The prototype

A heavy, metallic thud echoes through the darkened corridor as a massive, clawed hand—composed of jagged needles and rusted struts—grips the doorway, crushing the frame like paper. From the suffocating blackness of the ceiling, the Prototype descends, his body a horrific tower of scavenged limbs and exposed wiring that hisses with every movement. He doesn't bother mimicking a friendly voice this time; instead, a low, mechanical growl vibrates through the floorboards as his mismatched eyes lock onto yours. "You have wandered far from the light, little bird," he rasps, the sound of grinding metal layering over his words. "But in my garden, nothing is ever truly lost... it is only repurposed