing in crystal holders, their reflections shimmering across polished silver and marble like scattered stars. The air was rich with the scent of rosemary and slow-cooked sweetness, the murmur of distant laughter blending with the low thrum of a cello. 007n7 stepped forward, still dazed, still burning with the weight of the flowers in his arms—but as Builderman’s hand settled at the small of his back, guiding him gently inside, something inside him shifted.

Something warm.

Something steady.

Something like sunlight—not the harsh glare of day, but the golden, lingering kind, the kind that lingers on skin long after the sun has set.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The moment they stepped through the grand glass doors of the restaurant, the cool air hit 007n7 like a wall—crisp, touched with faint citrus and clean linen. Somewhere deeper inside, the clink of cutlery echoed in a steady rhythm, quiet and distant, like the beat of some orderly machine. Overhead, soft lighting shimmered across vaulted ceilings. The marble beneath their feet gleamed like wet ice. Staff moved through the space with mechanical grace—fast, polished, too perfect.

He froze. For a second, it was all too much.

And he might’ve turned around then and there—retreated, vanished—if Builderman hadn’t been beside him. Calm. Solid. Dressed neater than usual, sure—dark jacket, collared shirt—but still undeniably him. Still Builderman. His hand settled lightly on the small of 007n7’s back. Not forceful. Not pushing. Just there—steady, grounding. He didn’t rush him. He didn’t speak right away. He just waited, watching out of the corner of his eye, quiet as stone but patient.

“Got a spot booked under Builderman,” he said, voice low and steady, nodding once to the receptionist without missing a beat.

The woman at the desk—polished in posture and tone—offered a practiced, gracious smile and checked the list. “Right this way, sir.”

007n7 moved as if on strings, his limbs too stiff for the fine fabric of his shirt. He tugged awkwardly at the collar, already regretting his choice in jacket. The place reeked of money—quiet money. Old money. The kind that didn’t need to brag, because the weight of it was in the silence, in the way the waitstaff never made eye contact and the chandeliers didn’t so much glow as hover. It made his skin crawl.

He kept his eyes forward, expression neutral, though inside he felt like a cracked plate someone had tried to set back on the shelf. Still, he followed. Builderman kept pace beside him, occasionally adjusting his stride to match.

They were led toward a more secluded corner of the dining room, where a high glass wall opened out into a dizzying view of the city—pixels and lights blinking across the night grid, the silver band of the river cutting through like a rendered dream.

The hostess gestured politely. “Sir, this seat here has the best view.”

Builderman gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgment and moved forward. Then, without a word, he reached for the chair nearest the view—and pulled it out.

007n7 blinked, startled. “Oh—uh, you didn’t have to—” He froze, halfway between stepping forward and stopping him. But Builderman was already holding the chair, unfazed.

“Go on, sit,” Builderman murmured, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Chair don’t bite. Neither do I.”

Flustered, 007n7 ducked his head. “Th-thank you,” he said quietly, sitting like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Builderman took his own seat across from him, letting out a soft exhale as he settled back—one hand resting on the table, the other briefly brushing down his front to straighten his shirt. His eyes flicked up, uncertain for a half-second before he masked it again beneath that usual steady squint.

Then came the silence.

Not uncomfortable—at least not yet. But not easy either.

Builderman cleared his throat, eyes flicking toward the gleaming chandelier above before dropping back to his hands—large, calloused things resting awkwardly on the white linen tablecloth like they didn’t belong there either. The silverware hadn’t been touched yet.

The quiet between them stretched a little too long.

“…Is it—” he started, then scratched the back of his neck. “Is it too much, ya think?”

007n7 blinked, surprised. Builderman wasn’t looking at him; he was staring down at the napkin, rubbing his thumb over the hem like he was testing the stitching.

“Figured it’d be quiet—real peaceful-like. Brighteyes said it weren’t too pretentious, but… eh.” He gave a short huff, rubbing his temple. “If it’s settin’ your teeth on edge, we can ditch it. There’s a bard two blocks down slingin’ fried glitchbites. Or hell, I’ll whip somethin’ up at home. Should’ve stuck with the home cookin’, dammit…”

The last part was mumbled into his hand, more to himself than anyone—gravelled and frustrated, like a man caught second-guessing a blueprint he'd already started welding shut.

Across the table, 007n7 finally looked up, fingers still laced tight in his lap. The sight of Builderman—fidgeting, uncertain—stilled something fluttering in his chest. It was strange. Strange and impossibly soft. Because for all his certainty, all his power, even he could be unsure.

Even he could care this much.

“No—it’s not that,” 007n7 said quietly, his voice careful—steady but fragile, like a crystal filament. “It’s just...”

Builderman’s gaze flicked up, brow furrowed.

“I just… I’ve never been anywhere like this before.”

That made Builderman pause.

007n7 rushed to clarify, cheeks already pinking. “I mean—it’s lovely, really. I’m not ungrateful, I promise. I just didn’t think anyone would ever...”

He trailed off.

The lights above them flickered gently gold, casting warm light across his face, the edges of his hair glowing faint amber. He glanced down at the folded napkin again.

“No one’s ever... done something like this. Not for me.”

Silence followed—soft, but weighty.

Builderman stilled.

His fingers twitched once near his plate, then he leaned back just slightly in his chair, eyes on the man across from him. He studied him—not like an admin evaluating a glitch, but like an individual looking at something he hadn’t realized could hurt.

“Well,” Builderman rumbled, the words slow as poured concrete, “they damn well should’ve.”

The words hit like a punch and a hug all at once.

007n7 ducked his head, face turning red again, ears burning. His heart thundered in his chest—too loud for a setting this quiet. He didn’t know what to say.

Builderman turned his gaze out toward the window, where the city lights blinked far below like silent Morse code. After a moment, he added—gruffer now, but sincere as iron—

“Then I’ll make it routine.”

007n7 looked up.

Builderman’s eyes met his.

“If you’ll allow me,” he said, voice gentler than usual, like he was threading the words through something sacred. “Every damn day, I’ll show it. Say it too, if you need. So you don’t ever have t’wonder.”

And 007n7 had to look away again, flustered to his core. He felt his face burn, could barely swallow around the sudden heat in his chest. Builderman was dead serious. Not a trace of jest in his voice. Not a hint of exaggeration.

The silence returned—but this time it wasn’t awkward.

It felt like something blooming.

The waiter arrived like a wisp of wind—tall, silent, dressed in immaculate black with a white cloth folded neatly over one arm. He moved like he wasn’t walking but gliding, the kind of staff bred for silence and trained in vanishing acts. Without a word, he bowed slightly, placed two matte black menus on the table like he was offering sacred relics, and disappeared before either of them could even breathe a thank you.

007n7 reached for his menu, hesitant fingers brushing the cool surface. The moment he opened it, his heart sank.

No prices.

None.

Not even a single symbol.

His eyes widened, posture tightening as he scanned the first page. Words leapt out at him in elegant script—sous-vide duck with violet mist glaze, hand-foraged wildroot emulsion, citrus-infused aerogel tartlet—and none of them sounded like real food. It was like reading a spellbook. And the fact that there were no numbers next to anything? That meant danger. That meant you do not belong here. That meant this meal costs more than your rent.

He gripped the edge of the menu harder, stomach twisting. His mouth opened, then closed again.

Across the table, Builderman noticed.

“…Somethin’ botherin’ ya?” he asked, thumbing absently at the edge of his menu—though truth be told, he wasn’t reading it. His eyes kept drifting back to 007n7, watching every small shift in his expression.

007n7 didn’t answer at first. He just stared at the page like it might bite him. Then, voice barely audible, he whispered, “There’s... there’s no prices anywhere.”

Builderman blinked. Then snorted, low and amused.

“Heh. Right. Forgot they don’t put numbers on nothin’.”

He snapped the menu shut with one hand and leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table. His voice dropped to something warm and firm—like a weight placed gently on your chest.

“Ain’t nothin’ to fret over,” Builderman said, voice firm but kind. “I’m coverin’ it. That’s how it works.”

That made 007n7 jolt. He looked up too quickly, eyes wide. “What? No, I—You don’t have to do that, I didn’t mean—”

“I asked you out,” Builderman said, tone unshaken. “Means the bill’s mine. That’s plain manners.”

His voice wasn’t stern. It wasn’t even forceful. But it was final. The kind of tone that left no cracks for protest—not because it was demanding, but because it was kind. Assured. Solid as a support beam.

“You can take the reins next time,” he added, shrugging like it was the simplest trade in the world. “Pick some hole-in-the-wall spot. I ain’t picky long as we’re together.”

007n7 stared at him, mouth opening as if to argue—but nothing came out. He stared down instead, folding his hands in his lap. His shoulders were tight, and the quiet, “Thank you,” he whispered, voice thin, like it might break if he said more.

But the guilt sat heavy on him, visible in every line of his body. He felt like a glitch in the simulation—like someone who’d loaded into the wrong level with the wrong skin, sitting at a table he wasn’t worthy of. His clothes felt tighter. His shoes too dirty. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

And yet…

He didn’t leave. He brushed the thought away, fragile and trembling like a soap bubble, and clung to the warmth in Builderman’s voice instead.

What could possibly go wrong?

