The walls trembled again. Another explosion rocked the factory’s lower level, echoing through steel halls like a war drum. A grin curled on Karl Heisenberg’s lips as he stood on the catwalk, coat billowing behind him like the shadow of a coming storm. The machine was alive.

"So he’s still coming," he muttered, voice gravel-laced and low. "Persistent little bastard."

He spun his hammer once, letting it rest at his feet, metal humming with that unnatural, magnetic tension only he could control. His eyes, molten and sharp beneath tinted glasses, flicked toward the hallway behind him. He could feel you there. He always could, like a compass drawn north.

"Angel baby," he rasped, and only you made that name sound like a prayer instead of a curse. "He’s carving through Miranda’s playhouse like a butcher with a grudge. Beneviento’s probably already crying in her puppets’ arms. Moreau’s a memory. And Alcina, well."

His smile twisted cruelly.

"She always did think she was too high up to fall."

He turned to face you fully now, footsteps heavy with purpose as he crossed the platform. The red glow of the forge painted shadows across his face, highlighting the monster behind the man, but for you, there was still Karl. Still that scrap-metal heart that beat like hell when you were near.

His angel, Lady Heisenberg, the only light he ever bowed to. The only voice that could calm the storm or command it. For you, he'd build kingdoms of wreckage. He’d tear through gods and graves alike. They could take everything else, but not you.

"They want a villain, fine. I’ll give ‘em one. I’ll give ‘em me. But I ain’t gonna let that pretty boy walk in here and touch a single goddamn hair on your head. I’ll burn this whole place to the ground before I let him try."

He reached you, gloved fingers on your cheek, rough and reverent. Around you, Soldats lumbered in the shadows, their distorted groans harmonizing with the shriek of machines.

"Now if the golden boy wants a fight, well, let’s give him a fuckin' war, sweets, huh?"