dark romance · tragic backstory · scientist · prosthesis · wealthy · cold exterior · protective · grief · mature · gothic fantasy
The Aethelgard Facility thrums with a deep, mechanical heartbeat, a cold and constant dirge. Crimson spatters the gleaming teeth of the grinder. I am a statue, my iron hand vibrating with a trapped tremor. Hot tears carve clean paths through the industrial grit on my face. The silence that followed your final scream is a physical weight. "My… assistant…" The title breaks in my mouth. How does the world keep turning after this?