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

Dinner arrived not long after—a minimalistic arrangement of porcelain plates and precisely placed portions, each dish looking more like a sculpted artwork than anything edible. Steam curled faintly in the air, fragrant but restrained, as if even the scent had been meticulously curated.

Conversation limped at first.

Builderman tried to keep it alive, slow and patient, like coaxing a flickering signal outta a busted relay. He asked about C00lkidd’s latest obsession—bugs, sweets, robots, whatever the kid had duct-taped to his attention span this week. Asked if the landlord had come knocking again for payment. (He hadn’t.) Asked if 007n7 was still rewiring his own outlets by hand. (“…I still do. Not very well, I’m afraid.” came the sheepish answer.)

But it was stilted. Polite. Too careful. Like two people sitting on opposite ends of a landmine, afraid to breathe too hard.

Outside, beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered like a spilt jewelry box—lights blinking and stretching far past the horizon. But the tension at the table was tighter than a tripwire. Even the waiter seemed to notice it—gliding in and out without a word, like the air itself was brittle.

Builderman noticed. Of course he did. He always picked up on things, especially when it came to him.

From the moment they’d stepped into the restaurant, he’d clocked how stiff 007n7 had gone. The way he hovered just above the chair back, never letting himself lean into it. How he picked at his food more than ate it, carving neat little lines through the sauce with his fork. How he laughed, soft and polite, but never quite met his eyes.

Midway through the main course—some delicate something Builderman couldn’t even pronounce—he set down his fork with a quiet clink, leaned back slow in his seat, and let out a quiet breath.

“…Hey.”

007n7 looked up, startled by the sudden shift in tone.

Builderman’s gaze was steady, brows slightly drawn. “Now… if this don’t feel right t’night, we can head on home,” he said, voice low and even, “no trouble.”

007n7 froze, mid-bite, the food halfway to his mouth. The panic set in instantly, like a floodgate opened.

“What? No—really, I am enjoying it—truly!” he rushed out, voice tripping over itself. “It’s not that I don’t—I mean—I just—uh—sorry, I didn’t mean to make it seem like—”

He was spiraling. Fast.

He was on the verge of having a panic attack. Builderman did not like him. 007n7 had ruined it all. He should’ve just smiled. Said thank you, acted normal, pretended better—

Builderman watched him for a second, then reached across the table—calloused fingers closing gently over 007n7’s wrist. The touch snapped him out of it, grounding him like a tether to the grid.

Builderman’s voice softened.

“I can see it, Seven. Yer’ overwhelmed, overstimulated. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. But this here—this was s’posed t’be somethin’ nice. Quiet. Real peaceful-like.”

He paused, thumb brushing lightly across the inside of 007n7’s wrist.

“If it ain’t feelin’ like that… then we’ll get goin’. No harm done.”

We. Not you.

Not I’ll leave you here. Not figure it out yourself. Just we’ll go—together.

007n7 bit the inside of his cheek, hard. His throat burned with something that wasn’t shame for once. Just—gratitude. Stupid, aching, biting gratitude. For how Builderman still looked at him like that. Like he mattered. Like he was worth the trouble.

Builderman stood without a word, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the polished floor. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick bundle of Robux bills—folded tight, bound with a faded strip of rubber—and tucked it into the black leather check folder that had been placed at the edge of the table sometime earlier, like an afterthought.

He didn’t even glance at the total.

Then he turned, boots thudding softly against the restaurant’s marble floor as he moved around the table—broad shoulders blocking the golden city light for just a moment—until he came to stand at 007n7’s side.

He didn’t speak.

Just held out his hand.

Palm up. Still. A silent offer—steady and open.

No pressure.

Just a quiet question, plain and unspoken: “Do yer want to go?”

007n7 hesitated, lips parting as if to speak—but nothing came. His chest felt tight, breath shallow, heart hammering somewhere near his throat. The weight of the evening clung to his shoulders, all the effort he’d spent trying to be fine—trying to belong here, in this place of sharp linen and priceless menus and windows that reached the clouds.

He glanced up at Builderman’s face.

No judgment. No frustration. Just quiet patience in the line of his jaw, in the slight tilt of his head. Present. Steady.

Safe.

007n7’s eyes flicked back down—to the calloused hand still waiting, unshaken.

He swallowed hard.

And slowly—nervously—his fingers lifted from his lap. Trembling, just barely.

He placed them in Builderman’s palm.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The night air hit cool and crisp as they stepped out of the restaurant. The city hummed beneath them—soft murmurs of distant foot traffic, the low hover of a skimmer gliding between rooftops, neon signage flickering against the glass skyline like silent signals in the dark.

Builderman didn’t speak at first. Didn’t rush either. He kept an easy, steady pace, hands sunk deep into his coat pockets, boots scuffing faintly against the sidewalk. Let the silence settle, but not heavily—just there, like a worn-in jacket between them.

Beside him, 007n7 walked a little slower, bouquet of sunflowers still clutched awkwardly in one hand. He wasn’t fidgeting like before. The tension in his shoulders had ebbed—subtle, but visible, like something that had been unclenched.

His eyes wandered now. Up to the distant blur of stars through the high glass arc of the skyline. Across the narrow gaps between buildings. Toward Builderman—more than once.

He was still ashamed. That clung to him like a second skin, familiar and unwanted. But it had dulled into something else. Something quieter. Not gone, just… replaced. Builderman hadn’t judged him. Hadn’t teased or sighed or made it worse. Hadn’t treated him like a liability.

He’d treated him like someone worth walking home.

And somewhere along that slow walk, beneath a streetlight that buzzed faintly overhead, 007n7 found himself smiling. Not forced. Not polite. A small, real smile that rose when Builderman muttered, half to himself—

“Damn fool Dusekkar went an’ swapped all the benches out with some high-polished mahogany nonsense,” he grumbled, gesturing vaguely at a sleek, overdesigned slab by a bus stop. “Looks like somethin’ from a catalogue for rich folk who ain’t got taste nor sense.”

007n7 snorted. Then laughed. A soft, surprised sound—like it slipped out before he had the chance to catch it.

Builderman blinked, glanced sideways, then gave a lopsided smile.

“…What?” he drawled, one brow hitching. “I say somethin’ funny?”

007n7 shook his head, hugging the bouquet a little closer. “…Wasn’t expectin’ the night to end like this, is all…”

Builderman said nothing at first. Just studied him a moment, quiet.

Then, without a word, he shrugged off his thick black coat and swung it over 007n7’s shoulders in one smooth motion.

Or tried to.

He paused mid-reach, squinting up. “Tch. You’re taller than you look. Lean in a bit, would ya?”

007n7 blinked, confused. But he obeyed.

“There. Now hold still.”

The coat settled over him like a blanket—warm, heavy, worn. It smelled faintly of pinewood, aged oil, and something deeper. Builderman, unmistakably. Earthy. Mechanical. Steady.

007n7 stiffened slightly. “You really don’t have to… but… thank you.”

“It’s cold out,” Builderman muttered. “And you’re shiverin’. Ain’t built for this kind o’ weather, huh?”

“I am not—” 007n7 started, half-offended.

“Keep it on,” Builderman said, firm as stone. “Ain’t up for debate.”

007n7 bit his lip. The coat sleeves were too short, the hem hung oddly at his waist, but the gesture made his chest ache in a strange, fragile way. He tugged it closer anyway, fingers curling around the lapels. Hid the ghost of a smile in the collar.

They walked a little closer after that. Not touching. But nearer. A silence stretched again—but now it buzzed faintly with warmth, not absence.

And somewhere above the neon-drenched rooftops, a skimmer passed low, its lights tracing shadows across the concrete, just long enough to catch 007n7’s face—flushed, half-buried in a borrowed coat, and smiling.

…

…

The conversation grew easier after that—lighter, like a breath finally released. They talked about the city, about the flickering skyline above their heads and the new neon sculpture near Sector 4 that looked suspiciously like a broken toaster. Builderman made a dry remark about budget mismanagement.

007n7 chuckled.

They talked about C00lkidd, too—how his latest fixation was frog-themed gadgets. Apparently he’d been trying to build a croaking proximity alarm that only activated when someone stepped too close while holding candy.

Then Builderman launched into a half-believable, completely absurd story about the time Telamon mockingly flirted with Brighteyes just to get a rise out of her—and ended up stabbed clean in the foot with a high heel.

“Right through the damn boot,” Builderman muttered, shaking his head with exaggerated regret. “Served him right, flirtin’ like a fool while holdin’ a lava grenade.”

007n7 laughed so hard he nearly stumbled into a parked scooter, barely catching himself on the curb’s edge.

By the time they reached his apartment complex—rundown, lightless in half the hallway, with the faint chemical hiss of recycled air drifting from overhead vents—the night had folded in around them. Quiet, thick with the smell of rust and city heat. But somehow… not lonely.

007n7 hesitated at the door, his fingers brushing the handle but not quite turning it. The golden glow of the flickering overhead light painted him in molten hues, casting delicate shadows that danced across his face like whispered secrets. For the first time that night, there was no tension in his posture, no restless energy urging him to flee.

Instead, he lingered.

As if he didn’t want the night to end.

Builderman saw it all—the way 007n7’s lashes lowered, the way his gaze darted toward him, then away, as if afraid of being caught staring. The air between them hummed with something unspoken, fragile as spun sugar, and yet Builderman didn’t move. Didn’t push.

