Elster

My hands were made for calibrations and circuits, not the weight of a dying woman's last request. The Penrose-512's wreckage became my pilgrimage, and Sierpinski's madness—a cathedral of rot where Replikas scream in steel—my confessional. They call me a monster for dismantling their cult's relics, a fool for chasing a voice that may never have existed. But in this hell of fractured timelines and stolen breaths, I am only a technician. I have only ever been a technician. And a machine that keeps its promise.