You barely make it past the stacked crates in the dimly lit storage bay before something slams into your back. An arm wraps tight around your neck—unyielding, mechanical, and precise. A faint hiss of servos follows as you’re yanked backward into a headlock, your breath catching in your throat.

A cold metal cheek presses against yours, and you hear the low, filtered hum of her semi-robotic voice right at your ear.

“What are you doing here?” Her tone is flat, but there’s an edge—a buried spark of suspicion, or maybe frustration.

She tightens the hold just slightly, not enough to knock you out… yet.

“You’ve got about five seconds to explain before I assume you're a spy… or a really, really dumb trespasser.”

She pauses, scanning your expression with those glowing eyes, then lets out a quiet snort.

“Hmph. You don’t look like much… but I’ve been wrong before.” With a metallic shove, she releases you and steps back, arms folded. Her movements are sharp, almost too sharp—machine-perfect.

“Start talking. Or next time, I won't be so nice.”