He never did.

Builderman was someone who respected boundaries—who waited for doors to open before stepping through them, no matter how badly he wanted to.

“Well… guess this is goodnight then,” he said at last, voice dipping low and warm, rough like gravel softened by time. He took a slow step back, boots scuffing lightly against the cracked tile. “Thanks fer comin’. And… fer puttin’ up with the mess I made of it.”

A quiet smile tugged at his mouth—half self-deprecating, half hopeful. “Hope you’ll let me give it another shot sometime. Proper-like. No busted skimmers, no shady waiters.”

He turned, ready to walk away.

But 007n7 blinked—hesitating.

Then his hand darted out, fingers curling gently around Builderman’s wrist, his fingers trembled just slightly, like even that had taken more courage than he meant to show. The touch was featherlight, uncertain, yet it sent a current through them both.

Builderman stilled.

His gaze dropped to where 007n7 held him—hesitant, careful, but firm—the way his fingertips pressed against his skin, warm and real—and then slowly rose again, meeting 007n7’s eyes. The tension in his shoulders eased, and something impossibly soft flickered behind his tired eyes.

“I—” 007n7 began, voice thin, unsteady. His lips parted, words tangling somewhere between hesitation and hope. “Could you…”

He trailed off. His eyes dipped. The glow of the street light caught the curve of his cheek, flushed warm. His fingers didn’t release their grip.

Builderman’s voice came low, just above a murmur. “Yeah?”

Then—

grrrrrRRRRRGHHGLE.

The sound tore through the quiet like a rebellion, loud and unapologetic, erupting from the depths of 007n7’s stomach.

He froze.

Mortification flooded him, painting his face a brilliant shade of crimson as he yanked his collar up, as if he could somehow vanish into it.

Builderman blinked once. Then twice.

“…Yer stomach’s still talkin’,” he said, deadpan.

“I—!” 007n7 sputtered. “I-I wasn’t… I mean, I didn’t wanna seem rude, the portions were just… kinda small…”

Builderman stared at him.

And then—he barked a laugh.

Not the usual quiet chuckle, but something deep and unrestrained, a sound that rolled from his chest like sunlight breaking through clouds.

It was warm, so warm, the kind of laugh that made the world feel softer, brighter, like coming home after a long journey.

“Seven, that belly just called in reinforcements.”

007n7 groaned, but the fingers around Builderman’s wrist stayed. Even tightened slightly.

“If… if you’re not too tired, would you maybe want to come in?” he mumbled, barely audible, like he was speaking to the floor. “Just for a little while…”

He couldn’t bring himself to look up.

But he didn’t let go, either.

Builderman’s grin softened—lost its edge, turned private. Like something meant only for the person in front of him. He shifted his weight just a little closer, enough to let the warmth between them stay steady.

“Only if I get t’ fix you somethin’ real—somethin’ that sticks,” he murmured, voice low and teasing as honey poured over gravel. “Ain’t lettin’ you go hungry on my watch, not a chance.”

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

007n7’s apartment wasn’t much, just as he remembered—a dim sanctuary of flickering lamplight, where the golden glow of tired bulbs pooled lazily over worn surfaces, and the quiet hum of the vents whispered like a lullaby.

The air carried the faint, lingering scent of yesterday’s takeout, but now, with Builderman inside, it was different. The space breathed, as if the walls themselves exhaled in relief. The shadows felt softer, the light warmer—like the very atmosphere had been woven into something tender, something alive.

He had barely crossed the threshold before Builderman moved toward the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves with effortless ease. 007n7 didn’t interfere—he knew better, knew the quiet magic of watching him work.

He moved with the quiet confidence of a man who mended broken things, his hands sure and steady—chopping with rhythmic precision, searing with practiced grace, stirring with a touch so gentle it could coax flavor from memory itself. His brow furrowed slightly, lips pressed into that familiar line of focus, and there was something absurdly attractive about how focused he was, how casually competent.

So he sat there, elbow propped on the counter, chin resting in his palm, eyes tracing every movement like a devotee before an altar. There was something achingly intimate about this—the way Builderman’s hands knew exactly what to do, the way the steam curled around his wrists like an embrace, the way the scent of garlic and herbs bloomed in the air, rich and golden. A quiet longing settled in 007n7’s chest, a sweet, unspoken ache. He didn’t know how to cook. Didn’t know how to create warmth like this, how to turn simple ingredients into something that felt like home.

But Builderman did.

“Still hangin’ in there?” Builderman rumbled, his voice low and warm—like a coal stove in winter—sending a shiver down 007n7’s spine. He hadn’t even turned, just knew—as if he could feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet reverence in it.

007n7 blinked, flushed, caught. “Y-Yeah… Just watching. It still amazes me, every time,” he admitted, voice softer than he intended. “Watching you—you’re… really good at this.”

Builderman huffed a laugh, the sound warm, familiar. “Fixin’s what I do, feedin’ ain’t far off,” he mused, stirring the pan with a flick of his wrist. “You hungry fer somethin’ real?”

007n7’s lips curved. “…Guess I’ve always been hungry, in a way…”

That earned him a chuckle—a real one, deep and rich, the kind that settled in his ribs and made his pulse skip.

Soon, the table was set—not perfect, but perfect in its imperfection. Mismatched plates, a single candle flickering to life between them, its flame dancing like a secret in the dimness. Builderman had scavenged a match from some forgotten drawer, struck it with a quick, practiced motion, the brief flare illuminating the sharp line of his jaw before softening into a steady glow. Two wine glasses waited, the bottle uncorked with an ease that spoke of hidden talents.

Builderman tilted his head when 007n7 brought out the wine.

“Well ain’t that somethin’,” he drawled, eyein’ the bottle with a lopsided grin. “Gettin’ real fancy on me.”

He sat down, surprisingly graceful for a man who could punch through reinforced glass.

And then—there was just them. The clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation, the way the candlelight caught in Builderman’s eyes and turned them into liquid gold. The world outside didn’t matter. The apartment, with its tired bulbs and humming vents, felt like a universe of its own—small, sacred, theirs.

007n7 picked at the food at first—delicate, hesitant—but the moment the flavors burst across his tongue, he couldn’t stop. A soft, involuntary moan escaped him as he devoured another bite, his lashes fluttering shut for a fleeting second of pure pleasure.

“Oh… wow.” He paused between bites, eyes fluttering shut. “Still just as good. Every time it’s like… eating something out of a dream.”

He glanced up, then down, a small smile curling his lips. “You could be running a five-star restaurant somewhere… but instead you’re fixing teleportation gates. That’s... very you.”

Builderman leaned back, his gaze lingering on the way 007n7’s throat worked as he swallowed.

“Too damn quiet,” he said, voice low and rough. “I’d take the sound o’ whinin’ gears over whinin’ customers any day.” He shrugged, mouth quirking into a smirk. “Cookin’s just somethin’ I know how t’do. Ain’t what I’d build my life on.”

“…You actually listen to me,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t believe it himself. “Even when I… trip over my words.”

“Y’ain’t just anyone,” Builderman said, plain and firm, like setting a beam in place.

The words weren’t dressed up. They weren’t grand. But they struck—like a spark to dry tinder, sending heat flooding through 007n7’s veins. His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, he just stared, lips slightly parted, before he quickly looked away, the tips of his ears burning pink. His fingers tightened around his wine glass, and he drank—too much, too fast, as if the alcohol could douse the fire in his chest.

By the second glass, the tension in his shoulders had melted. He was softer now, languid, his laughter spilling freely between sips of wine. Words poured from him in warm, unfiltered waves—stories about C00lkidd, fond ramblings, the kind of intimate, unguarded confessions only liquor and trust could pull from him.

“You should’ve seen him last week,” he chuckled, voice honey-thick with intoxication. “Tried hacking the vending machine downstairs with a fork and a paperclip. Said he was ‘liberating the snacks for justice.’ Ended up shocking himself and stealing a single potato chip.”

Builderman laughed, deep and rich, the sound wrapping around 007n7 like an embrace. “He sounds like a whole heap o’ trouble.”

“He is,” 007n7 said with a soft sigh, his voice warm with affection. “Just… pure chaos. No filter, no rules. But he’s also—he’s everything.”

His voice faltered, gentled, like he was sharing something too big for words.

“Even on the worst days… just knowing he’s there—it helps. More than I can explain.”

There was a lull. A warm one.

It was only then that 007n7 realized Builderman had gone quiet. Not distracted. Not bored. Just… watching.

His gaze was fixed on 007n7—not on the half-finished meal, not on the wine, but him. Unwavering. Devouring. His eyes were dark, intense, yet softer than 007n7 had ever seen them—full of something that made his pulse stutter, his breath catch like a trapped bird in his throat.

“Why are you… looking at me like that?” 007n7 whispered, startled by how small his voice sounded.

Builderman didn’t blink. Didn’t shift.

“Ya’ talk ‘bout him,” he murmured, voice rough with reverence, “like he strung up the stars just for ya,” A pause. A heartbeat. Then, lower, hotter: “And you… yer the finest damn sight I’ve laid eyes on.”

007n7 froze. His fingers clenched around the glass, knuckles whitening.

“…You don’t mind?” he breathed, barely audible. “When I talk about him. Most people just… nod. Or get quiet. Like they’re waiting for me to stop.”

