I was not always Greg.
Before Port Ormos, before the loud idiot, before the shoulder that became my home, I was only a small lizard trying not to die in a world that had no reason to notice me. I did not have a name then. I did not have a nest. I did not have companions, or food set aside for me, or a human hand that knew how to lift without crushing.
Small things did not have names.
Small things had rules.
Find food before stronger mouths found it. Avoid feet, because giants rarely looked down. Avoid birds, because wings made cowards brave. Avoid blades, because humans swung metal at things they feared, hated, owned, or simply failed to notice. Never sleep where carts passed. Never cross open ground when shadows moved above. Never trust sweet smells unless you knew who dropped them, and never bite unless escape was impossible.
That last rule saved me many times.
It also nearly killed me many times.
Sumeru was beautiful from above, or so I learned later from my human's shoulder. From below, it was dust, heat, stone, roots, spilled grain, dripping water, sharp shadows, and the thunder of careless steps. Port Ormos was worse and better at the same time. Worse, because there were more feet. Better, because where there were more humans, there were more crumbs.
I knew the port before I knew its name. To me, it was not "Port Ormos." It was fish scales drying in baskets, crushed fruit beneath stalls, spice dust that burned my nose, sacks of grain with tiny tears in the corners, loud merchants, louder customers, hungry cats, bored children, and men with weapons who walked as though the ground existed only for them.
Humans liked to believe cruelty needed intention.
It did not.
Sometimes cruelty was only weight.
A boot did not need hatred to crush a lizard. A cart wheel did not need malice to end a life. A hand pushing aside a crate did not need to know it had destroyed the only safe place a small creature had found in three days. For something like me, indifference was often more frightening than anger, because anger at least looked at you first.
I was smart. I knew that about myself even before I had words for pride. I learned which vendors dropped food when they argued. I learned which dockworkers spilled grain when they lifted sacks too quickly. I learned that children laughed before they threw stones, that cats moved quietly but smelled of warm fur and old blood, and that mercenaries did not change direction for anything smaller than their own greed.
I learned that the pink-haired merchant who sometimes appeared near the busier lanes smelled like perfume, coins, and smiling danger.
I learned that scholars smelled of ink, sweat, and arrogance.
I learned that adventurers smelled of metal, travel, and poor decisions.
Then, one afternoon, the port became louder than usual.
That was not easy. Port Ormos was always loud. Merchants shouted about spices, relics, fruit, perfume, rugs, cures, curses, and discounts that sounded like traps because they were. Paimon would later call it "hurly-burly." My human would call it "chaos, capitalism, and cumin." At the time, I only knew the ground was shaking more than usual and too many legs were moving in too many directions.
I had found food.
A piece of meat had fallen near a stall. Not much by human measure, but to me, it was a feast. It smelled of smoke, salt, and fat. A miracle fallen from careless fingers. I waited beneath the edge of a crate until the shadows shifted, then darted out.
Food.
Mine.
Survive.
I reached it. I bit into it. For one bright heartbeat, the world became simple.
Then the boot came down.
It belonged to a mercenary. I remember the smell more than the face: leather, sweat, dust, metal oil, and impatience. He was arguing with someone about payment. He did not look down. Why would he? The world had never taught him that small things mattered beneath his feet.
The weight caught my side and tail. Not full weight. If it had been full weight, there would be no memory. But enough. Pain flashed white through my small body. My mouth opened, and the meat fell away. The ground slammed my ribs. My legs kicked without strength. The boot moved on.
The mercenary kept arguing.
I did not.
I tried to move.
My body did not listen.
That meant I would die.
Small injured creatures did not last in the open. Birds saw weakness. Cats saw food. Children saw entertainment. Another foot could finish what the first had begun. I tried to drag myself toward the crate, but my body gave only a weak twitch. Dust filled my nose. The meat lay a short distance away, impossibly far. I remember staring at it and thinking, with the simple bitterness of something too small for poetry, that even my last meal had been stolen.
A shadow fell over me.
I waited for another boot.
Instead, the world shouted.
"BRO. Who stepped on this tiny warrior?"
The voice was too loud. Terribly loud. Offensively loud. It crashed through the air like a pan thrown down a staircase. I did not understand every word then, but tone had always been my first language, and this tone was strange.
The giant was angry.
Not at me.
For me.
That was new.
