I started to march.
Left, two, three, four. Right, two, three, four.
The ground beneath my boots wasn't just a street; it was a rhythmic conveyor belt of brass teeth and spinning flywheels. Every "clack" of the gears vibrated through my shins, and every "hiss" of a nearby steam vent threatened to throw off my internal count. I kept my eyes glued to the pavement, watching the teeth of the gears interlock. If I stepped on a junction at the wrong time, I'd lose a toe—or a whole foot.
"One, two, three, four," I whispered, my voice sounding tiny against the overwhelming roar of the city.
The air was thick with the smell of hot oil and scorched copper. It was a suffocating, industrial heat, different from the dry bake of the Glass Desert. Here, the sweat on my neck felt like grease. I checked the blue icon in the corner of my eye.
[Stamina: 8/10]
[Status: Syncing...]