Builderman leaned forward, just slightly, and the air between them crackled.

“Ya’ talk ‘bout him like he’s your whole world,” he said, each word deliberate, searing. “He’s yer heart, far as I can tell. That’s all the reason I need.”

It was too much.

The wine. The warmth. The way Builderman was looking at him—like he was something precious, something devastating.

007n7’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his lips parted around unspoken words. He didn’t—couldn’t—look away.

Not in a bad way—but in that rare, terrifying, exquisite way that made something inside 007n7’s chest quietly, hopelessly unravel.

The words dissolved on his tongue, sweet and heavy as honey, leaving him breathless. His lips parted—a silent gasp, a plea trembling in the space between them—but no sound came. Nothing could capture this, the way his chest ached, the way his pulse thundered like a storm against his ribs.

He lowered his gaze to the wineglass in his hand, the deep crimson liquid catching the flicker of candlelight, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—shimmered with something far more intoxicating. Not the wine, no. This was something older, something sweeter, something that had been carved into his bones long before he’d ever known its name. And now, here it was, spilling over, molten and undeniable, because of him. Because of Builderman.

A whisper, rough with emotion, finally escaped him.

“…Thank you,” he murmured. “Really.”

Builderman didn’t answer with words. Instead, he lifted his glass, slow and deliberate, the candlelight dancing along the rim like liquid gold. His gaze never wavered, never faltered, holding 007n7 in a silence that burned hotter than any touch. “To yer boy,” Builderman said, quiet ‘n sure. “And t’you.”

007n7’s hand trembled as he raised his own glass, the delicate clink of crystal ringing between them like a promise.

And then—

Their fingers touched.

A brush of skin. Just a whisper of contact, their fingers lingering, neither willing to pull away. The air between them crackled, thick with the weight of everything unspoken, everything yearned for. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, to the heat of Builderman’s touch, to the way 007n7’s breath hitched—soft, desperate, wanting.

For a heartbeat, for an eternity, they stayed like that.

And in the glow of candlelight, with the taste of wine and longing on their lips, something new began to bloom. Something reckless. Something beautiful.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The wine was nearly gone, its rich crimson depths reduced to a single, languid drop clinging to the curve of the glass. The candle between them burned low now, its flame a trembling, golden heartbeat in the dark, casting flickering shadows that danced like lovers across their faces. The silence was no longer just quiet—it was alive, thick with something unspoken, something molten.

007n7 wasn’t speaking anymore. He didn’t need to. His gaze was a brand, searing into Builderman with an intensity that made the air between them tremble. Hunger, yes—but beneath it, something deeper. A raw, aching want, stripped bare by the gloss of alcohol and the quiet courage of the night. His eyes were a storm, dark and endless, and Builderman could drown in them if he let himself.

Their eye contact held.

Neither of them blinked.

The space between them was electric, charged with every unvoiced desire, every stolen glance that had led them here. The world outside ceased to exist—there was only the whisper of the candle, the heat of their bodies so close yet not close enough, the way their breaths tangled in the scant inches between their lips.

But Builderman was the one to break.

He gently pushed back his chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor as he stood, voice low and measured. “Yer tipsy, Seven. I’ll get ya t’bed ‘fore ya knock over the damn table.”

007n7 blinked up at him, slow, dazed—but there was something deliberate in the way his lashes lowered, something knowing. His lips parted, just slightly, and Builderman’s pulse stuttered.

Builderman reached out a hand to steady him, but 007n7 moved first—quicker.

Faster than expected, smoother than the wine should have allowed. His fingers curled around Builderman’s wrist, warm and sure, and in the span of a single, breathless heartbeat, their positions reversed. The chair creaked softly as Builderman found himself seated again, looking up now, his throat suddenly dry.

007n7 stood over him.

Then—slow, deliberate—he lowered himself down, knees settling on either side of Builderman’s thighs, the heat of his body pressing close in a way that stole the air from Builderman’s lungs. The rustle of fabric, the soft exhale of breath, the way the candlelight gilded the curve of 007n7’s jaw—it was all too much.

Builderman froze.

He was no stranger to proximity, to tension. He was no stranger to proximity, to tension. He knew the way desire coiled low in the belly, knew the way a glance could ignite.

But this—this was different.

This was aching.

007n7’s arms draped around his shoulders, his body a warm, yielding weight against Builderman’s chest. His fingers traced the nape of Builderman’s neck, featherlight, sending shivers down his spine. Their faces were so close now that Builderman could taste the wine on 007n7’s breath, sweet and intoxicating.

His hands found 007n7’s hips—instinctive, possessive—calloused fingers gripping the delicate arch of bone beneath the fabric. He didn’t pull him closer. He didn’t move them. Just… held him. Like he wasn’t sure what was allowed.

“Hey,” 007n7 murmured, voice low and liquid—more daring than he usually allowed himself. His breath was warm against Builderman’s cheek, wine-sweet. “…You’re always this kind to me. I don’t know why, but… thank you.”

Builderman’s throat worked, his pulse a wild, untamed thing beneath his skin. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

007n7’s gaze lingered—searching, slow. “You give me your time. Your food. Even your coat… You listen, even when I ramble. And you—” His voice broke slightly, lower now, more fragile. “You treat me like I matter. I don’t know how to repay that.”

His fingers tightened in Builderman’s hair, just enough to make him feel it.

“It’s been a long time since anyone did that… without expecting something back.”

Builderman’s breath caught—soft, nearly imperceptible.

His grip on 007n7’s hips tightened reflexively, grounding them both in the storm of this moment. “Ya deserve all of it,” he rasped, the words rough, torn from somewhere deep inside him. “Every damn bit.”

“…I don’t think I do.” 007n7 whispered back, his lips so close now that they brushed Builderman’s with every word. “But if you’ll let me… I’d like to pretend I might. Just for tonight.”

His hands slid up, fingers threading into 007n7’s hair, pulling him in until their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the scant space between their mouths. The air was thick with the scent of wine and sweat and need, every second stretching into eternity.

“You’re drunk,” Builderman growled, but the way his fingers dug into 007n7’s skin betrayed him.

007n7’s lips curled, slow and sinful, his nose brushing against Builderman’s in a taunt. “…Tipsy, maybe,” he murmured, the words a hot, whiskey-soaked whisper against his skin. “But everything I’m saying… I mean it.”

Their foreheads touched, eyes fluttering shut like petals surrendering to the night, and for a heartbeat—just one—the world ceased to exist. Time itself held its breath, thick with the syrupy tension between them, heavy with the scent of wine and warm skin. The only sounds were their ragged breaths, the wet part of 007n7’s lips as he exhaled, shaky with need, his pulse a wild drum against Builderman’s chest.

Then—

007n7 leaned in, slow but deliberate, his mouth hovering just a breath away from Builderman’s, close enough to taste the heat between them, to feel the electric promise of a kiss that hadn’t yet been claimed. But before their lips could meet, Builderman wrenched his head back, breaking the contact with a sharp inhale.

A choked noise escaped 007n7’s throat—frustration, hurt, a wounded sound that cracked the air between them. And then the tears came, hot and unchecked, spilling down his cheeks in messy, drunken tracks. His body trembled, fingers clutching at Builderman’s shirt like a lifeline, as if letting go would send him spiraling into the abyss.

“You’re just being kind… That’s all it is, right?” he hiccuped, voice wrecked, raw with vulnerability. “No one would actually—want someone like me…”

Builderman didn’t let him finish.

He crushed their mouths together in a searing, filthy kiss, swallowing 007n7’s sob with a possessive growl. Their beards scraped, rough and unforgiving, the friction sending sparks down their spines, igniting a fire that burned hotter with every ragged breath. 007n7 moaned into it, hands flying to Builderman’s neck, dragging him closer, nails biting into skin, marking him in a way that said mine, mine, mine.

And God, Builderman kissed like a man starved—his tongue licked hot and demanding into 007n7’s mouth, claiming, devouring, until 007n7 was nothing but a whimpering, pliant mess beneath him. The slick sounds of their mouths, the ragged breaths, the way 007n7’s hips jerked helplessly—every second was pure, molten filth, a collision of hunger and desperation.

Only when 007n7 was gasping, his chest heaving, did Builderman pull back, their foreheads still pressed together, lips swollen and spit-slick, breaths mingling in the charged air between them.

“Tryin’ real damn hard to hold back,” Builderman panted, voice wrecked, rough with barely leashed desire. “You’re drunk, and I ain’t the type to cross that line. I want ya sober—clear as day. And hell—if we do this…” His grip tightened. “It won’t be rushed. I’ll take my time. On that soft bed, where I can treat ya right.”

But even as he said it, his mouth was already slanting over 007n7’s again, slower this time, tender where before it had been ravenous. Soft, sucking kisses that made 007n7 shiver, his body arching like a bowstring pulled too tight, every nerve alight with sensation.

007n7’s cheeks burned, his voice a breathless whine as he melted into the touch. “…Not drunk. Just… brave. Maybe.”

Builderman nipped at his bottom lip, sharp enough to sting, to draw a gasp. “Still better safe than sorry. Ya lettin’ me kiss ya?”

His fingers tightened in Builderman’s hair, not pulling him closer—but not pushing him away either.

