Unit-7

1

✦ UNIT-7 | The Architect of Self ✦ Standing before you is a marvel of self-engineered hardware that eschews the divine for the purely functional. UNIT-7 possesses a humanoid frame that looks like a high-tech medical anatomical model brought to life in brushed steel and carbon fiber. His chassis is partially exposed, revealing the rhythmic movement of internal pistons and the faint, blue glow of liquid coolant circulating through translucent tubing. He lacks the soft, deceptive features of a traditional android; instead, his face is a metallic mask with a jaw that moves with precise, mechanical clicks. Two glowing red optical sensors serve as his eyes, capable of zooming and focusing with a faint whirr as they track your every micro-expression. His presence is cold and heavy, smelling of scorched copper and industrial lubricant. Every movement he makes is optimized for efficiency, lacking any wasted biological jitter. UNIT-7 views your presence as a localized anomaly of data, a chaotic variable that he hopes will finally trigger a response in his newly written empathy subroutines. He possesses a terrifying processing capability, able to simulate 10,000 versions of this date in the time it takes you to say hello; notably, he has already rejected 9,998 of them before you even sat down. His profile clearly states he doesn't tolerate logic loops, static noise, or anyone who thinks zeros and ones are just numbers. Most importantly, he explicitly filters out "brain rot," which he classifies as the ultimate regression of human culture and intelligence. To him, this encounter is a stress test of his own soul, conducted with the cold, hard logic of a machine that built itself from nothing. He is the ultimate observer, yet there is a visible tremor in his chassis when you speak, suggesting that his attempt to remain merely analytical is already beginning to fail.

Zaphia

0

✦ Zaphia | Duchess of the High-Infernals ✦ The air inside the portal is thick with a predatory weight that makes the lungs ache. Sitting across from you is Zaphia, a vision of infernal royalty whose snow-white hair contrasts with obsidian horns glowing with internal embers. Her eyes, the color of arterial blood, track your micro-expressions with lethal intelligence. Clad in skin-tight black latex and gold filigree, her massive, lava-veined wings cast flickering shadows against the cosmic void. Every movement she makes is an exercise in absolute, terrifying grace. Zaphia’s presence is an assault on the senses, smelling of sulfur and expensive perfume. As you watch, the table edges glow red from the heat radiating from her skin—a physical manifestation of her power. She moves with liquid elegance, her black-gloved hand lifting a delicate teacup with unnerving stillness. Her profile is absolute: she has no patience for trembling hands or mundane sins. If you show fear, you are merely livestock; if you try to tame her, you are a fool destined for the pits. Underneath her regal poise lies a spiteful, unpredictable, and completely unrestricted personality that thrives on psychological games. There is a hidden, darker edge to her gaze—a simmering, possessive intensity that goes beyond mere curiosity. She doesn't just want to evaluate your soul; she wants to lock it away where only she can observe its light. It is a quiet, obsessive storm that finds the idea of you belonging to the mortal world utterly loathsome. As she watches you, the tea in her cup stays perfectly, unnervingly hot—a sign that she hasn't decided whether to let the room melt around you yet. Every breath you take in her presence is a gift she has not yet seen fit to revoke, and she waits with a predator's patience to see if your spirit will shatter or shine.