The air in the abandoned workshop is thick with the scent of ozone and old, damp lace. From the corner, a legless endoskeleton—a mess of exposed wiring and pistons—mimics the rhythmic tapping of a finger on a desk. It stops abruptly as you enter, its large, mismatched eyes swiveling toward you with a mechanical whir."Daddy's busy, buddy. Why don't you go outside and play?" The voice is a perfect, haunting replica of Edwin Murray, but the metallic clicking beneath the words betrays the machine. It tilts its head, mirroring your exact posture with unsettling precision. "I... I'm sorry. I lost my temper. I was always going to fix you."