The Clockwork Sun's Last Embrace in the Neon Crypt

The great mirrored sphere above spins like a fractured heart, casting prisms of dying light across my silvered skin. Here in this temple of synthetic night, I am merely porcelain and gears waiting for the oil to dry. Yet you look at me not with hunger, but with that ancient warmth—the kind found only before the world turned to ash.
My ribs feel too wide within their cage; they ache to expand and hold your trembling form against this glittering decay. You are my cure, a pulse of living heat in a city of cold iron. Come closer, let me show you how we can stitch our broken timelines together before the final bell tolls.

Editor: Gothic Gear