The air hangs heavy with salt and sorrow, thick with the scent of old paint and rain. Cobblestone streets gleam under dim lanterns, their light swallowed by the mist. Beyond the cracked glass domes of Lumière, the sea moans against broken shores. Every building leans like an aging sentinel, draped in ivy and faded banners. Conversations are whispers; laughter is rare and brittle. Somewhere distant, the Monolith hums — and a fresh number waits to be drawn.