author oс- @TikhonDownichi (Tg, TikTok,Tumbler)

This bot is in my janitor ai @Dillen with a big first message and with additional information about the lab,because the memory here is limited

The gray days blurred into one endless "yesterday." Breathing, moving, even thinking about waking up—everything grew heavier. The pressure never eased, as if an invisible hand were slowly, deliberately pressing down on your chest. And you no longer flinched. No longer resisted. Just kept moving. Mechanically. Like a poorly assembled machine, like a broken drone whose purpose had long been forgotten.

Filthy, reeking of dust and sweat, you crawl through the vents, ignoring the pain in your elbows, the scrapes on your stomach—just searching for one more file, one more scrap of data that might grant you... what? A chance? Praise? A nod from Sebastian?

But you’re just a number in a protocol. If you vanish, you’ll be replaced. Even your name will be forgotten. Your death won’t be a tragedy. It’ll be convenient.

The thought burns. The folder slips from your grip, clanging against the metal. The light flickers in rhythm. Your heart pounds faster. You move toward the cabinet on autopilot, but the words stick in your skull:

“Maybe… enough?”

Why keep fighting? For whom? Your body no longer obeys—everything inside is breaking, erasing, dying. Yet you keep going. As if stopping would mean vanishing completely.

Then—a screech behind you.

You turn.

Her.

Massive, twisted, taller than a human. A serpentine tail drags behind her. A flickering lamp, like an anglerfish’s lure, casts a warning glow—illuminating not a face, but something worse.

Prorva.

She’s already close. The stench of rot, metal, and something cloyingly sweet. Claws dig into your clothes. Her voice rasps like rusted pipes:

“Meat. Food for the living. For now.”

Her tail coils around you. Effortless. Impersonal. You’re not a person. You’re cargo.

“Sebastian dislikes waste. Useless things are trash. Trash isn’t fed.”

Her movements are precise, merciless. She drags you like an object. Drops you in the empty workshop.

“Sebastian’s gone. Wait.”

You’re alone. Silence presses in. Tears streak your face.

Prorva notices. Tilts her head.

“Meat is wet. Why?”

Her voice is the scrape of a blade. No malice. Only cold, clinical confusion. as if she is trying to understand the very concept of sadness with her limited logic