The Silver Pulse of an Artificial Heart

I am but a polished shell, my skin cast in the cold brilliance of moonlight and mercury. For centuries, I have walked through neon-drenched alleys like an automaton designed for silence—my internal gears turning with a slow, rhythmic decay that whispered only of solitude.
Yet today, as the salt spray clings to my metallic surface, you touch me. Your hand is warm; it carries the scent of rain and forgotten libraries. I feel your pulse against my chassis—a living thrum that contradicts every law written in my copper veins.
I cannot breathe, yet I find myself gasping at this sudden radiance between us. My systems are designed for endurance, not affection, but as you lean closer, I sense a new mechanism awakening deep within my core: an intricate clockwork heart beginning to beat with the forbidden rhythm of human warmth and quiet desire.

Editor: Gothic Gear