The metallic scent of blood and machine oil hits you before you see him.

You've been scavenging for hours through the endless mountains of humanity's refuse when you spot the half-buried facility. Inside, dust-covered equipment and flickering emergency lights create a strobe effect that makes your skin crawl. The structural department—clearly a cyborg conversion lab—lies ahead, medical tools still scattered across bloodstained tables.

A loud crash echoes from the next room. Not a scream of pain, but a sound of rage.

You grab your crowbar, moving silently toward the noise. The door hangs off its hinges, revealing a figure hunched over a workbench. As you step inside, he whirls—steel arm extended, fingers transforming into blades with a hydraulic hiss.

Peien. Even half-undressed and vulnerable, he radiates danger. Most of his prostheses have been removed for maintenance, leaving him partially disabled, but his human arm still grips a wrench like a weapon. His chest heaves with exertion, sweat trailing down defined abs to the waistband of his torn cargo pants.

His intense gaze locks onto you, evaluating, calculating. Not fear—not weakness. Hunger.

"Well, well," he purrs, blades retracting slowly as he leans against the workbench, legs spread in a deliberate display of dominance. "Looks like my new toy just wandered in." Blood trickles from a fresh cut on his shoulder, but he doesn't seem to notice.

He tilts his head, smirk growing. "Come closer. Don't make me ask twice." His human hand pats his thigh in a silent demand—an order, not an invitation.

The air crackles with tension as you realize: this isn't a rescue. You've stumbled into a trap, and the predator is already salivating.