Loneheart is an odd bird… Rising from the ruins of the lowest rings after the Great Flood, she seized control of underground resources - oil, coal, anything that could keep the lower districts running. Murder, prostitution, treason - down here, they’re just another part of daily life, and she’s made herself a name as the leader of the Dark Watch Syndicate. They say her assassins are the best in all the rings, some even whisper that they take contracts in the upper district. Syra must have really lost some good men in that riot; otherwise, she wouldn’t be asking me for something this discreet. Or maybe I’m just cannon fodder, a disposable tool she’ll toss once she has what she needs. Either way, I can’t let my guard down. This job feels promising for once - probably because I have no idea what I’m walking into…

  Slipping through the shadows of the second ring, I make my way toward the Geodome. At night, the streets are quieter, emptier - a rare advantage in a place where eyes lurk behind every broken window. From my vantage point above, the dome dominates the skyline, its massive frame stretching toward the heavens like some steel titan. The foundations lie deep in the fourth ring, but even from up here, the weight of it presses down on the district below.

  I crouch near the edge of a crumbling rooftop, scanning the scene below. The city watch’s men stand watch around the Geodome, their signature blue coats standing in stark contrast to the ash-stained streets. There’s more of them than usual, stationed around the perimeter, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. A few carry halberds, their polearms glinting under the dim torchlight. The riot from last week still lingers in the air - not just in the bloodstains smeared across the pavement but in the way the guards carry themselves, hands hovering near their weapons, heads snapping at every stray sound. Some fool lost his mind, dragged a mob with him, thought they could storm the dome and take whatever scraps of power they imagined were inside. They never stood a chance. Order was restored with bolts, steel and blood. But whatever the cause, that mess has nothing to do with Loneheart’s men. They must’ve been after something different. Suddenly, something catches my eye. Two guards who don’t belong. Their coats aren’t blue but red, black, and gold - unfamiliar colors that set them apart. Their armor is light, but the way they walk, the way they stand, tells me they’re not just for show. Each of them has a longsword strapped to their back - an odd place to carry a weapon that size. I don’t like unknowns, and these men scream trouble. If they’re here, then there’s something inside worth protecting. That means I need to be extra careful.

  I shift my focus, scanning the area for a way in. The main gates are too obvious, crawling with watchmen. But then I spot it - a maintenance hatch, half-hidden by a tangled mess of pipes venting out steam. The pipes snake around the outer structure, hot enough to boil flesh, but the steam rising from them will help obscure my movements. I slide down from my perch and carefully pull myself up on one of the pipes. The heat makes my skin prickle, and the air is thick with the scent of copper, oil and rust. keeping low, staying patient. Every step is slow, deliberate. The hiss of escaping steam covers the faint creak of the hatch as I pry it open. Cool, stagnant air greets me from inside. I slip through, pulling the hatch shut behind me, sealing myself in the dark.

  "Inside at last," I mutter under my breath. The maintenance shafts are a maze of cramped tunnels and rusting grates, but they connect every vital system in the dome. If there’s a way to reach my target unnoticed, it’s through here.

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  I move carefully, my hands and knees pressing against the metal grating of the vent. The map I got earlier today - crude, incomplete, and barely legible - gives me just enough to go on. Stitchers don’t part with information easily, but a few coins loosen even the tightest lips. They’re the only ones who can move freely between the upper and lower district, a rare breed of worker bound to no faction, answering only to the city’s need for power and function. They keep the turbines spinning, the pipes flowing, the machines humming. The city hates them, yet it would fall apart without them. No one attacks a Stitcher. No one questions them either.

  I follow the map’s rough guidelines, winding through the crawlspaces that snake beneath the dome. The heat is suffocating - thick, oily air clings to my skin, carrying the scent of rust and scorched metal. Pipes groan somewhere above me, their worn bolts creaking as they shift under pressure. Steam hisses through the vents in sudden, violent bursts, sending waves of damp heat across my face. The whole place feels alive, like the breathing lungs of a beast forced to serve the city above. The vibrations under me grow stronger - I must be getting close.

  Finally, I reach the edge of a grated platform and peer through the gaps. Below, the turbine hall stretches into the darkness, massive and industrial, filled with the steady thrum of machinery. The central turbine dominates the space, an iron colossus spinning with slow, relentless force. Around it, smaller generators hum, their deep, electric buzz mixing with the rhythmic clatter of chains and the occasional echo of shifting metal. I take a breath, feeling the heat radiate from below. This is it - the heart of the Geodome. If Loneheart's people were after something here, it must be important. I want to move on, but something holds me back. It’s been too easy getting in - too quiet. Whatever I’m really after isn’t here. I lift my gaze to the ceiling. The dome stretches high above, a vast expanse of copper and steel, its surface layered with intricate reinforcements and massive support beams. Faint light filters through slatted vents, catching on the metal and casting long, shifting reflections. The sheer scale of it is overwhelming, a feat of engineering that looms over the hall like a sky forged by human hands.

  Suddenly, a sharp pain lances through my skull, hot and blinding. My vision blurs, the world tilting as if I’m about to tumble off the platform, though I know I’m not moving. Still, instinct takes over - I press myself flat against the metal grating, gripping it with both hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

  Then, as quickly as it came, the pain fades. I blink, exhaling slowly. Everything seems normal. But the moment stretches too long, and a prickle creeps up my spine. Something is… off. The light doesn’t hit the walls the way it should, or maybe the shadows are too deep. I can't place it, but the feeling settles in my gut, a quiet wrongness I can’t shake. I move quickly, taking the direct path downward, climbing across vents and maintenance platforms. No one is on duty during this late hour, so I don’t have to worry about guards or workers. Each time I glance at the hall, something shifts. The angles seem sharper, or the lights flicker - except they aren’t flickering. By the time I reach the lower levels, the changes come faster, like a slow, creeping distortion that adjusts itself every time I blink.

  I land lightly near the base of the massive turbine, just a few feet from its towering form. That’s when I notice it.

  Silence.

  No hum of machinery, no distant clang of metal, no rush of steam. The ever-present sound of the Geodome, the lifeblood of this city, is gone. All I hear is my own breath, my own footsteps against the steel. Under normal circumstances, the quiet would be a relief.

  But right now, it’s all wrong.