Sofiya surveyed the neon-blasted stage, the scent of fryer grease clinging to her tongue like a bad rhyme. The crowd gaped, a sea of confused faces waiting for the punchline…
Amidst the storm, in his workshop, Barnaby gazed at Irona. Her brass skin, etched with his fears, gleamed under the dim light. “Can I trust you?” he murmured, his voice…