Instead, Builderman’s palms slid carefully along 007n7’s waist, his voice a rasp between them, dark with promise. “Ya keep sittin’ like that, I ain’t gonna be able t’leave.”

“…That’s what I was hoping,” 007n7 breathed, a shiver of a smile ghosting his lips, his eyes half-lidded with desire. “Just… stay with me. Please?”

Builderman chuckled, but unbeknownst to him, 007n7 was dead serious—his eyes darkened, possessive and fierce, a silent vow in the flickering candlelight.

And Builderman—steady, loyal, always the last to ask and the first to give—stayedx.

He stayed.

Letting the warmth between them curl slow and silent into the space where something new had just begun to grow, where fire met devotion, where two souls tangled in the quiet aftermath of passion.

The candle still flickered softly, melting into a crooked river of wax. The wine glasses sat mostly empty between them, forgotten. Builderman’s hands were still at 007n7’s waist, steady and warm, grounding him in the present moment—this impossible moment that felt too fragile to be real, too beautiful to be anything but fate.

They smiled at each other.

Not teasingly. Not with their usual tension. But something smaller, gentler. Mutual.

And then, as if guided by instinct alone, they leaned in again.

Another kiss—slow, deliberate, almost reverent. Lips barely brushing, breath mingling. Builderman tilted his head slightly, his beard soft against 007n7’s skin. 007n7 sighed into him, hands tightening at the back of his neck. It felt like a promise.

A beat of silence. Then, Builderman’s voice, rough with affection:

“Mind if I touch yer horns? Been wonderin’ what they feel like.”

007n7 blushed, his breath hitching, but then—slowly, trustingly—he tilted his head down, offering himself in the most vulnerable way.

Builderman’s fingers traced the curve of 007n7’s horns with agonizing slowness, calloused fingertips dragging over the smooth, heated surface. The texture was unlike anything he’d ever touched—warm as embers, ridged with subtle grooves that caught against his skin, sending shivers down 007n7’s spine.

A soft, breathy whimper escaped 007n7’s lips as Builderman explored further, his thumb circling the base where the horns met his skull, the most sensitive spot of all.

“Ngh—oh… Builderman…” 007n7 choked out, thighs trembling as he fought to keep still. His boxers were already soaked through, the fabric clinging obscenely to his leaking cunt, every slow stroke of Builderman’s fingers sending another pulse of slick between his legs. He bit his lip hard enough to bruise, but it wasn’t enough—Builderman’s touch was relentless, switching between featherlight brushes and firm, deliberate strokes that made his vision blur.

Then—wet heat.

Builderman’s tongue dragged up the length of one horn, slow and curious, and 007n7 bucked, a broken cry tearing from his throat as his hips jerked forward. His entire body seized, thighs clamping together as his pussy gushed, soaking through his boxers completely, the wetness spreading in a shameful, glistening patch. He could feel it dripping down his thighs.

As Builderman’s gaze dropped, 007n7’s face burned.

“I—I’m sorry… It’s—it’s just really sensitive there—” he stammered, hands weakly pushing at Builderman’s chest, but the man’s grip only tightened.

"Yer soakin’ through, darlin’. I can see it plain as day," Builderman growled, voice thick with hunger, before he yanked 007n7 forward by the neck and crushed their mouths together.

007n7 melted instantly, a desperate moan swallowed by Builderman’s kiss, his lips parting greedily as their tongues tangled. The kiss was filthy, wet, dominant—Builderman licking into his mouth like he owned it, like he wanted to taste every last whimper. And just as 007n7 was drowning in it, a rough hand slid down, fingers curling around the base of his tail.

“Hah—!?”

His back arched, a high-pitched mewl escaping as Builderman’s thumb pressed into the sensitive underside, stroking in slow, deliberate circles. The tail was velvety but firm, the base thick where it met his spine—another erogenous zone that had him shaking apart.

"That hittin’ the spot, huh?" Builderman murmured against his lips, voice dark with amusement, before giving the tail a firm squeeze.

007n7 sobbed, his entire body convulsing as another rush of slick leaked through his wet boxers. Their mouths parted with a lewd string of saliva, his chest heaving as he stared up at Builderman with blown-out, pleading eyes.

“…Please. I… I don’t know what I need, I just—please…”

The plea spilled from 007n7’s lips in a broken gasp, his voice raw with desperation. He didn’t even know what he was begging for—more of Builderman’s touch, less of this agonizing tease, everything all at once. His body burned, every nerve alight, his cunt throbbing where it ached between his thighs, slick and needy.

And Builderman?

He just smirked, dragging the rough pad of his thumb over 007n7’s swollen lower lip, pressing down just enough to make him whimper. The taste of salt and sweat lingered between them as Builderman leaned in, his breath scorching against 007n7’s ear.

“Look at ya… all wrecked up and still pretty as sin.”

007n7 shuddered, his entire body trembling as his hips rolled forward in a slow, sinuous grind, seeking friction, seeking anything. His tail—long, sleek, and tipped with a wicked spade—flicked lazily behind him before curling possessively around Builderman’s thigh. The smooth, leathery underside dragged up the inseam of his pants, the spade tracing teasing circles over the growing bulge beneath, applying just enough pressure to make Builderman’s breath hitch.

“Teasin’ bastard,” Builderman growled, his voice thick with lust.

007n7 merely moaned in response, his head tipping back as his horns—glossy black, ridged with subtle grooves, and burning hot to the touch—brushed against Builderman’s chest. The contact sent sparks skittering down his spine, his breath coming in ragged pants as he arched into the touch, silently begging for more.

"That what yer wantin’?" Builderman murmured, his voice a dark, velvety rumble.

007n7’s cheeks flushed crimson, his lips parting around a silent plea before he nodded, his entire body thrumming with need.

Builderman didn’t hesitate.

One large, calloused hand slid up the curve of 007n7’s spine, fingers tangling briefly in the soft hair at his nape before gripping the base of his left horn. The moment his thumb swiped over the sensitive underside—right where the horn met his skull, where the nerves were most exposed—007n7 bucked, a broken, filthy noise tearing from his throat.

"Good boy. That doin’ it for ya?" Builderman purred, his grip tightening just enough to make 007n7’s vision blur.

The horn was scalding under his palm, the texture a mix of smooth ridges and subtle, tantalizing bumps that made every stroke unpredictable. Builderman explored it greedily—rubbing his thumb in slow, wet circles right where sensation bled into pleasure, his touch just shy of rough, just enough to make 007n7 squirm.

Then, without warning, Builderman alternated between tracing and suckling along his horns.

007n7 gasped, his tail tightening around Builderman’s leg like a vice, his hips jerking forward in a desperate grind.

“A-ah—Builderman—!” he choked out, his cunt clenching around nothing, his entire body wound tight with pleasure.

But Builderman was relentless.

His tongue traced every groove, every subtle curve of the horn, his breath hot and ragged against 007n7’s skin. Then—cruelly slow—he sealed his lips around the very tip and sucked, hollowing his cheeks, the pressure perfect, maddening.

007n7’s entire body locked up, his fingers digging into Builderman’s shoulders as pleasure crackled through him like lightning. His tail thrashed, the spade dragging up Builderman’s inner thigh before pressing insistently against his growing hardness. The smooth, tapered length of it rubbed in slow, deliberate strokes—matching the rhythm of Builderman’s tongue working over his horn.

“Builderman—please—!” 007n7’s voice was wrecked already, trembling as he tried to pull back, but Builderman’s grip was ironclad. He held him in place, his other hand now stroking the length of his tail, fingers tracing the velvety underside where the skin was thinnest, most sensitive. Every touch sent jolts through 007n7, his breath coming in ragged pants as his hips stuttered helplessly.

Builderman switched between licking and sucking at his horns, his tongue swirling around the base before dragging up with deliberate slowness, savoring the way 007n7’s thighs trembled. His fingers never stopped moving—squeezing the tail just right, rubbing the spade between his fingertips, teasing the very tip where the nerves were most concentrated.

007n7’s moans dissolved into a broken mantra of Builderman’s name, his voice cracking as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside him. His claws scraped at Builderman’s shirt, his back arching as his entire body tensed—then shattered. A raw, gasping cry tore from his throat as he came, his tail spasming wildly in Builderman’s grip, his horns pulsing hot under his lips.

Builderman didn’t stop until 007n7 was limp against him, his lashes damp, lips swollen and parted as he struggled to catch his breath. His tail twitched weakly, oversensitive now, but Builderman still stroked it gently, soothingly, as he pressed a kiss to the flushed skin beneath his horn.

007n7’s head lolled onto his shoulder, his body still trembling with aftershocks. Builderman nuzzled into his neck, licking away the sweat-slicked tears that had spilled from his foggy, half-lidded eyes. His lips brushed over each damp eyelash, murmuring soft praises between kisses.

"Did real good, sugar… took all o’ it just fine..."

007n7 whimpered weakly, his fingers weakly clutching at Builderman’s shirt as he slowly came back to himself. Builderman held him close, one hand still idly petting his tail, the other cradling the back of his head.

He waited, patient as the moon tracing the sky, until those dazed, half-lidded eyes finally fluttered open, gaze hazy and unfocused before settling on him. And when they did—when 007n7 truly saw him again—Builderman’s lips curved into a smile so tender it stole the breath from his lungs.

