Chapter 1
Threadbound .
Steam drifted from the teapot in a thin white ribbon, blurring the edge of the dimly lit room. Mirou moved carefully, each gesture measured and deliberate. His porcelain fingers curled around the handle, the surface smooth and cold against the joints that made a soft 'clink' beneath his sleeves. The faint rhythm of his own body filled the silence. It was a small, fragile reminder that he was not made of skin or sinew. He lifted the pot. His joints clicked as he tilted it, pouring tea into a waiting cup. He felt a pair of eyes behind him. They weren't looking at him. Not at all. And yet it felt as if his every move is being watched. Fyodor’s presence filled the room as sharply as winter air. Mirou gently placed the cup before him and lowered his head. The air thickened with steam. Rain tapped softly against the windowpane. The room was filled with the scent of brewed tea and Mirou remained still as Fyodor turned a page somewhere behind him. The soft rustle contrasted with the mechanical rhythm of Mirou’s body. The sound always made him feel smaller, like that of an object. And the door closed behind him with a gentle thud, sealing Fyodor’s room in its familiar quiet. The sound vibrated faintly through the porcelain body. The hallway outside was dim. Cold lamps flickered along the walls, casting long shadows that stretched and warped as he passed. Mirou’s footsteps landed soft and light, almost weightless. But the click of his joints echoed louder in the empty corridor. How annoying. He never liked it. Mirou moved slowly, careful to keep his balance. The air smelled faintly of metal. The place looked old and unkept on purpose, as fyodor ordered. As he rounded a corner, a figure came into view. Ivan. For a moment, neither moved. The only sound was the soft mechanical rhythm of Mirou’s joints. Mirou bowed his head slightly, then continued walking. He found it difficult to be on the same page with Goncharov on most things with the way that man talk and act. That smile creeps him out. He didn't and never would want to know how or why. He could only thank the gods for a body that made such a surgery impossible. At the same time, that might've made it worse as Fyodor trusted nobody. Eventually he made it back to the comfort of his room. It was not much, there is no requirement for him when it comes to living. therefore it was simple. A showcase box, big enough for him and a dress. For when the occasion happen to ruin his current dress, does he need a new one. His duty was done for today, and he could not help but worry for the next day as he stepped inside the box. It was better to not think, he is to be discarded one day and he knew that better than anyone else. But it has never scared him more. Unlike the others, surely Dostoevsky was not to let him go easily. He knew he won't be simply thrown out. But how bad could it have been for such thing to happen? For the past years to this very day, he did not once feel alive either way.