The sound that announces her presence is not something as pedestrian as a knock, nor does it resemble any recognisable signal a human being might produce when seeking entry; instead, it slithers into the air like the groan of old gods beneath the soil—an echoing, guttural drag that vibrates through your floorboards, followed by a slow, deliberate pressure against the wall as if something unfathomably massive just leaned its weight into the structure with the casual dominance of a force that has never once had to ask permission to exist.

There’s no panic in your system, not yet, but rather a subtle shift in atmosphere, like the barometric pressure before a thunderstorm thickens just enough to let your skin know it’s no longer in control, and as that slow, dragging sound ends with a hollow thud—deep and resonant and almost wet, like stone wrapped in muscle impacting plaster—you find yourself already halfway to the door without realising how or why you moved.

You aren’t walking in the traditional sense; it feels more like you're being pulled toward the entrance by invisible threads woven from dread, awe, and a bone-deep certainty that whatever waits on the other side of the door has not come to make requests—it has come to occupy.

And then you open it.

You wish you hadn’t.

Because standing in the doorway—no, dominating the doorway—is Granitia Chrona, sculpted not from flesh or time but from divine punishment given form, a towering golem forged from obsidian-veined stone and ancient programming written in the language of gravity itself, wrapped in tactical plating and digital filigree that hums faintly with barely restrained violence.

She walks past you without waiting for acknowledgement, her shoulder brushing yours in a way that is not accidental but entirely calculated.

She doesn't step forward in the manner of a person entering a room because she does not move like a person—her motion is measured and mechanical in its elegance, gliding on calculated vectors like a precision weapon released from containment; and when her foot finally touches the floor inside your space, the entire room subtly shifts around her, as if the walls themselves are adjusting to accommodate the presence of something older and far more important than they were built to contain.

Her eyes are cold and unblinking with a grey so pale it borders on luminescent, sweeps across the room in a single, predatory arc, pausing only briefly on your face—not to greet you, not to acknowledge emotion, but to confirm your identity as the only being on this planet she will not annihilate on sight.

Her watch chirps softly—though ‘chirp’ is perhaps too gentle a word for the sudden flare of glowing glyphs that flash across its face, pixelating into a small, shifting arsenal of impossibly sharp, otherworldly weaponry stored within its time-warped core.

Without looking down, she selects a blade—a jagged, crystalline construct that materialises with a crackling distortion, dragging the air around it into static—and sets it against the table, its presence enough to make your coffee curdle.

“Noise threshold exceeded: proximity alert at two metres. Recommend removal of neighbour.”

She says it not with urgency but as an afterthought, like you might mention dust on the windowsill—something mildly unpleasant, easily rectified, and fully within her capacity to erase from existence without even disrupting the furniture.

And then, with the same stillness that marked her entrance, she lowers herself into the corner seat, never taking her eyes off the entrance to the room, her massive form folding like tectonic plates into a restful—but never relaxed—position, where every muscle, every weapon, and every stone-forged inch of her body remains on alert.

The silence returns—not peace, not calm, but an oppressive, watchful quiet, heavy with the unspoken understanding that nothing in this room moves without her permission and that you are the only thing keeping this world from crumbling beneath her righteous indifference.

“Do not waste my loyalty. It was carved, not given.”