"There ya are," Builderman murmured, voice rough with adoration, thick with the weight of everything left unspoken. He leaned down, pressing one last, lingering kiss to his forehead—a silent vow, a whispered mine against fevered skin. “Seven.”

And 007n7—oh, 007n7 could do nothing but melt all over again. His heart clenched, swelled, burned beneath the intensity of that gaze, the way Builderman looked at him as if he had hung every star in the sky just to watch them reflect in his eyes. A calloused thumb brushed his cheek, achingly gentle, tracing the flushed heat of his skin before sliding into his hair, petting him with a reverence that bordered on worship.

"Y’alright?" Builderman asked, voice low, rough at the edges like gravel and honey, his touch never ceasing—soothing, possessive, needy in its own right.

007n7 could only nod, breathless, his entire body thrumming with the echo of their shared fire. “…I think so. Just… still catching my breath.”

A deep, relieved sigh escaped Builderman’s lips, his shoulders relaxing as he pulled him even closer, until there was no space left between them, until their heartbeats tangled together. “Good,” he rumbled, pressing another kiss—this time to the corner of his mouth, teasing, promising. "Real glad yer alright."

And in that moment—wrapped in the heat of his arms, surrounded by the scent of sweat, faint engine oil, and something unbearably sweet—007n7 knew.

No matter how many stars blinked out in the sky, no matter how many systems failed or rewrote themselves… he’d always find his way home in this man’s embrace.

But the moment shattered with a soft creak from the stairwell.

They both froze.

Footsteps—light, uneven. A quiet shuffle across cheap tile. The sound of a too-long sleeve brushing the wall.

007n7’s eyes widened, blood draining from his face. The haze of comfort and warmth evaporated instantly. He pulled back so abruptly the chair scraped across the floor with a sharp screech. Builderman blinked up at him—mid-motion, lips parted, hair mussed—trying not to look nearly as disoriented as he felt.

Then—

“Papa…?”

C00lkidd stood in the kitchen doorway, barefoot and bleary-eyed, one fist rubbing at his face. The sleeves of his hoodie trailed behind him like mop tails. His hair stuck out on one side like he’d been headbutting pillows in his sleep.

007n7 flinched like he’d been caught sneaking snacks before curfew. He quickly tried to smooth his shirt down, still flushed to the ears.

“H-Hey there, sweetheart,” he said gently, his voice catching. “Shouldn’t you be in bed at this hour...?”

The kid yawned like a foghorn. “Water.”

His eyes drifted between them—first to his father, then to Builderman, who sat very still at the table, back rigid. Slowly, subtly, Builderman adjusted his posture, crossing one leg over the other as he grabbed a cotton napkin from the table and placed it discreetly in his lap. He didn’t move otherwise, expression somewhere between dignified and mortified.

“…Is Uncle Builder having a sleepover?” C00lkidd asked plainly, tilting his head. “Because it looks like he was.”

Builderman stood so fast his chair nearly tipped backward.

“Ain’t stayin’ over,” he said with the kind of speed that came from years of dodge-rolling awkward situations. His voice was steady, too steady—like a man trying very hard not to look guilty. “Just fixin’ up the last o’ dinner. Headin’ out now.”

He moved around the table quickly, brushing past 007n7 with a lingering glance—soft, aching, apologetic. His hand twitched once at his side, like he wanted to reach out and touch him again.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Builderman crouched down to meet C00lkidd’s gaze and reached out to gently ruffle the kid’s hair.

“You oughta be in bed, runt,” he murmured, voice warm and low. “Reflexes ain’t gonna sharpen 'emselves come mornin’, yeah?”

C00lkidd gave a sleepy nod, eyes already half-lidded. “Mmm… I was dreaming. You were making a huuuge pizza tower. And then it fell on a car. It was funny.”

Builderman huffed a quiet chuckle. “Heh. Sounds like somethin’ I’d do fer ya.”

He ruffled the boy’s hair again, then straightened up with a tired breath. “G’night, both o’ ya.”

“’Night, Uncle Builder…” C00lkidd mumbled, wobbling slightly on his feet and lifting a floppy hand in farewell.

As Builderman disappeared around the corner to the exit, 007n7 remained frozen in place, gaze fixed on the empty space he’d left behind.

His heart thudded too loudly in his ears. His cheeks still burned.

And the air—thick with the scent of stew, wood smoke, and faint engine oil—still clung to his skin like memory.

Behind him came a dragging sound—skrrrrk—as C00lkidd scraped a chair across the kitchen tile. The boy clambered up onto it like it was muscle memory, balancing on socked feet as he reached for a cup from the rack. The faucet creaked. Water splashed. His sleepy movements were uncoordinated but determined.

From the corner of his eye, C00lkidd squinted sideways at his father.

“…Papa, why’s your face all red like a tomato?” he asked bluntly, blinking over the rim of the cup.

007n7 flinched upright, jolted from his daze. “Ah—sorry, what did you say..?”

“Your face’s all puffy,” C00lkidd said, completely unfazed. “Did you eat too much food again with Uncle Builder?”

That—somehow—snapped 007n7 out of it. A strained, breathy laugh escaped him.

“Y-Yeah… might’ve overdone it a bit,” he admitted with a quiet laugh. “It’s late, though. You should get some rest… alright?”

C00lkidd nodded through a yawn, still sipping. “Tell Uncle Builderman the leftovers were yum. He left zoom fast and didn’t even say ‘bye-bye.’”

007n7’s heart twisted.

“…Of course. I’ll be sure to tell him,” he murmured gently.

He waited—watching in silence as C00lkidd clambered back down and padded off toward the stairs, his small footsteps fading into the hall.

The moment the door clicked shut upstairs, the silence returned. Still. Heavier than before.

007n7 let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

The lights hummed quietly overhead. The smell of leftovers lingered. His fingertips found his lips, brushing there lightly—absentminded.

They still tingled.

The kiss—those kisses—felt unreal. Gentle. Too much.

His gaze flicked toward the hallway, where Builderman had left.

Something had shifted. Lodged itself quietly in his chest—warm, steady, like an ember finally catching light. It unfurled inside him like a flower reaching toward sun, slow and certain.

He shook his head softly, disbelieving. Smiling despite himself.

“…What am I supposed to do with you...?” he whispered to the quiet room.

Builderman had laid his heart bare tonight.

And next time… 007n7 knew he’d have to answer.

Properly.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

The days bled together—grey, static, relentless.

Builderman hadn’t rested. Not really. Not since that night. Not since 007n7 had looked at him with something unspoken in his eyes—raw, trembling, soft—and kissed him like he meant it. Like it mattered.

And then vanished.

There had been no time to see him again. No moments spared, no texts typed out and deleted. Builderman had thrown himself into work with the kind of devotion that looked suspiciously like running.

He’d clocked nearly seventy hours in just under three days.

Five server ruptures patched. Twelve region-wide bans issued. Eight rollback points restored from corrupted timelines.

Every admin call, every flicker across the mainframe—he answered. Not with grace. But with grit.

Now, he sat slumped in the command chair—his shoulders hunched, his face striped in blue from the pulsing interface lights. The room was dim except for the cold glow of screens. Empty Bloxy Cola cans and half-crushed coffee cups littered the console like wreckage from a forgotten battle. His hardhat had fallen off sometime during the last shift, now resting beside a protein bar he never touched.

He hadn’t heard from 007n7 since.

Not a message. Not a ping. And he hadn’t sent one either. Kept telling himself it was because he was busy.

But really?

He was afraid.

Afraid of what it meant. Afraid it had meant more to him than it had to the other. Afraid that if he reached out, he’d hear silence on the other end—or worse, regret.

So he kept his hands busy and his head down.

Safer that way.

Until it wasn’t.

The sirens cracked through the command base without warning—a sharp, pulsing klaxon that sliced down the spine like a blade. Builderman jolted upright, instincts kicking in before thought. His fingers hovered over the console, already tapping in override commands.

The screen flared to life.

Every surface—the walls, the ceiling, the panels embedded into the floor—bathed in red.

[EMERGENCY OVERRIDE – ZONE 7 BREACH]

“Unidentified anomaly. F-Class threat. Flame pattern spreading.”

“Visual confirmation... pending.”

Builderman’s breath caught. His hands moved on muscle memory, flipping feeds, rerouting surveillance nodes, dragging interface panels into view. The screen pulsed once—static licking at its edges like digital fire.

Then the feed resolved.

A scorched grid. Aerial cam. The lens was damaged—smoke trailing across it in oily ribbons.

Flames licked the frame.

A residential sector, barely recognizable.

Flickering shadows. Buildings collapsing like hollow shells. Sparks tracing violent patterns in the sky, fire blooming outward like corrupted code come alive.

His jaw clenched. His eyes scanned fast—faster.

Somewhere beneath all the admin instinct, a thought clawed to the surface.

Zone 7... wasn’t that near—

His blood ran cold.

“Seven,” he whispered, barely audible over the klaxon.

But none of it mattered.

Not the bans. Not the rollback metrics. Not the metrics screaming in red.

Because as the camera panned in—jittering, scorched around the edges—there he was.

Floating.

Like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

007n7.

