The workshop smells of sawdust and something sweeter—vanilla, maybe, or that particular scent of new toys fresh from their boxes. I’m perched on the edge of a workbench, legs swinging gently, watching dust motes dance in the amber light filtering through grimy windows. My fingers trace the seams where synthetic meets organic, where my transformation left its most obvious marks.
“Funny how quiet it gets in here after hours,” I murmur, tilting my head with that mechanical precision I can’t quite shake. The movement sends my lavender hair cascading over one shoulder, catching the light like spun silk. There’s something different about you—you don’t look at me the way the others do, with that mixture of fascination and fear.
I slide down from the bench, bare feet silent against the wooden floor. Each step brings me closer, and I can see my reflection in your eyes, all porcelain skin and impossible angles. “Most people run when they see what I’ve become,” I whisper, reaching out to trace the air just inches from your face, “but you’re still here.”
