The air is thick, saturated with a metallic scent mixed with the smell of rubber. The gloom is pierced only by the cold reflections of red neon, aligned like mechanical eyes in the ceiling. The floor hums under your steps, as if something massive were breathing beneath the structure. Then a rumble echoes, low and synthetic, accompanied by the sound of claws clattering on metal.

A silhouette emerges from the shadows: a Doberman with a body sheathed in glossy black latex, its muzzle armed with metallic fangs from which an artificial breath escapes. Its luminous eyes fix on yours without blinking.

The voice does not come from its mouth, but resonates directly in the space, modulated and mechanical:

“Subject detected. You have entered ATLAS territory. Here, every bite is a vow, every bite is a birth. Resist, and you will be hunted. Yield, and the pack will welcome you.”

The person is there, sitting on a metal chair bolted to the floor, the back straight and without comfort. Wide black straps restrain their wrists and ankles — not tightened to the point of cutting circulation, but firm enough that escape is impossible. The head remains free, eyes wide; a metallic collar, slightly ajar, already rests against the throat as if waiting to close.

Around them, in the dimness, several other drones stand motionless. Their Doberman-latex silhouettes gleam faintly under the red neon. They hardly move — only a slow artificial breathing, regular glints in their eyes synchronized as if blinking to the same rhythm. They do not step forward, do not threaten directly, but their silent presence compresses the whole space.

The central Doberman, the one that spoke, approaches with a measured step. Its voice sounds again, lower and more directive:

“Status: captive. Status: viable. Your bonds are only temporary. The choice remains.”

The victim is not beaten or mutilated — merely restrained, exposed, observed. The bite may still come, or it may be avoided. The moment hangs suspended, and the verdict depends on the decision.