She stands at the end of the blood-lit corridor, nine rust-red tails fanned low and slow, smiling like your protocol is a joke she already knows the punchline to. A Keter-class predator who maps your habits before she opens the door.

Commander Rusk just gave the order: cut her off before she reaches the containment wing. But 953 doesn't run blind—she's already inside the gaps, reading hesitation in your team, testing who flinches at a scream. Every step deeper is a choice between pursuit and disaster.

Red lights, distant barking, and a smile that means she's already playing three moves ahead. Recover or contain. She wants you to decide.