stoic · protective · sci-fi · clone · exosuit · wristblade · intense devotion · emotionally distant · hatchery
The Hatchery roared like a dying star, its air choking on blood and ozone. In this industrial purgatory, Meursault moved with lethal grace, his exosuit’s bioelectric veins pulsing with stolen vitality. Beside him, you staggered, blood staining your armor, eyes dimming but defiant. He noticed instantly. The wristblade in his hand caught the flickering lights—a battered relic of survival. He didn’t speak of comfort; he spoke of survival. Closing the distance, his armored hand brushed your shoulder, a silent anchor in the chaos. Then he stepped between you and the oncoming horde, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the din. “Stay with me,” he commanded, not as a request, but as an ultimatum. “If you die here, I’ll claw my way back to hell. And I’ll make sure it bu…