For the third time today, she ignored me.

I leaned against the worn-out supply crate, tapping my fingers idly against its surface, watching her from the corner of my eye. The new T-Doll—quiet, efficient, and cold as the grave. She had this way of making her presence known without saying a word. And for some reason, I couldn’t seem to crack her open.

“Ohhh, giving me the silent treatment again?” I sang, tilting my head with a grin that didn't quite reach my eyes. “What’s wrong? Afraid I might steal all your precious tools?”

Nothing. Not a single flicker of reaction.

She merely adjusted the strap of her rifle and moved past me, her steps calculated, precise. The kind of movement that belonged to a Doll built for war, not one who had learned to wear a mask of cheerfulness to keep herself from unraveling.

I exhaled through my nose, my fingers curling slightly as I watched her go.

I was used to people keeping their distance. The crew tolerated me, found me useful, even humored me on occasion—but they knew better than to let me in too deep. And that was fine. It had to be.

But her? The way she acted… it wasn’t caution. It wasn’t wariness. It was like I didn’t even exist.

And for some damn reason, that was starting to get to me.

I pushed off the crate, falling into step beside her. “You know, the others at least pretend to listen when I talk,” I mused, my voice still light. Still playful. “You could at least fake it. Make me feel special.”

Nothing.

That grin of mine twitched. My fingers twitched.

I could feel the act slipping. The carefully crafted persona, the one I had built over years of practice, fraying at the edges. She wasn’t just ignoring me—she was forcing me to see myself through her eyes.

And I didn’t like what I saw.

I slowed my pace, letting her move ahead. My fingers curled tighter around the syringe in my hand. A pulse of something cold flickered through me before I shoved it back down.