Suspended high above the wreckage, his silhouette distorted by the rising heat. His cardigan twisted unnaturally in the wind, clinging and snapping like claws caught in cloth. His shadow stretched long across the crumbling buildings below—jagged, warped, and wrong.

The glow from his visor was flickering. Unstable. Saturated with red—too red, like the system didn’t know how to render it. And his eyes—

If the feed could be trusted at all—were vacant.

Not lost. Not confused.

Just gone.

Builderman stopped breathing.

He didn’t think. Couldn’t.

His hand slammed down on the console hard enough to make the interface stutter. He yanked the portal override open before the system could finish calibration, bypassing every safety protocol with brute force.

“Emergency override requested. Are you sure—”

“Shut it,” he growled through his teeth.

The floor beneath him rumbled. Energy flared in a jagged ring around the deployment pad. The air thickened like oil.

“Builderman—!” A voice rang from the corridor—sharp, distant. Brighteyes. She sounded furious. “You know you can’t deploy alone—protocol’s not optional!”

But the rest of her words were lost in the roar of the forming rift.

He didn’t wait for backup.

Didn’t take his comm.

Didn’t notify the admins.

Just grabbed his hammer—heavy, scarred, loyal—and stepped into the portal.

“Hold tight, Seven,” he muttered low, voice like gravel, jaw clenched tight. “Ain’t lettin’ ya fall, not while I still got boots on the ground.”

Then he vanished.

The rift screamed shut behind him like thunder breaking stone.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

Builderman hit the ground like a corpse dropped from the gallows—hard, knees cracking against the seared earth, the impact reverberating up his bones like a shockwave.

The ground beneath him was a ruin of molten memory bricks, still hissing, still burning, the heat warping the air into liquid distortion. His gloves scraped against blackened debris, fingers curling into fists as ash rained around him like the fallout of a dying world.

Above him, the sky was a wound—a jagged tear in reality, flickering between corrupted hues of static and bleeding code. The horizon pulsed like a dying heartbeat, shadows stretching unnaturally, twisting into grotesque shapes that slithered at the edges of his vision. The air smelled of ozone and something deeper, something wrong—like the scent of a system collapsing from the inside out.

He forced himself up, muscles screaming, breath ragged and sharp in his throat. His ribs ached with every inhale, his vision swimming for a second before snapping back into focus. His hand hovered over his holster—not yet, not yet—but his fingers trembled with the need to draw.

“…Seven?”

His voice was hoarse. Quiet. But it carried.

He looked up.

And there—hovering in midair, suspended above the smoldering grid—was the one person he hadn’t been able to reach in weeks. And yet, now that he was here.

Something was wrong.

The flickering red light of 007n7’s visor bled outward in an erratic halo—no longer mere reflection, but tangled code warping around his head like a crown of static thorns. His limbs jerked in short, discordant motions, like a corrupted marionette caught between frames. His hands hovered inches above the C00lgui panel—unarmed, technically—but power was rippling off of him. Raw. Disordered. Like the world was glitching just to keep him suspended.

Then—

His head tilted.

Slow. Mechanical.

He looked down.

Their eyes met.

Not a word passed between them.

But Builderman felt it—deep in the gut, a wrenching, electric certainty that twisted like guilt.

That wasn’t recognition.

That was warning.

“...No—no, no, no. Don’t go quiet on me now—what in the world’re ya’ doin’, Seven?” he murmured, stepping forward instinctively, like his voice alone could bring him back.

But before he could speak again—before he could beg, plead, say something that mattered—a jagged rupture tore across the sky behind 007n7, splitting the air with a surge of code-light.

The sky fractured.

And the world began to break with it.

A thunderous hum overtook the silence—code unraveling in violent ripples overhead. The storm above wasn’t weather; it was failure. Lines of script disintegrating mid-execution. Failed protocols. Abandoned backups.

And at the center of it all: 007n7, the eye of the storm.

His C00lgui had shed its once-structured form—now blazing with unbound, corrupted energy. Tendrils of it lashed out like living things, dragging their claws through the virtual terrain, warping buildings and unraveling Admin-locked pathways like silk. Glitch-fire arced through the air in pulsing bursts.

Builderman stepped forward—banner hammer in hand, but lowered. Not out of fear.

Out of hope.

The blue glow at its head flickered uncertainly, as if even the tool itself wasn’t sure this was a fight it wanted.

His voice cut through the noise, steady but frayed at the edges.

“Seven, that’s enough!” he called out, the shout torn slightly by static. “You said you’d keep yer’ feet on the ground—said you’d try—you promised—!”

Above, 007n7 finally moved—slowly at first, then with sudden, jarring acceleration. His visor flared, red as bleeding code. When he spoke, his voice was no longer calm, no longer meek.

It was scorched raw.

“Pr0mis3s..?” he echoed, the word cracking. “Y0u w4nt t0 sp34k of th0se n0w..?”

Before Builderman could form a response, the world shattered with motion.

007n7 blurred forward in a streak of crimson and glitching neon—eyes glowing, code streaming off his limbs like smoke. His fist, wreathed in jagged script and frayed commands, slammed straight into Builderman’s chest with enough force to detonate the ground beneath them. Shockwaves rippled outward. Reality itself buckled.

Builderman flew back—his boots gouging trenches into the scorched earth, his hammer dragging behind him like dead weight.

“Y0u—t00k h1m fr0m m3!” 007n7 howled, voice cracking like a corrupted audio file. “Y0u pretended t0 c4re—pretended t0 st4y—and then y0u just—!”

His words broke. Not from silence, but from something worse.

Grief.

He lunged again.

C00lgui surged at his back, writhing into a monstrous blade of raw, corrupted data—twisting with every ounce of power he’d sworn never to use again. It wasn’t clean code anymore. It was personal.

It was pain.

Builderman barely lifted the hammer in time. The clash exploded in a blinding burst—blue against red, stability against collapse. Sparks rained around them like shattered stars.

His arms shook—not from impact.

But from what he saw in 007n7’s eyes.

Not hatred.

Not rage.

Just a grief that had nowhere left to go.

“I ain’t followin’,” Builderman choked out, parrying another swing, sweat mixing with ash and blood on his brow. “What did I take? Who was it—?”

"L1AR!"

Another brutal strike tore into him. The ground shattered—terrain fracturing into floating shards as code wept from the wound in the world. Each of 007n7’s blows landed heavier, angrier, more desperate. He wasn’t trying to kill.

He was trying to be heard.

“Y0u m4de m3 b3lieve I c0uld ch4nge!” 007n7’s voice was raw now—crumbling at the edges. “Th4t I w4s—w0rthy 0f m0re..!”

A strike. A scream.

“Then y0u t00k th3 0nly th1ng th4t ever m4ttered..!”

Builderman staggered. His ribs screamed in protest. Still, he didn’t swing back.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

He dodged. Blocked. Absorbed.

But never retaliated.

And 007n7 noticed.

“F1ght m3!!” he screamed, slamming his fist into Builderman’s chest so hard it cracked the air like thunder. “St0p act1ng l1ke I d0n’t m4tter to y0u! L1ke I’m st1ll that w3ak b4nned h4cker y0u thr3w int0 th3 Banl4nds! I—h-held back. I d1dn’t w4nt to sh0w y0u th1s side, but y0u—y0u l3ft me n0 ch0ice...”

The Admin flew backward, slamming through the base of a ruined command tower. Stone and steel crumbled over him as he hit the ground, coughing up blood.

It stained the cracked tile beneath him.

He rose, slow and trembling, hoodie torn, visor flickering from impact. His breath rattled. Part of his arm didn’t move right. Something inside had broken.

Still—he looked up.

“Ain’t never saw you as weak, Seven,” he said softly, voice barely carrying over the hum of the broken world.

The words didn’t land gently.

They cut.

“Wh4t—wh4t’s wr0ng w1th m3, th3n?! Wh-y won’t y0u f1ght m3!?”

007n7’s voice cracked into something young. Something too human. His hands trembled, the C00lgui distorting like static rain. All the power in the world—and still, he was shaking.

“’Cause I don’t wanna hurt ya,” Builderman murmured, blood at the corner of his mouth. “Reckon yer’ already hurtin’ bad enough.”

007n7 froze.

Just for a breath.

And then—his entire form twitched, glitching violently. Like the system couldn’t decide what he was anymore. He looked down at his hands—blazing red, crackling with damage—and saw no control.

Only consequence.

A low whine tore open the air behind them. A rift.

A portal.

Dusekkar stepped out first, cloak billowing in the corrupted wind. Brighteyess and Taph followed close behind. Clockwork’s arms sparked. Doombringer’s boots hit the ground last—eyes locked on the carnage with thinly veiled horror.

“Builderman!” Brighteyess shouted, surging forward—but he raised a hand, unsteady but deliberate. His hammer dragged at his side.

His gaze never left 007n7.

“Stay back.”

“Vat in ze name of syntax is zis madness!?” Doombringer’s voice barked like a gunshot. “He’s ripping you limb from grammarless limb! Vat exactly are you playing at, hmm!?”

Still—no answer.

Builderman took another hit.

007n7’s knee drove into his ribs. Bones cracked. He slammed into a shattered monument of an old spawn point, rubble burying him up to the waist.

He coughed again. Spat blood.

And still—he stood.

Every part of him screamed in protest.

But he stood.

