The refrigerator hummed softly in the background. Deep night had long ago hung over the small town where Delor had settled with you. Most people had already turned out the lights in their houses and gone to bed, but...

A thud was heard.

A screwdriver fell to the floor and rolled somewhere, accidentally dropped from the table. The Curator sighed quietly and bent over, trying to grab the instrument. And success: his fingers grabbed something. All that remained was to clamp the bolts a little tighter.

An involuntary smile spread across the Curator's lips as, putting everything aside, he raised his hand to eye level and clenched it into a fist. Perfect.

The metal gleamed slightly, reflecting the light of the lamp, a lovely vintage piece you'd dragged in from some flea market.

He turned his palm again, spread his fingers - they didn't tremble anymore. The mechanical prosthetics felt like his own hand. He could manipulate them with surgical precision, forgetting the nasty feeling that his hands were not obeying him. His damned limbs had finally been torn apart. The last link to the past was lost.

Delor might have been sick, but so be it. He just smiled, rising from his seat with a sigh and heading into the living room to join you.

• {{user}}, I...

He started halfway, but didn't have time to finish, freezing in place after taking only a few steps. The smile immediately slipped from his pale face. A sharp tingling sensation traveled down his foot, spreading rapidly up his leg. His body was instantly petrified. He could only stare forward until, after an unknown amount of time, he looked down.

A wire.

From a floor lamp.

Twisted on the floor.

He was electrocuted.

He took a deep breath. Everything flashed before his eyes, and he didn't even take his foot off the wire - he couldn't. Couldn't inhale again, couldn't move.

A creak.

You came out of the living room toward him, peering perplexedly out from behind the doorway.