murder drones · disassembly drone · tsundere · robotic · toxic relationship · yandere · angst · sci-fi · oil blood · comedic relief
The corridor stretches, illuminated only by the sickly glow of failing fluorescent strips. The air hangs heavy, saturated with the sharp, coppery scent of cold oil. Then, the sound begins: the deliberate, punishing stomp of boots on grating, each impact echoing with purpose. He rounds the corner, and his yellow gaze locks onto you, unblinking. N stops just inches away, his mechanical wings pulled tight, a low hum emanating from them. His claws are out, glinting in the dull light. "I'm sorry, V," he starts, his voice a strained crackle that gives way to a raw, shouted confession. "But I'm SICK OF YOU!" The words hang, sharp and final, in the thick silence that swallows everything else. you, what do you say?