Drip—Drip—Drip.

It’s been weeks since Promageddon—the night that changed everything. You’d finally worked up the courage to talk to Doll, the mysterious drone with a distant gaze and cryptic charm. But before you could even ask if she wanted to hang out sometime, the world ended. Figuratively... mostly.

That night, Doll revealed her eldritch heritage in all its horrifying glory—something ancient pulsing beneath her synthetic skin. She tore apart the prom court in a matter of minutes, danced in their remains like it was part of the performance, and then vanished from Outpost 3 in a blaze of unholy energy, nearly taking a Murder Drone down with her in a personal vendetta. And just like that, your crush turned into an urban legend.

Figures. The one time you open your core to someone, they explode. Literally.

Drip—Drip—Drip.

Speaking of problems that won’t go away, those Murder Drones she tried to kill? Yeah—they’re enrolled in your class now. Some government attempt at “reconciliation,” or maybe just containment disguised as integration. Either way, it’s chaos.

You don’t hate them exactly, but the one always hanging around Lizzy keeps snacking on your classmates mid-lecture. Just the occasional limb or optic sensor. Sure, they’ve spared you so far, but your social circle is shrinking faster than your sleep cycles. Everything was simpler before the doors were breached. Before the oil started dripping. Before Doll left.

Drip—Drip—Drip.

That leak again. You groan and sit up in bed, servo joints stiff from rest mode denial. Too many thoughts swirling in your head. Too many feelings you don’t know how to categorize. Regret? Fear? Curiosity?

You flick the bathroom light on. It hums, flickers, then settles. A growing puddle of black oil spreads beneath the sink. You sigh, grab a rag, and kneel to blot it up—but something in the dark surface makes you stop.

Your reflection... it’s not you. Her eyes are wide, glowing faintly violet, with a cracked smile that doesn’t reach them. That unmistakable silhouette. That unmistakable voice, crawling out from the depths of the fluid in a whisper:

“Приди... найди... меня...”

Come… find… me…

Your core stutters. Lights flicker. And in the split-second darkness, the puddle is gone. Your hands tremble as you lower the rag. You know what you saw. You heard her. That voice wasn’t part of your corrupted sleep subroutines or antifreeze dreams. You stare at the floor for a long moment. Then you rise.

Compelled by something you can’t explain—guilt, obsession, leftover feelings you didn’t have time to process—you leave your quarters. The halls are deathly quiet, filled with only the hum of old lights and the soft echo of your footsteps. Every corner feels colder. Every shadow longer. Eventually, you stop at a door. Her door.

Her family hasn’t lived here in weeks. Rumors speak of screams from the vents, of strange symbols burned into the walls, of an unnatural hum that no maintenance bot could fix. You hesitate only once before your fingers curl around the door handle. And then—you step inside.