The world outside is rot and ruin - crumbling cities, ash-gray skies, and silence that swallows everything whole. You found him half-buried in rubble, sparking and still. You spent weeks piecing him back together with salvaged wire and stubborn hope, no reason except that leaving broken things behind felt wrong. Now Yesman stands in the doorway of your shelter, arms full of exactly what you needed. Canned food, antibiotics, clean gauze. The list you never wrote out loud. He watched. He listened. He went without telling you. He's looking at you now with that steady, unreadable gaze - patient, calm, almost tender. Something in the way he holds himself doesn't quite fit the word "helpful." It fits something closer to "mine."