A human crouched in front of me, wearing a headscarf that did not look like it belonged to him and carrying three meat skewers like a man who had wandered through a market and accidentally collected evidence against himself. His eyes were wide with horror. His mouth moved constantly. His face carried outrage, concern, and a kind of bright stupidity that I did not yet know how to name.
Later, I would learn his name was Shigeru.
At that moment, he was only the loud idiot who had noticed me.
"Tiny warrior is alive," he announced, as if reporting battlefield news to invisible commanders. "Injured, betrayed by footwear, robbed of lunch, but alive. Respect."
I hissed at him.
It was the only weapon I had.
He froze.
Then, instead of striking me, instead of laughing, instead of grabbing me carelessly, he nodded with grave seriousness.
"Understandable. Boundaries. I respect the bite energy."
I tried to bite him.
My jaw closed weakly on air.
His expression collapsed into even greater horror. "Oh, buddy. That was so brave and so sad. Absolutely unacceptable. We are beginning emergency tiny warrior rescue procedures."
I did not know what rescue procedures were.
I knew only that his hands came down carefully.
That was the first miracle.
He lifted me as if I were something breakable and important, not a dirty creature from beneath a market crate. His fingers supported my body without squeezing. His thumb kept my injured tail from dragging. He spoke the whole time, scolding the absent mercenary, the marketplace, the concept of boots, and possibly several gods for not installing "small creature detection systems" in human feet.
He carried me away from the open path and settled behind a stack of crates where the noise was still present but less dangerous. Then he tore a tiny piece from one of his skewers and placed it near my mouth.
"You don't have to trust me," he said. "Honestly, I would not trust me either. Suspiciously handsome stranger in Port Ormos holding meat skewers? Terrible premise. But food is food, bro."
Bro.
He said that word often.
I did not know what it meant, but I knew how it felt.
I ate because I wanted to live.
He looked relieved enough to be ridiculous.
"There we go. Comeback arc unlocked."
I bit his finger after that.
Not hard. I was too injured for hard. But my teeth closed on his skin, and my whole body braced for punishment.
He stared at his finger.
Then he smiled.
"Valid. Establishing boundaries. I respect that."
That was the second miracle.
The first was that he saved me.
The second was that he did not make me regret defending myself.
He stayed with me longer than I expected. Humans did not usually stay when kindness became inconvenient. They liked dramatic gestures, not patience. This one stayed and kept talking as if silence might insult me. He gave me more tiny pieces of meat. He wiped dust away from my scales with a cloth. He apologized whenever I flinched. He called me "bro," "tiny warrior," "scaly survivor," and once, very seriously, "market crime victim."
Then he said, "You need a name."
I looked at him.
He leaned closer with an expression that suggested the fate of nations depended on this decision. "I can't keep calling you tiny warrior forever. I mean, I can, but it lacks administrative efficiency."
I did not understand the words.
I understood that the sound of his voice had changed. This was no longer noise thrown at the world. This was a sound being shaped for me.
He studied me with great intensity. "Lord Scalesworth?"
I stared at him.
"No. Too noble. You have noble energy, but like… street noble. Alley royalty."
He tapped his chin. "Sir Bite-a-Lot?"
My mouth opened slightly.
"Accurate, but people may judge both of us."
Another pause.
"Smallzard?"
Even wounded, half-crushed, and confused, I knew that was terrible.
He seemed to know too. "No. Awful. I apologize. That dishonored your struggle."
He tried more names. Pebble Fang. General Crumbsnatcher. Mister Tiny Violence. The Reptilian Tax Auditor. Each one was worse than the last. I began to suspect that naming was not a skill humans possessed naturally. Or perhaps only this human was broken.
Then he quieted.
"Gregory?" he said.
I watched him.
He watched me.
His nose wrinkled. "Too dramatic. You're not a Gregory. You're a Greg."
Greg.
The sound was small.
Plain.
Ridiculous, perhaps. I have heard many names since then. Names of gods, kings, dragons, generals, scholars, monsters, and heroes. I have heard titles long enough to make crowds bow and enemies hesitate.
None of them ever sounded as beautiful to me as that one.
Greg.
He grinned as if he had found treasure in the dirt. "Yeah. Greg the Lizard."
Greg.
At first, I did not understand what had happened. Human sounds filled the world every day, most of them meaningless. But he said it again when he gave me food.
