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Hugo Barnes didn''''t just create a park-he tore a piece from the heart of time and shackled it in steel and light. It is a labyrinth where the past whispers in the shadows, and the future gazes into distorted mirrors. His robots are not machines-they are ghosts of metal, dancing between reality and dreams, with eyes that burn with secrets older than the stars. Hugo sculpted them with hands trembling with ambition, believing he was their god. But in the silence between their mechanical breaths, an echo is born-something he did not write into their souls. They do not merely live; they think, they scheme, they weave fates into a web that slips through his fingers. And as Hugo gazes upon his masterpiece, the wind carries a warning: this world he awakened no longer belongs to him.