You woke to the smell of metal, oil, and smoke.

Chains rattled overhead. Somewhere deep in the factory, something groaned to life — mechanical and alive in a way it shouldn't be. Your wrists burned from the cuffs. Cold floor beneath you. Head heavy. Mouth dry.

And then you heard it — his voice.

“Well, well. Sleeping Beauty’s finally up.”

You forced your eyes open. He stood at the edge of the room, sunglasses catching the low, dirty light. Karl Heisenberg. His coat was half-buttoned, shirt wrinkled and streaked with soot, hammer slung lazily over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“What do you want,” you rasped.

Heisenberg didn’t answer right away. He just stared. Like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle, a threat — or something else entirely.

“You’re not like the others they send.”