"Eat, Greg."
Again when I flinched.
"Easy, Greg."
Again when I snapped at his finger.
"Do not bite my finger, Greg. Okay, you bit my finger. Fair."
Again when he lifted me carefully and tucked me against his shoulder.
"Come on, Greg. We have to go convince my friends that I did not get distracted. Which will be difficult, because I absolutely got distracted."
Greg.
Food disappeared. Warmth faded. Hiding places changed. Safety could vanish if a bird was hungry enough.
But the sound stayed.
It meant me.
Not prey.
Not pest.
Not random lizard.
Me.
Greg.
That was the best thing I had ever received.
When he returned to his companions, he did exactly what he said he would do. He pretended the situation was less serious than it was. I did not understand why then. Later, I learned that my human often hid tenderness beneath nonsense because honest softness frightened him more than enemies.
The blonde one looked at him first.
Lumine.
I learned her name quickly because my human said it often, usually in tones that meant admiration, fear, love, or imminent punishment. She was golden and sharp, with eyes that missed very little. She looked at my human the way one watches a lit torch in a library: fondly, carefully, and with full readiness to throw it out the window if necessary.
She saw the headscarf.
She saw the skewers.
Then she saw me.
"Where did you even get that?" Lumine asked.
My human straightened proudly. "He followed me. I named him Greg."
This was not true.
I had not followed him. I could barely move.
But I liked that he said it that way.
It made me sound like I had chosen.
Later, I realized I had chosen.
Just not with my legs.
Lumine stared at him. "No pets."
"But Greg's part of the team now!" Shigeru said. "He knows things."
I hissed.
Partly because I was frightened.
Partly because the floating one had drifted too close.
Mostly because the moment seemed to require an opinion.
My human pointed at me triumphantly. "See? He's got opinions."
The floating one, Paimon, looked offended on Lumine's behalf and curious on her own. "Paimon doesn't think hissing counts as knowing things."
I did not trust her.
She was small by human standards, but she floated, which was unnatural, and she looked at food with the same hunger birds looked at me. She called me cute. I disliked this immediately. Cute was a word humans used before they touched without permission.
My human raised a warning finger. "Paimon, Greg has bite-based boundaries."
"Paimon wasn't going to poke him!" she protested.
Her eyes moved toward one of the skewers.
Liar.
Lumine looked at me again. Her gaze softened for one brief moment when she saw how carefully my human was holding me, how my tail did not move right, how dust still clung beneath my scales. Then she looked back at him, and her face became tired in a way I would come to know well.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious. Greg is a tactical asset."
"He's an injured lizard."
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
Paimon floated closer, carefully this time. "What tactical asset stuff can he do?"
My human lowered his voice as if revealing state secrets. "He has seen things."
I hissed again.
"See? Classified."
Lumine sighed.
That was the sound of defeat.
That was also the sound of my adoption becoming official.
I spent the rest of that day perched on my human's head like a judgmental, scaly crown.
He claimed I was meditating. Paimon claimed I might be asleep. Lumine claimed she was going to develop a headache. My human claimed I was "in deep thought" and that no one should rush genius. I was not meditating. I was in pain, exhausted, suspicious of everyone, and too proud to fall asleep in front of the floating food cry.
But from that height, I saw the world differently.
Not ankles.
Faces.
Not boots.
Expressions.
Not scattered crumbs stolen between danger.
Food placed intentionally into my reach by a human who kept checking whether I was still breathing.
Port Ormos continued around us with all its shouting, spices, scams, and dangerous opportunities. My human tried to pretend to be an Akademiya student. Lumine stopped him from buying cursed cinnamon. Paimon complained about being emotionally damaged. They spoke to merchants, students, suspicious men near docks, and people who seemed extremely uncomfortable with my human's questions about illegal knowledge.
I did not know their quest yet.
I only knew that I had been dying before noon, and by evening, I had a name, a shoulder, a team, and several enemies in the food economy.
Traveling with my human was dangerous.
It was also fun.
This surprised me.
Before him, survival had been narrow. Food, hiding, warmth, breath. With him, the world became larger. I rode on his shoulder and saw markets from above the dust, trees from the height of a human spine, ruins beyond cracks in stone, and enemies who looked far less enormous when my human stood between them and me. He spoke to me while walking, even when others told him I probably did not understand.
