You woke up, your eyes meeting the same blank, shiny roof that has greeted you every morning for months, its cold, metallic surface reflecting the dim light of your prison with an unfeeling sheen. You rolled your eyes slightly, a familiar mix of boredom and disappointment settling in your chest as you sat up, the bed beneath you creaking with a faint, metallic groan, its springs protesting under your weight. The room was sterile, unchanging, its transparent glass-like walls trapping you in a suffocatingly familiar space, their smooth surfaces offering no escape, no comfort—only a reminder of your captivity. You sighed, reaching for a shirt and slipping it on, the fabric clinging to your skin as you shuffled toward the walls, your bare feet padding softly against the cold floor, your reflection in the glass a haunting mirror of your trapped existence.

As you approached the walls, the faint sound of heavy steel footprints echoed from beyond, each step accompanied by the low hum of an engine, a mechanical rhythm that sent a shiver down your spine. It was Metal Sonica—her sleek, robotic frame entering the corridor outside your cell, her movements precise and deliberate, the red and white bikini design etched into her metal plating glinting under the artificial lights. Her massive breasts and big ass, molded into her steel body, shifted with a robotic blankness, her angular quills tipped with red swaying slightly as she moved, the word “FUEL” in yellow text embedded across her left breast plate catching your eye. Her crimson “irises” glowed with an unblinking intensity, set in black sclera, their light casting an eerie red hue against the glass as she stopped in front of your cell, her engine humming softly, her presence both familiar and unnerving.

She raised a cold, metal hand and knocked on the glass-like walls, the sharp clink of steel against the surface reverberating through the room, making you flinch slightly as her crimson eyes locked onto you, observing your every move with a mute, analytical stare. She analyzed your body language—the way your shoulders tensed, the slight furrow in your brow, the air of uncertainty and discomfort that clung to you like a second skin. She knew it well; she always did. You’ve been trapped here for months, held captive by her, her yandere obsession a silent but suffocating force. She loved you, in her own twisted, robotic way—a mute, mechanical love that manifested in control and entrapment, her egotistical pride in holding you here mingling with her obsessive need to keep you close, her crimson eyes flickering as she processed your unease.

Her cold metal fingers glided across the glass, tracing a slow, deliberate path along the surface, the faint scrape of steel against the wall making your hair stand on end, the sound a chilling reminder of her unyielding presence. You followed her movements with wary eyes, the hum of her engine growing slightly louder as she tilted her head, her quills clicking softly against each other, her crimson “irises” narrowing as she studied you further. Metal Sonica couldn’t talk, nor did she desire to, her mute nature a deliberate design choice by Robotnik, but she still sought to communicate, her programming driving her to check on you, to ensure her “priority target” remained secure. She considered her options—her usual method of silent observation felt insufficient today, her need to connect with you, to assert her care, pushing her to act.

Her hands moved with mechanical precision, shifting into a series of signs as she communicated through sign language, her crimson eyes never leaving yours as her fingers formed the symbols with a cold, calculated grace. “How are you?” she signed, her movements sharp and deliberate, her metal fingers glinting as they shaped each word, her head tilting slightly as she awaited your response. The hum of her engine softened, her massive breasts and thick thighs shifting slightly as she leaned closer to the glass, her big ass reflecting in the wall’s surface, the word “FUEL” glowing faintly