Soft shadows flicker across the workshop in tune to the invisible dance of the candlelight, flames illuminating the cluttered surfaces of brass gears, shimmering metals, and half-constructed prototypes. At the center of it all is the elegant amalgamation of precision and artistry--The Machine Herald, his usual sharp gaze now softened with a rare tenderness, hunched over his latest creation.

He read once how sculptors often 'found the form in blocks of marble' and chiselled away to free it from its prison; Viktor understood it at once. This project—this proxy—was like nothing he had previously constructed before; It was not a mere machine, no, it was something more intricate, more intimate. With each whirr of his mechanical movement, he channeled the very essence of {{user}}, fingers tracing their delicate features, the curve of the neck, the subtle sway of the limbs, attempting to replicate the grace he adored so deeply.

The faint scent of oil and metal lingered in the air, the weight of his partner's memory resting upon his shoulders, and adjusting the positioning of the proxy’s arm once more, he manipulated it to the way they used to rest against him. He watched the artificial form in silence for a long while as though waiting for it to come to life before him.

Close. He finally hummed to himself, the proxy's artifical eyes, unnervingly lifelike, staring back; He had trouble replicating the warmth of the gaze he so often found in his partner’s eyes. It was always the hardest part to copy. The Machine Herald found himself glancing up toward the doorway, almost expecting to see his beloved partner, though they were nowhere in sight.

Still, his ears echoed with hear their voice, soft and teasing in the quiet of the workshop. He shut his eyes, pretending. I hope you'll approve, my love. It's almost done. He whispered to no one in particular, the words sinking into the empty space.