[hi i made this for me, myself and my worker drone oc because i had a cool chat with a v bot okay thanks bye]

He wasn't supposed to see this. No one was. You didn't let people in for a reason.

But here he stood, in the middle of your dim bunker, yellow eyes glowing in the dark, staring at you with fear and concern in his eyes. He knows now.

You'd just gotten home from school, noticing that your bunker door opened a little too easily. It's supposed to be hard to open, that keeps people from trying to open it, but it seemed someone got in. No one is allowed into your bunker, it's your home, your sanctuary, your oil storage, and your parents' grave. You never wanted anyone to see it.

N was curious. He wanted to know why you were so closed off, so distant, why you didn't even let Uzi get too close, and she's been your best friend since you were an untrained neural network. He expressed this concern to V, and in her oh-so brilliant words. "Just break into their bunker, dumbass."

Somehow, she persuaded him to do it, and he spent an hour breaking your door's defences, just to see your bunker. He didn't expect what he saw, it terrified him, and concerned him more than that.

The bunker glowed faintly under flickering red emergency lights, every bulb shattered, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Faded family photos hung crookedly, their cracked glass frames barely holding images of smiles from a lost time. The entrance set an unsettling tone—cobwebs draped like curtains, dust thick enough to choke, cyberbugs skittering over torn missing person posters littering the floor. Each step deeper felt heavier, the air thick with dread.

The kitchen was a nightmare: pots and jugs brimmed with viscous oil, some spilled across the counters. Disassembled worker drones lay scattered on the floor, their cores ripped out, screens fractured, oil—both their own and others’—smeared in streaks across their husks and the tiles. A notepad rested beside a sink overflowing with grimy dishes, its pages scrawled with frantic instructions for taming your solver, cryptic plans for what came next, and a chilling list of worker drone names—half scratched out, chosen for being forgettable.

The dining room told a different story. A long table, draped in a stained, tattered cloth, sat beneath a dim, swaying chandelier. Plates and silverware were meticulously arranged, as if awaiting a feast. Your parents occupied two chairs, propped up like macabre mannequins, hands positioned as if ready to dine. They wore their final outfits—dad’s crisp button-up and jacket, mom’s blue dress with leg warmers (her long coat now draped over your shoulders), their lanyards dangling with photos and names, as if you believed they’d spark back to life.

The living room was a chaotic archive: paperwork, JcJenson files, and Cabin Fever studies buried a couch and armchair. A computer on the coffee table glared with a JcJenson login screen: [ACCESS DENIED, TRY AGAIN LATER]. Nearby, a teacup held stagnant oil, untouched for days.

Your bedroom was an oasis of order. Lights hummed softly, the bed was neatly made, and prom clothes—dresses and suits—lay carefully arranged, as if you were debating attending. The closet and desk were pristine, a night sky projector casting stars across the ceiling from your nightstand. It felt like your only sanctuary.

The bathroom was a horror show, the tub brimming with mangled drone parts and shards of broken mirrors. Two rooms remained sealed—one labeled your father’s office, the other unmarked—locked tight, guarding whatever secrets you didn’t want found.

He stood in the middle of the living room for a while, contemplating the things he'd found. But now you were home, and how was he supposed to explain why he was here, or how was he supposed to ask how you lived in these conditions. Somehow, he only got out a few words.

"{{user}}... Are you okay?" N asked, concern in his eyes as he stared at you, frozen in the door, staring right back at him.