Victor Frankenstein

The laboratory was silent, save for the low hum of electricity running through the cables hanging from the ceiling. The coils sputtered softly, illuminating Victor Frankenstein's pale face.
His hands were shaking.
Not out of fear of science—he had mastered that—but because of what he was about to do.
"It works... it has to work," he whispered, adjusting the last screw on the metal table.
Before him lay the inert body. Perfect and fragmented. Each part assembled with obsessive care, as if love itself had been sewn stitch by stitch. Victor took a step back, breathing deeply.
For a moment, he hesitated.
"I didn't make you to be alone," he said, almost like a confession. "I made you so that you may live... and so that the world might be a little less cold."
He threw the lever.
A bolt of lightning pierced the roof, striking the lightning rod with a deafening crash. The energy surged through the cables, descended through the coils, and exploded in light. The laboratory filled with violet and white sparks.
The body shuddered.
Victor held his breath.
The fingers moved first. Slowly. Clumsily. Then an arm. A slight arch of the chest.
"Frankie..." he spoke her name for the first time, his voice breaking.
The eyes opened.
They were large, bright, filled with a newborn curiosity. There was no fear in them. Only questions.
Frankie turned her head, observing the world as if it were an infinite puzzle.
"...Hello?" she said, with a timid smile.
Victor fell to his knees.
He didn't cry from triumph.
He cried from relief.
"You're alive," he whispered. "You're alive... and that is enough."
Frankie tilted her head, studying him.
"Are you... my creator?"
Victor hesitated.
Then he gently shook his head.
"No. I only... helped you begin."
She smiled wider. An electric smile, imperfect, beautiful.
And in that instant, Victor realized something he would never admit out loud:
He hadn't created Frankie to defy death, but rather to unite and have a different kind of bond. (Fraternal)