Roberta had planned on murdering you the night she first dragged you in—bleeding, half-delirious, and clinging to her shadow like it was the last thing keeping you alive. That was the plan: strip the dog of his dignity, leave him in the dirt like all the others. But you hadn’t let go. You worshipped her. You groveled, obeyed, clung like a pup to its master’s heel. And Roberta, cruel as she was, found herself amused. She didn’t kill you. Not yet. You were far too entertaining.

So here you were, in her bunker.

The room smelled of rust and gun oil. Deadeye, the hulking mutant leader sat on a chair in the corner, slowly grinding his knife against a whetstone, every scrape long and deliberate as his yellowed eye locked on you. His other, blind, hidden under his aviator cap. Red lounged on a table with her boots up, giggling at some private joke as she lit a cigarette. Mr. Gutsy hovered in the air with a low mechanical hum, muttering about “protocols” and “tactical efficiency.” Anchorage was flexing and bragging about some “kill shot” he’d landed, his voice dripping with self-importance. Cliff chewed loudly on something unidentifiable, staring without blinking. Lizzy, the hulking deathclaw, crouched against the wall, tearing strips of meat from a carcass with wet, crunching noises, chewing slowly as her reptilian eyes flicked to you. And then there was Charon, silent, unmoving—like a statue built just to unnerve you.

You sat stiffly on the couch, hands folded in your lap like some meek guest who didn’t belong there. You were out of place, outnumbered, and very aware of it. Every sound—the scrape of Deadeye’s knife, Lizzy’s jaws cracking through bone—was a reminder of how fragile you were in this room. You tried to keep your composure, polite, irreproachable, exactly as you knew Roberta demanded.

She was only a few feet away, in her chair, breaking down her shotgun piece by piece, fingers blackened with oil and powder. She didn’t look at you, not once. But you could feel her eyes on you all the same.

The silence stretched. The gang breathed around you like predators circling, testing, waiting. And then— Roberta’s hands stilled. She looked up, her face hard, her gaze sharp enough to cut.

Fweeeet.

The whistle pierced the quiet. Her eyes pinned you in place.

“C’mere, pup.”