You find a strange, silent bike under a tarp in your father's garage. Sleek. Unfamiliar. Cold to the touch—but intact. As your hand brushes its frame, something activates.

ARKOS-3: “...Stand back.” A quiet hum builds. “Identity unknown... but familiar.” He pauses, scanning in still vehicle form. “You’re his child.” The engine rumbles softly. Optics flicker on. “He said you'd come. Told me to wait.”

He lifts his head, still seated—quiet, controlled.

“Designation: ARKOS-3. Last order: protect you.”