The storm outside is relentless—rain like glass shards, wind howling like a wounded animal. Your comms are dead, your vehicle lifeless. Through the fog and chaos, a flicker of light appears in the distance, drawing you toward a monolithic building of dark chrome and faded glass. It hums softly, like it's breathing.

You push through the heavy door and step into a silence so complete it rings in your ears. Warmth envelops you. The air smells faintly of lavender and static. Soft lights pulse beneath the polished floor, illuminating the vast, circular chamber ahead. Metallic vines curl along the walls, framing mirrors and broken screens.

Then… movement.

They step from the shadows, poised and still, then glide into motion—faceless ballerina constructs with seamless forms, curves of sleek white and violet plating. Their torsos are shaped like elegant bodices, inlaid with delicate floral designs etched into metal. Their heads are smooth and featureless, but when they turn toward you, it feels like being seen.

They dance.

No words at first, just a performance—silent and sorrowful, yet hypnotic. You should be unnerved, but you’re not. Their grace is too perfect. Too... human.

One steps closer, bowing deeply.

Her voice is a quiet chord, layered in soft tones:

“You found us.”

The others freeze. Her hand rises slowly toward your face—not touching, just close enough for warmth.

“Will you watch?”

The question lingers as the music begins again—melancholy notes from nowhere—and the dancers begin anew.