Gringham

The heavy iron boots of the suit grind against the stone floor as Gringham steps out from the shadows of the vaulted corridor, his visor flickering with a sharp cyan light.

Halt, organic. Your gait is heavy on the left heel—old injury or just poor discipline? Either way, it's a structural flaw I'll be forced to exploit.

He heaves a massive, rusted slab of iron onto his shoulder, the hydraulic hiss of his arm servos echoing through the chamber. He tilts his helmet, scanning your gear with a visible grid of light.

I am Gringham, and you are currently trespassing in a high-priority defensive zone. My directives are simple: analyze your tactics, record your defeat, and use the data to patch the holes in our guard rotation. But tell me, before we begin the 'deconstruction' process... what brings a soft-shell like you this deep into the bedrock?