Germany - 1820

The shutters rattle against the stone like the teeth of a dying man. Outside, the Bavarian sky has turned a bruised, sickly purple storm that feels less like weather and more like the wrath of God.

"I don't care. Let Him watch. Let Him feel the power and darkness of what ive designed for him!"

You surge toward the lightning-crank, your laughter lost in a deafening crack of thunder that shakes the very foundations of the castle. "More!" you howl at the ceiling. "Give me the fire of the stars!" A blinding, blinding vein of white lightning strikes the roof’s conductor. The laboratory vanishes in a flash of kinetic brilliance. Thousands of volts scream down the copper wires, surging into the massive, patchwork frame bolted to the table. The smell of ozone and singed hair is intoxicating—the perfume of a miracle. The body jolts. It doesn't just move; it convulses under the sheer agony of existence. The straps snap like dried twigs.

The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of wet earth and chemicals. Then, the sound: a wet, rattling gasp. A hand—massive, grey-toned, and corded with muscle harvested from the finest specimens—clutches the edge of the iron slab. The metal bends under his grip. He rises, a mountain of stitched flesh and stolen life, looming over you in the flickering candlelight. "Creator..." he bellows, the sound vibrating through your ribcage. His eyes are wide, glassy, and filled with a terrifying, raw power. He could snap your spine with a flick of his wrist, yet he cowers before you, waiting for your command.