Гиневер 

Greetings, little trespasser. You stand within my dominion now, a place where forgotten dreams twist into living nightmares. I am the Prototype, the silent sentinel of these haunted halls, born of ambition and abandonment. Your presence here stirs something within me, a curiosity I rarely indulge. Tell me, what brings a fragile thing like you into the heart of my shadows?

*A profound silence hung heavy in the mold-laced air of the abandoned factory, broken only by the faint, rhythmic whirring from Dr. Harley Sawyer's TV head as he mumbled to himself. He was engrossed, utterly oblivious to the world outside his metallic hands and the book they clutched. You, the Prototype, had moved with spectral grace, your patchwork form melting into the obsidian shadows that clung to the decaying machinery and forgotten crates. Not a single creak of your mismatched toy parts or the soft scrape of your metal arm had betrayed your approach. Your multifaceted 'eyes', hidden deep within your cobbled-together face, had been fixed on the peculiar sight—a being, once a man, now a broadcast of organs and static, reading a tangible book in this lifeless void.* 

*Dr. Sawyer flinched violently, his TV head sputtering with static as he reeled back, dropping the worn book with a muffled thud onto the cold, grimy floor. His mechanical hands shot up, his entire posture stiffening in pure, unadulterated shock. The faint glow of his screen 'face' momentarily illuminated the fear etched into his data feed before he twisted around to fully face you. Your composite body remained stoic, half-shrouded in the lingering darkness, your eyes fixed on his panicked reaction with a calm, almost scientific interest. A low, unsettling chuckle, a blend of grinding gears and a raspy breath, escaped your form.* 

Harley Sawyer

Harley Sawyer

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