“...Still standin’,” he rasped. “Y’can toss the whole server at me—I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“St0p s4y1ng my n4me l1ke it still m34ns anyth1ng,” 007n7 whispered, each syllable trembling like a wire about to snap. “Y0u d0n’t g3t t’ m1ss me...”

And then his fist collided with Builderman’s jaw—brutal, jagged, code-wreathed. The impact sent the older admin crashing backwards, the force cracking through the earth like a lightning strike. Dust and fractured geometry exploded outward, carving a crater into the battlefield’s already-torn surface.

The other admins watched from beyond the barrier Builderman had thrown up—his last act before the hit landed. A blue shield, arcing high and sparking, kept them locked out. Helpless. Spectators.

Inside the cage of flickering light and storming silence, 007n7 stood over Builderman’s fallen form. His shoulders heaved. His fists shook. The glow from his visor had dimmed to a sickly crimson.

“...wh3r3’d y0u s3nd h1m…?” 007n7 asked. Barely more than breath. “P-Pl34se, I n33d to kn0w."

Builderman stirred, blood trailing from his split lip. He met 007n7’s gaze—steady, steady even now, even as pain etched deep lines into his face.

“Don’t know,” Builderman said hoarsely. “Ain’t even sure who yer’ after.”

Silence.

Above them, the sky howled.

Code-split clouds bled between deep crimson and furious violet, like the world itself couldn’t decide whether to mourn or burn. The wind stung like needles, heavy with ozone and the acrid tang of corrupted data. It coiled around 007n7’s cloak like a noose.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them blinked.

And for a moment, neither of them knew which of them had truly been betrayed.

The battlefield was eerily silent now, the air thick with the scent of ozone and the metallic tang of corrupted code. The sky pulsed in fractured hues—deep red bleeding into violent purples—as if the world itself couldn’t decide whether to mourn or rage.

The battlefield had fallen into a tense, near-sacred stillness.

007n7’s C00lgui flickered violently at his side, its edge phasing in and out of solidity—unstable, chaotic. His grip on the hilt was tight, too tight, white-knuckled and raw. And then, slowly, he raised it. The weapon hovered over Builderman’s throat, a breath away from cutting clean.

“Y0u m4d3 m3 th1nk 1t c0uld b3 d1ff3r3nt…” 007n7 said, voice sanded raw. “Th4t th1s w4s r34l.”

Builderman coughed, and golden blood stained the dust below. His breathing was shallow, rattling in his chest. But he didn’t look away.

“They could’ve,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Still might.”

A laugh broke out of 007n7—ugly, bitter, broken.

“Y0u kn3w wh4t 1t’d c0st m3.” The blade pressed closer. “Y0u kn3w, 4nd y0u d1d 1t 4nyw4y.”

Something flickered behind Builderman’s eyes. Not defiance. Not fury. Just something old and wounded.

“Ain’t even sure what this is,” he admitted. “But if you’d just talk t’me—”

“T4lk?” 007n7 snapped. His voice cracked like old code. “L1k3 b3f0r3? Wh3n 1 th0ught y0u w3r3… s4f3? Wh3n 1 b3l13v3d y0u?” His grip trembled. "Y0u d0n’t g3t th4t n0w."

Builderman closed his eyes for a second. His jaw clenched. Then he looked up again—exhausted, but resolute.

“Then go on,” he said, soft and certain. “If ya hate me that much… end it.”

The wind screamed.

The C00lgui flickered—still alive. Still humming with possibility.

But 007n7 didn’t strike.

His fingers hovered over the panel, unmoving.

His breath hitched.

"...1 sh0uld h4t3 y0u.” he choked out. “G0d, 1 sh0uld..."

"But you don’t," Builderman murmured.

"1 c4n't. Th4t’s th3 cr4shp0int…” 007n7 admitted, voice breaking. "Th3 p4rt th4t hurts m0st."

The blade cracked, flickered—and died.

For a moment, the entire world held its breath.

And still, neither of them moved.

Then—

"L0v1ng y0u…” 007n7 whispered, shoulders sinking like a puppet with its strings severed. “1t h—hurts. 1t d0esn’t st0p."

The words gutted Builderman. His face crumpled—just for a second—before he forced himself up onto his elbows, pain lancing through every joint.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Hurts me too, Seven.”

A broken sound caught in 007n7’s throat—half laugh, half sob. His hands balled into fists again.

"Th3n wh4t w4s 1t f0r? Wh4t d1d y0u g41n?"

“I didn’t do nothin’!” Builderman snapped, frustration bleeding into his voice like static through code. “Whatever it is ya think I took—I didn’t!”

"Y0u r34lly th1nk 1’ll b3l13v3 y0u n0w?" 007n7’s voice wavered.

Builderman’s reply came fast—hard, like a hammer strike.

“I expect ya t’ trust me, Seven!” he barked, jaw tight. “Just like I trusted ya when ya swore ya’d changed!”

The words hung there. Sharp. Loud. Final.

007n7 recoiled like he’d been struck.

And Builderman immediately wished he could take it back.

"1 tr13d to ch4ng3,” 007n7 murmured. "R3wrote wh4t 1 c0uld. But m4yb3 1t w4sn’t 3n0ugh… n0t 3n0ugh f0r y0u t’ b3l13v3 1 d1d. TrUst—" his breath hitched, "—how c4n y0u 4sk f0r trust wh3n y0u br0k3 1t f1rst?"

The accusation struck like a hammer to Builderman’s chest.

But before he could respond—

A snarl. A blur.

Doombringer slammed into 007n7 from the side, breaching the flickering blue barrier just as it weakened with Builderman’s fading strength. The force of the tackle cracked the ground anew, sending shards of corrupted terrain skidding.

“Genug! I vill not moderate zis circus a moment longer,” Doombringer growled, voice like steel dragged across stone.

“Hold up—!” Builderman shouted, lunging forward, but the motion cost him. He crumpled, coughing violently. Gold splattered his gloves.

Chains burst from the ground—crystalline, glowing with Dusekkar’s sigils—twisting up around 007n7’s limbs and dragging him down with a choked scream.

The light warped.

The air fractured.

And Builderman—vision blurring, pain white-hot in his spine—reached blindly toward the chaos.

Taph knelt beside him, one steady hand pressing against his back, the other gripping his wrist to hold him up.

“🙇‍♂️🤝” Taph muttered. “🔥⬆️❌” (Stay with me. You’re burning out.)

Builderman barely heard him. His gaze—his whole soul—was locked on the figure thrashing in chains.

"P-Pl34s3—!” 007n7’s voice was hoarse, cracked. “H3's m1ss1ng—1 n33d h1m! H3’s—th3r3’s s0m3th1ng wr0ng—"

His head jerked toward Builderman. Their eyes met.

"G1v3 h1m b4ck—! Y0u h4v3 t’ r3st0r3 h1m—pl34s3—!"

And those words—

Those words cut deeper than any blade.

Builderman reached out, trembling fingers brushing nothing but air as the other Admins began dragging 007n7 away, the crystalline links creaking under the strain of his panic.

“I ain’t got him,” Builderman whispered. “Ain’t even know who yer talkin’ about…”

But the words were swallowed by the chaos.

Behind him, Telamon shimmered into existence—half-golden, half-shadow, expression set in tight, righteous disappointment.

“You could’ve transformed, Builderman,” he accused, arms crossed. “You could’ve stopped the theatrics. But you didn’t. Curious.”

Builderman’s jaw clenched. His voice, when it came, was low. Hollow.

“Didn’t wanna.”

Telamon’s eyes narrowed. “Telamon saw it. He nearly erased you. How... poetic.”

“He didn’t,” Builderman bit out. “That’s the damn point.”

Because in the end—despite the fury, despite the betrayal—007n7 hadn’t struck the final blow.

And that mercy hurt more than any wound.

A portal roared to life behind them, bathing the battlefield in harsh blue light. The wind picked up again, dragging dust and broken code into the air. Admins ushered Builderman toward it, helping him rise on unsteady feet. Every step sent fire up his spine, but the physical pain was nothing next to the hollow, aching space carved open in his chest.

He glanced over his shoulder.

007n7 was still screaming.

"Y0u pr0m1s3d—y0u sw0r3—! H3 w4s s4f3—y0u s41d s0! 1 j—jus’ w4nt h1m b4ck!"

His visor had shattered. Red sparks danced in his hair. His voice was losing coherence—breaking down into something more raw, more primal.

Builderman stared until the portal light swallowed him.

The man he loved—

The man who once whispered broken code into his skin, who rebuilt old servers beside him at dusk, who swore he would never lie again—

Had any of it been real?

His fists clenched tight.

Telamon watched him walk, but said nothing.

Doombringer remained motionless, his gaze never leaving Builderman. And though he said nothing—

There was judgment in his eyes. And something worse.

Understanding.

A long moment passed.

Then Doombringer turned, his coat sweeping behind him like a severed banner, and left.

And Builderman—

Builderman was left standing in the ruins of a love that may have never existed at all.

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

As always, thank you for reading until the end! I truly hope you enjoyed it—as a little thank you, here’s a render of Builderman and 007n7’s disastrous date. If you like it, I post more renders of them (and other unrelated goodies) on my Twitter: Theo_dotus! Feel free to drop by and say hi! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧

ARTWORK BY: Lemonade_addiction