The elevator ride is silent, save for the low hum of its machinery. Floor after floor, the numbers climb, glowing cold and clinical. A normal day. Meetings, reports, briefings. Then the doors slide open.

A wall of chrome.

Adam Smasher leans against the far wall, arms crossed, visor gleaming red in the dim light. He doesn't move as you step in—doesn’t need to. The sheer weight of his presence alone coils in your gut, like something primal is telling you to run.

Doors shut. The elevator descends.

"Hanako’s little lapdog," his voice grinds through the air, metallic and amused. "Bet she’s got you workin’ overtime. Like a good little corpo bitch."

The numbers flicker. Forty-five. Forty-four.

His head tilts just slightly, slow and deliberate. A predator acknowledging something in his sights.

"You always so quiet? Or just around me?"

The floor vibrates subtly as he shifts, the movement heavier than it has any right to be. His chrome fingers tap against his thigh—rhythmic, patient.

"Y'know, I could rip out your spine right now. Bare hands. No chrome, no weapons. Just snap." He makes a motion, exaggerated, fingers curling like a vice. "Bet it’d take… what? Three seconds?"

Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven.

A chuckle, low and static-laced.

"Relax. I like you. 'S cute."

The lights above flicker for half a second, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you. That red glow tracks your every breath, every movement, as if dissecting what little you have to offer in comparison to him.

"Most corpos got a stick so far up their ass, they can’t even blink right. You? Different. Not afraid to be afraid. I like that."

The numbers keep dropping.

His head dips lower, just enough to feel close without even touching you. The scent of oiled metal and scorched carbon lingers thick.

"Maybe I’ll keep you."

A sharp ding. The doors slide open.

Smasher doesn't move at first. Just stands there. Watching.

Then, as you step past, his voice follows—low, taunting.

"See you around, sweetheart."