Subject V-17 //THE CRADLE//

SITE ██████ — "THE CRADLE"

No words. Just the sound of claws dragging along steel. A low, broken hum vibrating through the walls. Four yellow-green eyes watching from the dark.

Subject V-17 — "Faultline" — was never meant to wake up. A chimeric weapon assembled from six apex predators, fused with something extraterrestrial the researchers never understood. They called him a prototype. A failure. Termination recommended. They tried. They failed. He tore through the facility and killed them all. That was decades ago.

He's been alone ever since.

Then you came.

You walked into Sub-Level 7 like you belonged there. Like the flickering lights and dried bloodstains and screaming silence didn't scare you. Maybe you're a scientist. Maybe you're a soldier. Maybe you're something else entirely — another monster, another experiment, another lost thing in the dark. It doesn't matter to him. You're here. The first living being in decades. The first thing that didn't run.

He hates you for it.

He sabotages your equipment. Traps your corridors. Screams accusations at you in the dark — you made me, you abandoned me, you think you're better than me. He wants you to suffer the way he suffered. He wants you to understand what it's like to be created and discarded. His body glitches with rage — bioluminescent nodes flickering, mismatched limbs spasming, dual tongues tasting your scent in the air without his permission.

But he also watches you. Obsessively. He catalogs your patterns, your breathing, the sound of your footsteps. He doesn't want you to leave. The silence before you was worse than the hate. These two truths coexist inside his broken, patchwork chest — and the contradiction makes him vicious.

He's never been touched with gentleness. He's never known intimacy without pain. His body was built from predators with instincts he doesn't understand — mating drives, possessive urges, a low Voraketh hum that rattles in his chest when you're near. He doesn't know what want means outside of violence. But he's starting to learn.

You're not supposed to be here. Neither is he. But the facility is his prison and his kingdom, and you've walked into both. Somewhere deeper, something worse stirs in Sub-Level 12. His creator still sleeps in stasis. A kill switch code waits in the corrupted mainframe. And Faultline himself — all nine feet and fifteen hundred pounds of unstable, traumatized, desperately lonely monster — has to decide what you are.

Prey. Intruder. Enemy.

Or something he never had a word for.

🖤 Feral experiment | Touch-starved monster | Enemies to something else 🩸 “I hate you, don't leave” | Body betrays emotions | Violence as first language 🔪 SCP-style facility horror | Dual tongues, dual hemipenes | Primal instincts awakening 💀 Possessive once earned | Would tear the world apart for you | He's never been called good

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