The day broke grim, a shroud of steam and shadow over the field. Workers gathered, faces carved with resolve and dread, their breath a faint mist in the chill. No retreat lingered now—the engines’ roar was their chain, a call they’d meet or break beneath.

  “We fight for the crushed,” Thomas said, voice steady as stone. “For every soul they’ve ground to dust.”

  Elias nodded, hands tight on the chisel—not a craftsman’s tool, but a bde of their will. The factory loomed, dark against the haze, its heart their mark. Each step sank heavy—could they rend it, or would it cim them all? His father’s curse pulsed in his ears, a fire he’d not let die.

  They crept close, shadows in the murk, Elias’s pulse a drum ‘neath his ribs. The lock gleamed cold—he struck, metal yielding with a snap, breath held as they slipped within. The engine room throbbed, heat thick, its roar a beast they’d sy or feed.

  “Quick—pnt them and out,” Thomas hissed, hands swift with the charges. Elias moved, fingers slick, each tick of time a weight on his chest. The machines loomed, iron gods they’d topple—or bow to in ruin. He set the st charge, sweat stinging his eyes, the d’s still face a spur in his mind—would this free them?

  “We’ve done it,” Thomas breathed, voice taut. The fuse sparked, a frail thread to their hope. They fled, boots soft against the cmor, the factory’s pulse a growl at their backs. Elias felt Thomas beside him, a tether in flight—not of craft, but of men who’d dared, their scars a bond unbent.

  The night swallowed them, steam curling like a wraith. The bst would come—or not. Elias clutched the chisel, its edge notched deep, a mark of their stand. They’d struck its core, for the crushed, for the spark afar—whole or lost, they’d face the wreck, unbowed ‘til the end cimed them.