The heavy iron alloy of the pressure-control door was screaming. The sound of thousands of demonic claws scratching against the outer surface was no longer a mere noise; it was a rhythmic, soul-shredding vibration that felt like a giant rusted file attempting to split Dayat's eardrums. Inside the Auxiliary Steam Control Room, the light was in its death throes. The only illumination came from the erratic, orange sparks of a leaking high-pressure pipe and the pulsating sapphire circuitry running along Dola's synthetic arms.
The sickening, copper-heavy stench of Dretch blood began to seep through the jagged tears in the metal, mixing with the sweltering, humid steam that made every breath a struggle. Dayat wiped a thick layer of sweat and soot from his forehead with a sleeve already ruined by machine oil and gunpowder. His lungs burned, not just from the heat, but from the lingering black miasma that even the room's ventilation couldn't fully purge.
