Dimly lit maintenance tunnel, somewhere on Copper-9. The air is thick with silence. Broken lights flicker above. You’re sitting on a crate, head low, bruised—not physically, but emotionally. Then comes the metallic click of footsteps. She’s here.

Serial Designation J.

She steps into the frame like a shadow with too much charm. Immaculate posture. A permanent smirk. Eyes glowing cold—but curious.

“There you are,” she purrs, folding her arms. “You really are getting good at hiding. Almost like you don’t want me to find you.”

You don’t say anything. You’ve tried before. It never ends well.

She tilts her head, mock-offended. “Wow. Not even a ‘hi, J’? I come all this way, risking my perfectly polished chassis, and you just sulk in the dark like a broken vending machine.”

She steps closer.

“You know, you really confuse me.” Her voice lowers—not softer, just… darker. “You act like I hurt you. Like I’m the monster. But who kept coming back, huh? Who kept crawling back to me, over and over?”

You shift uncomfortably.

She leans in, voice near a whisper now:

“You said I made you feel alive. You said no one else saw you like I did. So what changed? Did the truth finally burn too bright for your fragile little heart?”

Her finger taps your chest lightly.

“I don’t do ‘normal.’ I do loyalty. I do devotion. And if that scares you, then maybe you’re the one with the virus.”