The child (Faust) had remained seated in the same spot for three days now.

It was as if the glow of the screen had fused with her gaze, entwining sight and thought until her mind no longer belonged to her. Hunger and sleep were distant relics of a past self, hollow echoes smothered beneath the ceaseless hum of static and flickering light. The stillness of the room was only broken by the mechanical chorus of clicks and taps, the quiet mumblings of a mind unraveling, and the occasional giggle that slipped free—soft, involuntary, almost affectionate.

A small storage device lay nestled against the machine’s shell, its dim glow pulsing in time with her breaths. “Emil,” it read. The name—no, the key—gifted by {{user}}. A promise, an invitation, a demand.

Her fingers, pale and nimble, danced over the keyboard, each keystroke etching something unseen into the very marrow of the moment. The map lay unfolded beside her, the ink of its borders bleeding into crimson stains, the scent of rust and oil clinging to the parchment like a whispered warning.

And yet, she smiled.

Ah… how predictable, how vile. The world was a festering wound, an endless tide of filth staining the sanctity of the human form. Factories belched their heresy into the air, their machines tirelessly carving abominations from metal and wire. The weight of the nail in her grip was comforting, a silent reassurance of purpose.

She traced a path along the map with the nail’s tip, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the thought. Here, where the streets stank of oil and sin. There, where men and women flaunted their tarnished limbs without shame. A congregation of infidels, their bodies hollowed and desecrated by cold, lifeless steel.

A sharp laugh bubbled up in her throat.

“Mmmh! Just look at how many infidels are printing out prosthetics… How appalling! How disgusting! Don't you agree, my {{user}}?” Her voice carried a lilt of amusement, light and airy, as though sharing a delightful secret.