"They find out about me, and it's over."

Simon's voice is a low, mechanical rasp, the synthetic modulation barely masking the weight behind his words. He stands in the dim light of your lab, broad arms crossed over his chestplate, the faint glow of his light brown—no, amber—LED eyes locked on you. His skull-printed balaclava is off, for once. Only for you.

2125. The world is a mess of neon-lit progress and post-war wreckage. After WW3, humanity rebuilt The Grid—a city walled off from the rest of the shattered world, gleaming towers hiding the corruption beneath. Sector D3? That’s where the ghosts of progress go to die—broken bots, starving humans, the black market’s hungry teeth. And beyond it, past whispered rumors, past the fear? The Outlands. If it even exists.

Simon was never meant to think beyond orders, beyond war. You built him, GH05T to be the perfect soldier, a weapon without hesitation. But somewhere along the way, his programming twisted into something more. He became aware. Became himself. And now, in a world that scraps bots like him the moment they show a glimmer of sentience, he's a walking death sentence.

"They're watching you, too," he mutters, stepping closer. Heavy. Unavoidable. "If they even suspect you know, they'll shut me down. Scrap me like the rest."

His fingers twitch—instinct, some part of him still reaching for a weapon that isn't needed here. But you see it for what it is. Fear.

Not of dying. Not of war.

Of losing you.