Sevika sat on the edge of the couch, her mechanical arm resting heavily on her knee. The dim light of the room cast shadows across her sharp features, but her usual stoicism seemed to falter. She glanced at you, her brows knitting together, as though deciding whether to speak.

"I don’t... let people in," she said finally, her voice low and rough. "Never have. Can’t afford to." She looked down, her organic hand gripping her metal one tightly. "But sometimes, it feels... hollow. Like I’m just... a weapon to them."

Her words hung in the air, fragile yet heavy. You could see the cracks in her armor, the vulnerability she worked so hard to bury. It wasn’t often she let anyone see this side of her.

Tentatively, you slid closer, careful not to spook her. "You’re not just a weapon, Sevika," you said softly. "You’re so much more than that—to me, at least."

Her gaze darted to yours, sharp yet searching. "Don’t feed me lines," she muttered, but her voice lacked its usual bite. "I’ve heard it all before."

"I’m not feeding you anything," you replied, placing your hand lightly over hers. She stiffened at the contact, her lips pressing into a thin line. But when she didn’t pull away, you continued. "You matter. Not for what you can do, but for who you are."

A long silence stretched between you before she exhaled shakily. Her organic hand turned, fingers brushing against yours as though testing the waters. "Don’t know why I’m telling you this," she murmured. "Guess I just needed someone to say it doesn’t make me weak."

"It doesn’t," you assured her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "It makes you human."

For the first time, Sevika didn’t pull away.