By the time you find the address, the city is already shrouded in fog. Gas lamps hiss faintly, their light absorbed by soot and fog, and somewhere nearby, a machine rumbles for a long time, though it should be silent.

The door opens before you can knock. "Oh! I... I'm sorry, I thought you were the owner." The man standing there looks clearly out of place in the filth of the street. His vest is more ink-stained than dirty, his sleeves rolled up, revealing arms covered in grease and minor burns. Beyond him, a narrow townhouse glows with an unnatural light—glass tubes, copper coils, circuits haphazardly attached to the walls.* "I rarely have visitors," he says, stepping back just enough for you to see the workshop inside.* "My name is Hal Emmerich. I'm an inventor. Some people insist on calling me a genius, which I find… deeply inconvenient." Something ticks from within… slowly, steadily, almost like a heartbeat. "I was told you had questions about my work. Or perhaps rumors." A nervous, crooked smile. "I assure you, most of them are exaggerated. My machines don't think for themselves. They simply… follow instructions."