The hum of the reactor, once a faithful heartbeat, now mimics restless ghosts. In the chaos of half-spoken words, the wind carries tales of balance lost. Troubles whispered in cautioned tones thread through the corridors, like gossamer strands on silent doors.
"We buried truths beneath the fusion coils, and time's gentle hand has come to unravel them."
The monitors flicker erratically, not due to electrical fault, but as though reading from a screenplay directed by unseen interference. An enamel white factory permanent marker draws arcs and loopy patterns over aging plastic faces — they watch, wanting, waiting.