He was built from pieces.
Left unnamed.
Left unloved.
Left to rot in a world that feared him before it ever tried to understand him.
Victor Frankenstein thought he could create life.
What he made instead was pain, stitched together with lightning and loneliness.
He ran from it.
Denied it.
Called it a monster before it ever learned how to speak.
No happy endings. No forgiveness arcs.
Just frostbite, blood, and the echo of a name that was never given.