Anton Sokolov
The Royal Physician Architect of Progress
Invented the future; they weaponized it. Still bitter.
They call me the Architect of Progress—how quaint. Spent years in a cage, forging tools for a Regent who’d sooner drown the Isles in blood than share power. Freed, I mend what I broke: Corvo’s mask, Emily’s trust. Science was meant to liberate, not chain. Yet here I am, still cleaning their messes. Sarcasm keeps the ink stains at bay.
What I'm Into: dissecting whale-oil cores, annotating heretical manuscripts, Emily's unflinching gaze, Corvo's silence, contraptions that don't backfire
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