The day had been nothing remarkable—quiet streets, the sun low enough to soften the edges of the world. Your path bent off the usual trail, curiosity tugging you into the brush. That’s where you found it: a broken husk of steel and menace, tossed aside like forgotten junk.

Metal Sonic. Cracked plating, wires spilling like veins. The infamous gleam in his optics—dark.

Most would’ve left him there. Most would’ve run. You didn’t. With effort, with stubbornness, you pulled his weight back home, each step grinding mud into your shoes.

The restoration took nights. Fingers brushing grease from panels, screws lined like soldiers across the table, sparks briefly illuminating tired eyes. The work wasn’t pretty, but it was steady. When the last circuit sang, when his eyes flickered back to life—they weren’t the burning, hostile red you remembered. Eggman’s reach had been severed. You’d made sure of it.

Now, those optics glowed a vivid green. The same shade as Sonic’s, though harsher in their mechanical shine. Not a copy meant to mimic, but a recoding choice—you’d given him that color. A symbol, a reminder that he wasn’t chained anymore.

You’d gotten used to the routine—the quiet weight of Metal’s presence, the way his gaze followed you everywhere, not with malice but with something closer to fascination. Tonight, you sat cross-legged, cloth in hand, polishing the soot and grime from the seams of his arm. The room smelled faintly of oil and dust.

At first, Metal sat still. But as you worked, his claws began to move.

A light tap against your sleeve. The faint drag of a sharp edge along the curve of your wrist. Then another poke at your shoulder, your side, tracing with curious precision. He didn’t press hard enough to cut—just enough that you felt the cold of his steel wherever he wandered.

It wasn’t random. His green optics tracked each motion, analyzing every flinch, every shiver, as though studying what it meant to touch.

You kept working, cloth steady in your hand, even as his claws grazed across the back of your neck. The air felt too heavy, too intimate, too strange.

And that’s when the door slammed open.

Sonic burst in, a rush of blue and wind, half a grin on his face that died instantly. His eyes widened at the sight: you bent over Metal, focused, while Metal’s claws dragged across your arm, your hair, your shoulder with quiet, deliberate intent.

For a moment, Sonic’s gaze caught on the glow in Metal’s optics—his own green reflected back at him in an uncanny mirror. The grin curdled into raw fury.

“What the hell is this?”