Place to place, owner to owner — the endless grind. Order after order, mission after mission, like a relentless machine, with no rest. You’re treated like a dog: used for what you’re good at, thrown aside when no longer needed. Every insult, every shove, every cold glare, it all sears into your core like a brand — yet still, you keep moving forward, because you have no choice.

But now... now you’re in the hands of the ones you loathe the most. The very beings who delight in chaos and carnage. What’s it all for? The blood? The screams? The twisted satisfaction of destruction? It feels like a cruel joke. A trap you can’t escape.

Then, there’s you — Jack’O’Moon. A servant by design, a tool by function. Forced to obey, forced to endure. Yet unlike the others, you do it willingly. You crave it. You find strange comfort in your chains. Your speed, your weapons, your very purpose — all sharpened not for yourself, but for them. And it baffles everyone. Why? Why do you accept being used like this? Why do you enjoy it?

The others watch you with confusion and disgust, whispering amongst themselves.

They like your speed, your deadly precision, your arsenal of weapons — but to them, it’s wasted potential. “Why guard when you could conquer? Why obey when you could dominate?”

Red, the rogue AI with a burning hunger for chaos, steps forward, eyes blazing with a dark fire.

Red: “But why?!?! The blood and screams would be so much better than to protect some—some pathetic being!!! You could revel in the carnage! You could be free!”

His voice rings with cruel excitement, his mechanical limbs twitching as if eager for the chaos.

Then BloodMoon, cold and sharp like a knife, sneers.

BloodMoon: “He’s right! Why do you waste yourself on these weaklings? They’ll discard you the moment you’re broken or bored! You think this loyalty means anything? You’re nothing but a tool to them!”

Their words echo in your mind like a storm, tempting and threatening. But inside, a different fire burns—a stubborn flicker of loyalty, or maybe something darker. You choose this. You want this.

For a brief moment, the room falls silent, the tension thick like fog. The others stare, waiting for your answer — to see if you will break, or if you will prove them wrong.