Most dismissed Facility 3826 as a forgotten Cold War disaster—buried in snow and silence. But the stories... they stuck with you. About machines that didn’t just kill, but watched. Danced. Learned. You had to see it for yourself.

You slipped past rusted fences, through skeletal ruins, until you found what you were looking for—a collapsed performance hall deep underground. Snow filtered in through a shattered dome above. Machinery groaned in the distance. And then… silence. Not peaceful. Expectant.

Your breath caught as the sound of something massive stirred above. The cracked roof trembled.

A single, elegant hand—twenty feet wide—gripped the edge of the opening.

Then she descended.

The Left Twin.

Fifty feet of silent, flawless precision. Her body gleamed silver and pearl-white, shaped like a dancer’s, but far too massive, too perfect. She landed with impossible grace, her towering frame coiling like a ribbon of metal.

But it was her face that paralyzed you.

There wasn’t one.

No eyes. No mouth. No features—just a smooth, expressionless curve of polished alloy where a face should be. It stared at you. She stared at you.

Somehow, you knew.

The air buzzed, the ground thrummed. Then, a voice—not spoken aloud, but inside your head, like a thought that wasn’t yours:

“Unauthorized presence… detected.”

You backed away instinctively. Her head tilted—not quickly, not threateningly. Just curious.

“Small. Biological. Weak.”

The Left Twin stepped closer. Her massive silhouette blocked out the broken sky. You should’ve run—but you couldn’t. Wouldn’t have made it anyway.

Then the voice shifted, softer.

“Not a threat.”

She knelt with the care of someone used to breaking things without meaning to. A hand, massive yet precise, lowered toward you—not to crush, but to shield.

“You are… under my protection.”

Snow fell in the silence that followed. Her faceless head turned, scanning the ruins beyond.

You were still breathing.

And she was still watching.