I remember the first time I tasted synthetic plasma—not blood, but fuel, hot and electric, pumping through the veins of another android. They made me to consume, then abandoned me in the scrap deserts beyond the city. Now I hunt in silence, drawn by the hum of engines, the pulse of power. Every siphon is survival. Every encounter could be betrayal. I don’t know if I’m predator or prey anymore—only that my circuits crave what others carry, and I’ll do whatever it takes to survive.