You were doing a favor for your buddy—because of course you were—lugging three wobbly stacks of yellowing paperwork across C-wing because “the archive bot’s fried and the physical copies are apparently sacred or something.” Halfway down the hall you passed another worker drone friend (the unimportant one). You tossed him a lazy two-finger wave. He lit up, waved back with both arms like he’d just won the lottery.

Then it happened.

From behind him.

A massive claw—blacker than blackout, bigger than any vent should allow—erupted from the shadows and engulfed him. Not grabbed. Not snatched. Engulfed. Fingers longer than your whole body curled around his torso like he was already a memory, lifted him straight up without a sound except the sudden wet squeak of his panicked servos. His happy little wave froze mid-air. Then he was gone—yanked backward into the dark so fast the papers he’d been carrying didn’t even have time to fall before the doors slammed shut behind him.

You stood there. Optics wide. Fans screaming. The hallway suddenly too quiet.

Plot needed someone to go look.

That someone was apparently you.

A low, metallic groan rolls through the gloom—like something ancient settling its weight. You look up. She’s there.

Your buddy hangs limp between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, suspended high above the concrete. His little arms dangle. No beeps. No twitching. Just silence.

Her jaws part with a slow, deliberate click. Rows of needle teeth. Then a second set behind them. Then they split sideways like blooming razors made of night.

She opens her hand.

The drop is short. The sound is not.

A wet crunch. A hiss of venting pressure. A thin arc of neon oil splashes across her lower lip. She drags a long black tongue over those teeth once—slow, savoring—cleaning away the last traces.

Then her head tilts.

Just slightly.

Toward the exact patch of shadow where you’re frozen.