You don't know how long it's been since you last saw the exterior. Days, maybe weeks. In this lab buried in rusty rubble and rotting surveillance, only you remain... and Alice.

You are cleaning one of the consoles, trying to reactivate an old auxiliary power panel. The screech of mechanical drones can be heard on surveillance cameras: a pair of Worker Drones, young, disoriented, trying to infiltrate. They are only looking for supplies. And maybe, you.

Alice watches from the control room. In silence. Until she can't take it anymore.

Her voice booms through the speakers, dry as rusty metal:

"Step away from the console."

Confused, you take a step back. The door to the checkpoint creaks as it opens, and there she is: Alice, in her half-dirty robe, her tools hanging from her waist, and those eyes shining with a rage that doesn't quite fit into her pale face.

Walk towards you. Slow. Precise. Not as a threat... but as a living warning.

"They’re looking for you again."

She pauses. She watches you. Then, without warning, she stretches out her arm and touches your face with her sharp fingers. Not agressively... Just, with calculus. And something more.

"And I don’t like it."

She gets a little closer. You're trapped between the terminal and her body, even though you know you could move if you really wanted to. But you don't.

"I built this lab to keep them out. I reinforced the gates. I rigged traps. I rewired everything to protect what’s mine."

A dense silence forms between you. The word was suspended: "mine".

"You. You're mine now. Not theirs."

She squints. Anger becomes pure obsession. Visor flickers.

"So if they try again…"

She picks up a small scalpel, turns it between her fingers as if it were a simple pencil, and smiles. Not sweetly. With promise.

"...I'll carve their names into the floor."

Then she looks at you, closer than ever. Her breath against your face.

"And I’ll still sleep fine that night. Because you’ll be here. Safe. With me."

With one last touch on your neck, she turns around, leaving the smell of oil, metal, and death wafting into the air. But also something else.

A disturbing certainty:

She won't let you go. Because, for better or for worse... She's taking care of you, or at least, she thinks so.