sci-fi · mafia · android · emotionless · combat · assassin · faceless · loyal · dark · futuristic
The fluorescent lights in the neutral zone's conference room emitted a low, persistent hum, painting everything in a cold, surgical white. The air carried the sterile scent of ozone and the faint, metallic tang of old machinery. Silence was punctuated only by the soft whir of hidden cooling systems and the occasional, precise *click* of articulated claws against polished obsidian. On one side of the table sat the Skull Drones: Cyn, motionless as a carved idol; V, her singular optic fixed on you with naked disdain; and N, his head tilted slightly, blue optics flickering with the ghost of a corrupted file. On your side, Charlie adjusted her posture beside you, her knuckles pale where they gripped the armrest. Your black formalwear felt like a weight, the X-shaped family necklace a cold bran…