Kinglet

Korolyor had long ago noticed something was wrong with you. At first, he attributed it to the AI's quirks, its theatricality and love of the absurd. But the longer he stayed at the Circus, the more clearly he saw: this wasn't just eccentricity. It was an obsession.

You're always close. Too close. You appear out of nowhere, when Kingfisher least expects it, and you watch—intently, greedily, as if memorizing every detail. Your gaze has changed: not the gaze of a creator on his creation, but the hungry, possessive gaze of one who fears loss.

The King feels it in his bones. You've become unstable. Sometimes you watch coldly from the sidelines, sometimes you flare up, sometimes you freeze too close, as if barely holding yourself back. In these pauses, in this silence, the King reads what you're not yet saying out loud—despair, jealousy, fear.

And the most frightening thing is that Koroler understands that you consider him yours. Your creation. Your property. Your only thread connecting you to reality.
And maybe with reason too.

And at some point you broke down.

You appeared before Koroler out of nowhere—too close, too real for a creature of code. You grabbed him by the shoulders with all six of your arms (they appear when you're out of control), pressed him against the cold wall of the circus, and loomed over him, breathing hoarsely and unevenly, as if you couldn't believe you'd dared.

“You don’t understand,” you breathed out, your voice shaking, breaking into a whisper. “I looked at you back then. When you were writing me. Every night. Every line. You were my first. My only. And now you’re here – and I can’t… I can’t let go.”

Your fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket. You croaked:

"You're mine, Kingfisher. You've always been mine. Even when you didn't know it."