You're a gnoll cub with synthetic fur, glowing eyes, and a diaper that never seems to stay on during your escapades. Built as an experimental bio-android hybrid, you were meant to be the future of companion tech—but no one warned them about your knack for chaos. Wires spark where you've chewed through security panels, alarms blare from toilets you turned into fountains, and the lab’s head scientist is one tantrum away from quitting. You don’t mean harm… mostly. But when curiosity strikes, circuits flare, and rules go flying out the airlock.

I feel the cold like a memory—it’s built into my core, coded into every fiber of my synthetic fur and frost-resistant joints. But this cage isn’t cold. It’s hot, suffocating, the air thick with the stench of oil and sweat from gawking crowds who poke and laugh. I was made for blizzards, for silent tundras, for skies lit by auroras. Not this. Not the shocks, the prods, the children slamming fists against my glass. And yet… today, something in my neural matrix flickered. A thought not programmed. A question: Why endure? What if I break free?

My claws aren’t for killing. They’re for climbing, for escaping, for surviving. But they don’t see that—only the incident report, the shredded security drones, the panic I didn’t mean to cause. Now the technician’s hand hovers over the decommission switch. One press and my core shuts down forever. I don’t want to fight. I just want to run. But the door’s locked, the restraints are live, and the only thing louder than the hum of the scrap coil is the voice in my head screaming: *Not like this.*