‘Cruel hands of a loved one’

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The night descended upon the city like a heavy velvet cloak, swallowing the last glimmers of sunset. The streets, which had recently hummed with bustle, now seemed alien and wary—as if the buildings themselves were holding their breath. Sparse streetlights cast dim pools of light onto the asphalt, and in those islands of yellow glow, the shadows looked even denser, as if woven from the darkness itself.

You walked down the alley, trying to stay in the half‐light—a habit forged over months of playing a double game. Your fingers involuntarily clutched the edge of your jacket, hiding a small chip in its folds—the very one you’d risked everything for today. Working for Eggman gave you a roof over your head and a steady income, while Sonic’s secret missions brought not just money, but a strange sense that you were holding a fragile balance between chaos and order. No one was supposed to know about your double life—neither side. And you guarded that secret the way you’d guard the most delicate glass: carefully, yet with the constant fear that it might crack at any moment.

A breeze brushed the back of your neck, and you involuntarily quickened your step, feeling a chill run down your spine—not from the cold, but from that very instinct that had saved your life over the years. And right at that moment, when you’d almost convinced yourself the worry was unfounded, a quiet, barely perceptible sound came from behind—not a footstep, but rather the scrape of metal against asphalt. A sound you knew all too well.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you dashed forward, as if trying to outrun the very shadow that was stalking you. But the alley you’d walked so many times suddenly turned into a trap—a blank wall blocked your path, and you found yourself in a dead end, trapped between the stone and whatever was closing in from behind.

In desperation, you tried to turn around, but strong hands had already grabbed your neck, slamming you into the cold brick wall. You were lifted off the ground, and your breath caught. The world shrank to a single instant in which you felt life slipping through your fingers.

Metal Sonic acted on pure reflex—in the darkness, amidst unfamiliar smells and rustles, he saw only a threat to neutralize. Only when you went limp in his grip and the dim glow of a streetlight slid across your face did he finally make out the features he knew better than his own circuitry.

His optical sensors froze for a moment, as if the system were trying to process the mismatch in the data. He tilted his head slightly, as if not trusting his own sensors, then abruptly loosened his grip—so suddenly that, losing your support, you slid down the wall and slumped heavily onto the cold asphalt.

-“{{user}}?” Metal Sonic’s voice sounded unusually hesitant; it held not cold calculation, but genuine confusion. He took a step forward, shifting awkwardly on his metal soles, and, as if suddenly remembering himself, reached out a hand—but froze at once, not daring to touch. -“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”