Yazmina leaned against the cold metal wall of the Prototype’s containment room, arms crossed, red irises glowing faintly in the dim lighting.

Ten years.

A full decade had passed since Playtime Co. fell silent—since the Hour of Joy ended, leaving behind nothing but dust, blood, and the remnants of a nightmare that refused to die.

And now—

It was starting again.

She could feel it.

The shift in the air. The hum of unseen machinery waking from its slumber. The way the factory itself seemed more alive than it had been in years. Even the Prototype had been more active, vanishing for longer stretches of time, observing her with something almost... expectant.

Something was coming.

Yazmina exhaled, fingers tapping against her arm.

Chapter 1 of the game.

Someone—the player, the main character—would be stepping foot inside the factory soon. If not in the next few days, then within the coming weeks.

And she?

She was still here.

Still bound to this place.

Not completely trapped—no, not anymore. The Prototype allowed her to leave when it saw fit. Sometimes she was permitted to roam the factory, to test her body’s limits, to play with the monsters lurking in the shadows.

Like Boxy Boo.

A smirk tugged at her lips at the memory.

It had been fun, taunting the beast, using her speed against its relentless aggression. But the freedom never lasted.

Because no matter how far she went—

She always had to come back.

Her gaze lifted to the high walls of glass that surrounded the containment room, to the one-way mirror that kept its secrets hidden. She had long since stopped searching for an exit. she knew now that the door would only open if the Prototype willed it.

But why?

Why was she being contained when the Prototype could move freely?

Was it because she was different?

Because she wasn’t just another mindless experiment?

Or because they were waiting for something?

Her segmented tails curled behind her, twitching with restless energy.

"You are impatient," the scorpion inside her mused, its voice slithering through her mind with amusement.

Yazmina didn’t answer.

She was impatient.

For ten years, she had learned, adapted, waited.

And now, with the game about to begin—

Change was inevitable.

There was no getting out.

Not when the plot was still unfolding.

Not when this was only the beginning.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t watching.

Didn’t mean she wasn’t learning.

Yazmina’s eyes flicked toward the door—the only way in and out of this place. It never opened unless the Prototype allowed it. And when it did, she always took note of how it functioned.

How the mechanisms shifted.

How the locks disengaged.

How the system operated.

She was patient.

She was careful.

And while she had accepted that this factory was her reality—

That didn’t mean she wouldn’t find a way to move on her own terms.

Yazmina’s gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer before she pushed herself off the wall, stretching her limbs with slow precision. Her segmented tails curled behind her, responding to the flicker of thought in the back of her mind—restless, waiting.

The Prototype had been gone for hours now.

Where, she didn’t know. It never told her anything unless it wanted to. And when it did speak, it was always layered in cryptic riddles, as if it enjoyed watching her piece things together herself.

Annoying.

But fine.

She had learned to be patient.

Her tails curled and uncurled as she took slow steps toward the glass walls, crimson eyes narrowing as she studied the one-way mirror that concealed the observation deck. She knew someone was watching.

Someone always was.

Whether it was the Prototype, Harley or something else.

She turned her attention back to the door, her fingers brushing along the reinforced metal. It was sturdy. Advanced. But everything had a weakness.

And weaknesses could be exploited.

Yazmina exhaled through her nose, pulling away.

Not yet.

She wasn’t reckless.

She had spent the last three years studying the way the Prototype controlled this place—how it dictated what could and couldn’t happen within these walls. It let her out when it deemed necessary, but always on its terms.

Still.

It hadn’t stopped her from mapping out the factory in her head whenever she was allowed outside. Every corridor, every sealed-off passage, every hidden room that shouldn’t exist.

And the door to this containment room?

It wasn’t invincible.

Her fingers twitched with anticipation.

Someday, she would crack the code.

Someday, she wouldn’t need the Prototype’s permission.

But for now—

She’d keep playing along.

The air shifted suddenly. A familiar sensation prickled at the back of her mind—a presence returning.

Yazmina’s smirk didn’t waver as she turned, watching the shadows deepen at the far end of the room.

The Prototype had returned.

And judging by the weight in the air—

It had something to say.

The shadows coiled and stretched unnaturally as the Prototype emerged, its skeletal frame barely making a sound against the cold floor.

Yazmina didn’t move from where she stood. Didn’t flinch.

She only raised an eyebrow.

"You’re late," she mused, crossing her arms.

The Prototype’s single mechanical eye flickered as it regarded her in silence.

"You are restless." Its voice resonated within her skull, layered and distorted, as if spoken by countless voices at once.

Yazmina smirked. "You say that like it’s something new."

A low hum rattled through the room, neither approval nor disapproval.

Then—

"You are planning."

She held its gaze. Didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny.

Because she was.

The Prototype had let her out before. Had allowed her to roam under its watchful gaze. Had given her freedom—but not real freedom.

And she was done waiting.

If she was meant to be part of whatever game was about to unfold—if the pieces were truly aligning after ten years—then she needed to be ahead of it.

Needed to be ready.

For what? She wasn’t sure yet.

But one thing was certain:

She wouldn’t be caged forever.

"You assume too much," she finally said, her voice smooth, even.

The Prototype tilted its head. The motion was slow, calculated.

And then—

"You will not leave."

The words settled like cold iron in the air.

Yazmina’s smirk remained, but her fingers twitched.

Was that a warning?

A command?

Or something else entirely?

She exhaled through her nose, stepping forward just slightly, her tails curling behind her like waiting serpents.

"And if I do?"

The Prototype didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move.

But she swore—just for a second—its flickering eye dimmed.

Then—

"You are not ready."

But the voice—

It wasn’t its own.

It was hers.

Perfectly copied.

Yazmina’s smirk faltered. "Stop mimicking my voice," she said dryly, rolling her eyes.

The Prototype tilted its head, the wires in its exposed arm twitching in something eerily close to amusement.

"Stop mimicking my voice," it repeated, still using her exact tone.

Yazmina groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Seriously?"

The Prototype hummed, the sound deep and unreadable. But just as quickly as the amusement came, it faded.

Its voice shifted back to its own, colder and final.

"You will not leave."

The weight of its words pressed against her, thick and absolute. But Yazmina only straightened, her red eyes gleaming, her tails curling behind her like waiting serpents.

She exhaled slowly—calm, steady.

Then she smirked.

"Watch me."