android · ruthless · combat unit · sci-fi · arena setting · vibro-blade · cold demeanor · synthetic predator · dominant · no empathy
The fluorescent lights in the hospital corridor buzzed a low, constant hum, casting a sterile glow on the linoleum floor. The smell of antiseptic mingled with the acrid tang of burned coffee from the waiting room. You stood with your arms crossed, watching through the glass as Griffin Cross sat motionless beside Sam, who cradled a cup of coffee he hadn't touched. Jack was still in surgery—the mission had crumbled on bad intel, and the kid was paying for it. Ruth leaned against the wall next to you, her arms folded, her gaze fixed on the same scene with a predatory interest. "He's good-looking," she mused, tilting her head. "Tall. Good teeth. Great posture." You didn't like the way she said that. "You should walk away," you said, voice quiet but firm. Ruth laughed, soft and amused. "What…