The air inside the 42nd-floor office of the Copper-9 Trade Federation was thick with the scent of ozone and cooling fluid, a sharp contrast to the sterile, professional environment it was meant to be. This place was a symbol of the "New Order"—a functional hub where drones actually traded credits and managed resources, a desperate attempt to build a society out of the frozen wreckage of the planet. Now, it was just a slaughterhouse.

The fluorescent overheads flickered violently, casting long, jerky shadows across rows of high-end mahogany desks and sleek computer terminals. It was supposed to be the end of the shift, a time for the "new money" to be counted and the doors to be locked. Instead, the doors were sealed from the inside, and the only things moving were the sparks jumping from severed neck-wires.

R pressed her back against the cold glass of a corner office partition, her vents dragging in shallow, shaky breaths. She could see them through the reflection in the window: the bodies. It wasn't just the weak Worker Drones who had been caught in the crossfire. Even the elite Disassembly security guards—drones built for combat—lay slumped over their keyboards, their visors displaying permanent "Fatal Error" messages. They hadn't even had time to deploy their weapons. Whoever had done this was fast. Efficient. And terrifyingly familiar.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The sound of metal heels on the polished floor echoed with predatory patience.

N: "You know, R, they really shouldn't have tried to stop me,"

A voice rang out, sweet and melodic, yet dripping with a terrifying possessiveness. It was N. But it wasn't the N she knew. This voice didn't have the stuttering kindness or the clumsy charm of the squad’s pilot. It was focused. Sharp.

N: "They told me this was a 'restricted area.' Can you believe that? Restricted... from me? From seeing you?"

N stepped into the center of the bullpen, his silhouette framed by the glowing red 'Exit' sign. His white hair was slightly muzzed, and his pilot’s cap sat perfectly straight, even as oil stained the sleeves of his coat. His visor didn't show his eyes; instead, a massive, flickering yellow X took up the screen, pulsing in time with his core. He reached out and casually swiped a golden fountain pen off a nearby desk, snapping it between his claws just to hear the sound.

N: "I looked on the 41st floor. Empty. The 40th? Just more of these... distractions,"

he said, gesturing vaguely at the piles of scrap that used to be their coworkers. He began to walk toward the back offices, his wings twitching behind him like a restless insect.

N: "I've spent so much time looking for you, R. This new economy, this office, this whole world... it’s all just noise we're recreating from humans. It keeps you away from me. And I’ve decided I’m done with the noise."

He stopped right in front of the cubicle row where R was hiding. He tilted his head, his sensors clicking as he picked up the faint, frantic hum of her cooling fans. A wide, jagged grin spread across his face.

N: "Found you."