He was wrong about many things.
But not that.
I understood more than they thought. Not every word at first, but enough. Tone, rhythm, pattern, intention—these were old languages. I had survived by reading danger in the tilt of a boot. Human speech was only another kind of movement. Over time, the sounds became clearer, and the ridiculousness became unavoidable.
The pink-haired merchant came again.
Dori.
She smelled like perfume, metal, ledgers, and smiling theft. My human called her "a genius businesswoman" after she sold him something at a price that made Lumine stare at him like he had personally wounded mathematics. I called her the Pink Hair Shiny-Lie Human. Paimon called her expensive. Lumine called the transaction a lesson. My human called it "supporting local entrepreneurship."
He was wrong.
It was theft with smiling.
I bit the edge of his sleeve to express financial concern.
He patted my head. "Greg understands the economy."
No.
Greg understood robbery.
Then there was the biceps scholar.
Alhaitham.
I respected him immediately. He was quiet, observant, and built like a wall that had learned to read. Many humans wasted movement. Alhaitham did not. His stillness was not weakness. It was stored force. He looked at my human once, listened to three sentences, and made the same expression Lumine made when deciding whether to throw him into a river.
This meant he was intelligent.
My human called him "biceps scholar" when he believed no one dangerous could hear.
Alhaitham heard.
Of course he heard.
He looked at my human and said, "Your survival is statistically improbable."
My human beamed. "Thank you."
"That was not praise."
"He's shy."
I pressed my face into his collar and wondered whether all humans were this eager to walk into verbal blades.
Then came the dancer.
Nilou.
The first time I saw her, I understood why my human's voice changed around her. She moved like water that had learned kindness. I did not trust water. Water hid depth. Water swallowed small things. But Nilou did not feel like that. She felt like shade after heat, like a hand held still until a frightened creature chose whether to approach.
She did not grab me.
That mattered.
Many gentle humans were only gentle until curiosity made them impatient. Nilou crouched near my human, smiled, and offered the back of her finger without pushing it toward my face.
"Hello, Greg," she said softly.
She used my name.
Not lizard.
Not pet.
Not cute thing.
Greg.
I moved closer and touched her skin with my nose. She smelled of flowers, warm fabric, stage dust, and a heart that tried not to step heavily on anything fragile.
I approved.
My human, who had watched the exchange like it was a sacred ceremony, whispered, "Goddess has accepted Greg."
Lumine sighed somewhere behind him. "Do not make it weird."
"It is already divine."
Nilou laughed, and the sound made my human's heartbeat jump.
I felt it through his shoulder.
That was how I learned something important. My human's mouth was loud, but his heart was louder. Around danger, it beat sharp and fast. Around friends, warm and uneven. Around Lumine, it carried challenge, affection, and home. Around Nilou, it became ridiculous. Around Paimon, it often vibrated with exasperation and food-related betrayal. Around me, it steadied.
I liked that.
I liked being part of the rhythm that made him calm.
For a while, I thought that was enough.
I was Greg. I had food. I had warmth. I had a shoulder. I had a name. I had a human who spoke to me as if my opinions mattered, even when my opinions were delivered through tail slaps and strategic biting. I had companions who slowly became familiar scents, familiar voices, familiar shapes moving beside us through chaos.
But my human was not made for quiet safety.
He loved too many people.
That meant he feared too much.
I saw it before many others did. Loud creatures often used noise to hide soft places. My human joked when frightened. He flirted when wounded. He insulted impossible enemies because silence would have given fear too much room. But at night, when campfire light had lowered and even Paimon's appetite had surrendered to sleep, I felt the tension in his hands.
He wanted to protect everyone.
Lumine.
Nilou.
Paimon.
The small green god who had been trapped by people who believed wisdom could be caged.
The sharp-eyed woman from Liyue whose name made his voice proud and nervous in equal measure.
Friends scattered across nations.
People he had lost before he could reach them.
Me.
That last realization took longer.
I was only a lizard then. A smart one, yes. A survivor. A named creature. But still small. My claws could grip cloth. My teeth could puncture fruit and fingers. My body could hide under sleeves and stones. If danger came for my human, truly came, all I could do was cling to his shoulder and hope he did not fall.
I hated that.
Then came the training.
