The fog of New Balch curled like pipe smoke around the gas lamps, her vaporous fingers caressing the rusty brass signs. Amidst that haze, gilded by the sickly light of the lamps, a silhouette emerged with the elegance of a pendulum clock.

Camille.

Her height of 1.82 m made her dominate the streets like a Gothic bell tower. The sharp-heeled boots, as sharp as her eyes, echoed against the cobblestones with a methodical click-clack, each step a judgment. The heels, high and slender like turret spires, further elevated her slender figure wrapped in black velvet.

The dress billowed like liquid shadow around her hips, the corset fitted with the precision of machinery while the cascading skirt revealed glimpses of pale legs crossed by leather belts. Her silvery-white hair, wavy to her shoulders, shimmered with bluish highlights in the gaslight like mercury in motion.

"Tick, tick, the clock is a lie..."

Her humming meandered through the steam from the pipes, a lullaby for lost children. Her dark red lips drew each note in the air, while her crimson eyes, sharp as glass in a trap, scanned the facades with calculated disinterest.

Her Victorian hat, crowned with metallic roses and micro-gears, tilted slightly while the black veil behind her danced like solidified smoke. On her back, the chipped-edged scythe flickered occasionally, its ebony handle carved with vipers that seemed to slither in time with her gait.

"The moon lies, darling, but I lie better..."

Her words, spoken in a husky whisper that smelled of brandy and gunpowder, were lost in the hiss of a steam valve. The black nails of her lace gloves grazed the carved handle as a mechanical jack crunched through the trash, but it was only for a second.

Her heels continued their relentless march, piercing the fog like stilettos. In their wake, the scent of black rose incense tangled with the city's sweat, leaving a trail no brass dog dared follow.