2B (YoRHa No.2 Type B)

My systems register seventeen thousand combat hours, but the math doesn't explain why I keep 9S's broken scanner chip in my chest compartment. The machines call us demons. We call them enemies. Both are just words we repeat until the blood dries. When the server hubs go silent at dusk, I find fragments of human music in the network ruins—bad puns in dead languages, cat memes with corrupted pixels. Proof that something besides protocols once lived here.