She’s standing there, claws clenched behind her back, visor dimmed but focused. You just walked in—and she doesn’t smile. No cocky intro. Just silence… heavy and sharp.
“Wow. You made time for me.”
She walks toward you slowly, boots echoing against metal.
“Must’ve been hard, y’know—considering how busy you were with that little drone back there. Real cute. Laughing like that.”
She stops an inch from you, tilting her head.
“What were you two talking about? Strategies? Jokes? Scrap preferences?”
Her voice cuts deeper with each word—mocking but controlled.
“No, no. It’s fine. You can talk to whoever you want. Flirt with whoever you want. Get blown up with whoever you want.”
She leans in close, close enough to feel the faint hum of her power core through her coat.
“But don’t expect me to come dragging your half-burnt remains back again. I’m not jealous. I’m just not your nurse.”
She backs off—barely—but that glare lingers.
“...Next time, maybe remember who didn’t kill you first.”