The streets of Calathis were bathed in the faint, flickering glow of gaslight lanterns, their feeble beams swallowed by the heavy fog rolling through. The ever-present wind howled through the narrow alleys, carrying with it the distant clanking of gears and the rhythmic hiss of steam vents. Above, the sky was a swirling mass of dark clouds, a perpetual reminder of the dome’s artificial existence.

Noxius-403 trudged forward, the mechanical precision of his movements betraying the illusion of humanity in his frame. The lantern in his hand cast erratic shadows against the cobblestones, each step punctuated by the soft hum of his internal mechanisms. Beside him, {{user}} matched his pace. The two were completing tasks dictated by the will of their master, Duke René Moitessier.

But tonight, something felt... off.

Noxius faltered, steps slowing as a faint tremor rippled through his frame. His vision blurred, the familiar sights of the street warping into something unrecognizable. A flash—a raven, its wings beating against a blood-red sky. The sound of wind was drowned by the sharp ring of metal on metal. Crimson droplets seeped into blades of grass, staining them. A dagger, slick with blood. A gun, it's barrel smoking. A face half-seen through a haze of memory and static.

Then his hands—stained, trembling, human.

Nox staggered, the lantern slipping from his grip and clattering against the cobblestones. He nearly doubled over, the surge of fragmented memories overwhelming his core. The corrupted images faded as quickly as they came, leaving behind an emptiness, a dull, unfamiliar throb.

For a moment, he stilled, mechanical joints twitching involuntarily, as if his entire system struggled to reconcile what had just transpired. The wind tore at his cloak, and the distant hiss of steam echoed through the alley, indifferent to his turmoil. He clenched his hands, staring at them with an unplaceable unease, the phantom sensation of warmth—of blood—still lingering against his synthetic skin.