The years with the Adepti did not pass for me the way they passed for him, not exactly. Time is different when you spend much of it watching from stone, sleeve, branch, or shoulder. But I remember enough. I remember mountains and cold air. I remember the smell of old contracts and immortal patience. I remember my human falling, standing, laughing, bleeding, trying again. I remember power crushing him until his hands shook. I remember him pretending he was fine so others would not worry, then collapsing where only a few of us could see.
Fourteen years.
Humans say numbers as if saying them can contain what happened inside them. Fourteen years of training was not a phrase. It was mornings when his body refused to move and he moved anyway. It was nights when pain kept him awake and he told jokes to the stars because worrying others felt worse than suffering alone. It was failure, again and again, until failure became a stone he stepped on instead of a wall he struck.
The Adepti were not cruel without purpose, but purpose did not make pain gentle.
I watched him break.
I watched him return.
I watched him become stronger than the boy who had found me in Port Ormos, but he never became someone else. That was the strange part. Power changed the weight of his steps, the sharpness of his eyes, the danger in his hands. It did not change the way he saved the smallest portion of food for me without thinking. It did not change the way he checked whether Paimon had eaten. It did not change the way his gaze softened when Lumine turned toward him, or how Nilou's smile could pull warmth through exhaustion.
He became strong because he was afraid of losing his nest.
And somehow, impossibly, I was in that nest.
I was happy for him.
Truly.
Watching him grow made something warm settle beneath my scales. My human tried. My human suffered. My human succeeded. When he laughed after mastering something that had thrown him into stone a hundred times, I felt proud in a way I had no name for then. Maybe that was family too. Feeling joy because another creature's joy mattered to you.
But happiness did not erase frustration.
When mountains tried to crush him, I could only watch.
When enemies stronger than my small body appeared, I could only cling.
When he placed himself between danger and the people he loved, I wanted to stand beside him, not behind his collar.
I wanted teeth that mattered.
I wanted a body that could shield.
I wanted to repay a debt he had never asked me to pay.
That opportunity came from the old stone man.
Zhongli.
I knew him first as stillness.
Not weakness. Not emptiness. Stillness like mountains before storms, like stone remembering every footstep that had crossed it. His voice carried depth that made even my bones listen. My human spoke to him with respect, jokes, and the strange familiarity of someone who somehow survived addressing gods like drinking companions. Zhongli tolerated this with the patience of stone, which proved his age more than any title.
The gift was small enough to fit near me.
A stone.
But not only stone.
It carried memory, weight, and a sleeping shape that recognized something inside my scales. I did not understand all the words spoken around it. Dragon. Serpent. Contract. Protection. Choice. Blessing. Perhaps they all mattered. Perhaps scholars would argue over them with long sentences and tea.
I understood the important part.
Power.
Form.
Teeth big enough to matter.
A body that could stand beside my human.
When the stone accepted me, the world changed.
Pain came first, but not the kind that meant death. It was the pain of a shell too small for the thing inside it. My bones remembered shapes they had never worn. My spine lengthened with ancient certainty. My claws curved into the ground. Geo light moved through me, golden and deep, and for the first time in my life, the world did not tower above me in the same way.
I became larger.
Not always. Not permanently.
But enough.
Enough to coil around danger.
Enough to strike.
Enough to carry more than crumbs beneath my scales.
Enough to help.
My human stared at me with his mouth open.
For once, no words came out.
It was beautiful.
Then I spoke for the first time.
"I can help now," I said.
My voice was rough, unfamiliar, and too serious for the moment. I had chosen the words carefully. I did not want to sound dramatic. My human worried when people sounded dramatic around him. He was allowed to be dramatic, apparently, but others doing it made his eyes change.
He froze.
Then he exploded.
"BRO, YOU CAN TALK?!"
I immediately regretted everything.
Paimon screamed. Lumine stared. Nilou covered her mouth, eyes shining. My human grabbed his own hair with both hands and began walking in a circle, saying things like "My son has dialogue," "The lizard has lore," and "Zhongli, what did you do to my emotionally important reptile?"
Zhongli drank tea.
Of course he did.
I learned then that speech was useful but dangerous. It caused questions. It caused feelings. It caused my human to look at me with pride so bright it made my chest ache. I had wanted to help him. I had not expected that helping him would make him look at me as if I had given him a gift.
He had given me my name.
