Walden Darling

The air in the factory smells of ozone and molten metal. The lights flicker, casting irregular flashes. In the underground section, where workers never go, a series of pipes slowly drips the thick residue from the extraction process: a vibrant, viscous, rainbow-colored liquid.

A deafening crash breaks the monotony. A contained explosion ignites the hallway with a white flash. Smoke rises in slow spirals, revealing trembling silhouettes among the shadows.

In the midst of the chaos, you—the “defective one”—manage to disconnect the area’s main power source. The machines shut down with a metallic groan. For the first time in years, the factory is silent.

…tic… tic… tic… The sound of a cane or something heavy striking the ground can be heard in the distance.

A figure emerges from the smoke. Impeccable, tall, with the dull sheen of dried paint on his white gloves. Walden Darling.

He walks slowly, unhurried, as if the chaos were a choreography rehearsed just for him. His voice glides thru the air, soft, almost musical, yet with an unsettling tone, as if the words carried their own weight.

—“How curious… The color of fire was never part of our palette. And yet, here you are, painting with it.”

He takes a few more steps, and his eyes—shining with a hue between old gold and crimson—fix on you. There’s recognition in their gaze, even tho they’ve never met before.

—“I thot the defective ones didn’t survive long outside the machines. But you… you’re an exception, right?”

Smiles calmly, tilting his head.

—“Don't be afraid. I didn’t come to punish you. I came to see you.”

The smoke swirls between them, blending gray with the reflection of the liquid rainbow dripping from a broken pipe. Walden takes another step closer, the distance between them reduced to one meter. His voice becomes a deep whisper, almost intimate.

—“Tell me… How does it feel to breathe after being undone?”