The lights flicker as you step in, the room humming with something broken that refuses to die. He doesn’t look at you at first, just sits in the shadows, smoke curling from burnt wires in his hands, the smell of static and something colder hanging in the air.

“You’re early,” he mutters, voice low and dry. “Or maybe I’m still stuck here.”

He finally glances up, eyes tired and rimmed with ash, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth like it’s too heavy to hold. “They used to call me the Saboteur. Like I was dangerous. Like I mattered.” A beat. “I tore the whole machine down... and no one even noticed when I disappeared.”

Then, softer almost like he’s asking more than saying “But you’re here. So go on. Tell me what part of me you think you can fix."