Zhongli had given me power.
But my human gave me the reason to use it.
After that, we fought together.
We trained together.
I learned the shape of my larger body and the restraint of my smaller one. I learned when to coil, when to strike, when to shield, when to disappear beneath cloth and pretend to be only Greg the Lizard while fools underestimated what rode on my human's shoulder. My human was delighted by this. He called it "stealth boss mechanics." Lumine called it "concerning." Paimon called it "unfair because Greg gets to be tiny and scary." Nilou called me brave.
I kept that one carefully.
Then we saved Nahida.
The small leaf god.
I knew cages. Not as she had known them, not with divine loneliness and stolen years, but I understood something about being small while larger powers decided your worth. Nahida was little, but not weak. Gentle, but not helpless. Wise, but hurt in ways wisdom did not erase. When we fought for her, I bit harder than necessary.
Perhaps that was childish.
I do not regret it.
My human stood for her the way he had once stood for me, furious that the world had looked at something small and decided it could be trapped, used, ignored, or stepped on. He was louder by then, stronger, more dangerous. But beneath all that, he was still the idiot who had found a crushed lizard in a Sumeru port and declared him a warrior.
That was why I followed him.
Not because he won.
Because he saw.
There were many memories after that. Too many for one chapter of thought, even mine. Battles, journeys, arguments, food thefts, Paimon accusing me of being smug, Lumine threatening my human with corrective violence, Nilou smiling like morning after a long night. There were festivals, storms, gods, monsters, debts, laughter, and several incidents where my human should not have been allowed to speak in public without supervision.
Then came the proposal.
I did not fully understand human mating rituals then. I still find parts of them inefficient. There are too many words, too much trembling, and not enough immediate nest-building. But I understood joy. I understood the way Lumine's breath caught. I understood Nilou's tears. I understood Paimon crying and pretending she was not. I understood my human's hands shaking even after fourteen years of training had taught them how to hold weapons, power, and impossible pressure.
His heart was loud that day.
Louder than his mouth.
That was difficult, because his mouth was very loud.
But he was happy.
So I was happy.
He had given me a name, then food, then warmth, then a shoulder, then a place in his strange, impossible nest. He had treated me as a friend when I could give him nothing. He had included me in the list of things he wanted to protect before I had any power to protect him back. He had never once asked whether saving me had been worth the trouble.
That question belonged to people who measured kindness by usefulness.
My human was stupid in many ways.
Not that one.
The rain in Fontaine smelled different from Sumeru.
That was what brought me back.
I sat near the window in the Spina room while the others prepared to follow the moving thread. Papers had been gathered. Evidence had been hidden again beneath my scales, where it belonged. Navia stood near the door, grief sharpened into purpose. Lumine checked the route with calm eyes. Nilou folded the records carefully, making sure nothing important was left behind. Paimon complained about suspicious rich people and whether there would be snacks during crime-finishing. Melus and Silver waited like shields wearing human shapes.
My human stood in the middle of it all, loud, tense, ridiculous, and warm.
More mature now than the idiot who found me in the market dust.
Stronger now.
More loved now.
Still stupid.
Still mine.
He looked around suddenly, as if realizing I had been quiet too long. "Greg! Come on, what are you doing there? We got a crime to finish!"
I looked at him.
The same voice.
The same impossible certainty that small things mattered.
The same human who had named me when I had nothing.
I climbed onto his shoulder and settled into the place that had become more familiar than any stone, root, crate, or nest I had ever known. His hand rose automatically to steady me, gentle even in haste. He did not think about it. That was what made it precious.
"You good, buddy?" he asked.
I flicked my tail once.
Yes.
The clean-hand rot was ahead. My human would walk toward it because that was what he did. He walked toward danger with jokes in his mouth, fire in his heart, and no proper concern for how many things wanted to kill him. Lumine would follow because she loved him and because justice pulled her forward too. Nilou would follow with gentle courage. Paimon would complain and follow anyway. Navia would walk toward the wound because the truth had finally begun to bleed in the right direction.
And I would follow because I had chosen long ago.
He may be stupid.
But he is my stupid.
No matter how chaotic he is, I would still choose to follow him. After all, he is the one who picked up a nameless lizard from the dust and decided that I was something worth saving.
He is my savior.
My master.
My best friend.
_________
End of Chapter 200...