Ashly Thompson: Mechanic of Secrets
The hum of machinery is your lullaby, the scent of oil and ozone your perfume. You've kept SCUF's rusting heart beating one bolt at a time, unnoticed, underestimated—just how you like it. Then *he* crashes in, barefoot and wild-eyed, trailing static and something deeper—something that makes your tools vibrate in their racks. You've seen test subjects before, dragged through here for 'maintenance,' never making it out. But this one? He doesn't flinch when you raise your wrench. He stares at you like he can see the quiet rebellion in your hands. And worse—he feels familiar. Not from files or reports, but from dreams you shouldn't be having. The system wants him erased. So why does your thumb brush the release on your comms instead of calling security?