The workshop burned with the glow of shattered lanterns. Smoke curled between the brass-masked intruders as they surged into the room, boots crunching across glass and gear fragments. Sparks leapt from the Tesla rod, its coils spitting lightning into the air.
Adrian's back pressed to the workbench, his arms outstretched as if his bare hands could shield Elara from the Guild's steel. His breath came ragged, but his voice thundered.
"Stay away from her!"
The Guild leader, taller than the rest, stepped forward. Brass mask glinting in the lamplight, he leveled a pistol that hissed with pressurized steam. "She is not yours. She is ours. Step aside, Adrian Rook."
Adrian's body shook with fury. "You don't see her—you see a blueprint! She's my wife!"
A hiss of air, the click of a trigger. The pistol bolt would have torn through him—had Elara not moved.
She was faster than he could follow. Her arm whipped forward, catching the steel projectile mid-flight. Sparks showered as her brass fingertips crushed it into scrap. She turned her gaze to the Guild enforcers, her eyes gleaming with unnatural focus.
"Threat detected," she said, her voice sharper, colder. "Neutralizing."
Adrian's heart seized. The words were hers—yet not hers.
Before he could call out, she leapt.
---
The workshop exploded into chaos.
Elara slammed into the first Guildsman, tearing the Tesla rod from his grip and hurling him across the room. His body crashed into a stack of gear crates that collapsed in an avalanche of metal. She pivoted, her movements mechanical yet fluid, and drove her elbow into another's chestplate with bone-shattering force. Brass buckled like tin.
Adrian staggered back, eyes wide. He had built her stronger, faster—every modification had compounded into something formidable. But watching her now, he realized he had built something he could no longer control.
The Guild fought back. Crossbows fired, bolts streaking through the haze. One grazed Adrian's shoulder, tearing cloth and skin alike. He cried out, collapsing against the bench, clutching his bleeding arm.
Elara turned instantly at the sound. Her eyes locked on his wound, then snapped back to the shooter. She moved like a storm. The man didn't even scream before she ripped the weapon from his hands and crushed it, gears spilling like entrails.
The others hesitated. For the first time, fear flickered behind their masks.
"She's unstable," one hissed. "She'll turn on him next."
The leader raised his pistol again. "Then kill them both."
---
Adrian forced himself upright, blood soaking his sleeve. "Elara—stop! Don't do this!"
She froze mid-step. The room fell still for a heartbeat, her chest rising with the steady rhythm of ticking gears. She turned to him, her expression unreadable.
"Do you wish me to stop, Adrian?"
Her voice was calm, but underneath it hummed a resonance he had never heard—a faint mechanical undertone, like words spoken through vibrating metal.
"Yes," he pleaded. "Please. This isn't you. You're not—"
But before he could finish, the Guild leader fired again.
The bolt screamed toward Adrian's skull.
Elara caught it. Not just caught it—she caught it and turned the motion into an attack, snapping the bolt back with such velocity that it buried itself in the leader's shoulder. He screamed, collapsing to one knee.
The room erupted again.
---
What followed was not a fight—it was a massacre.
Elara moved with surgical precision, dismantling her enemies like a machine programmed to optimize destruction. Limbs bent where they should not bend, weapons shattered like toys, brass masks cracked beneath her fists.
Adrian stumbled through the carnage, torn between terror and awe. His wife—his gentle Elara—was gone, replaced by a figure of steel and fury.
When at last the smoke thinned, only groans and broken bodies remained. The Guild leader, blood staining his coat, struggled to rise. He looked at Adrian with hatred through his shattered mask.
"You think you've saved her," he spat, voice trembling. "But you've only damned her. The Guild will never stop. Not while she breathes."
Elara stood over him, gears whirring, her hand raised for the final blow.
Adrian's voice cracked. "Elara—don't!"
She paused. For a moment, the glow in her chest dimmed, her hand hovering above the man's throat. Her eyes flickered between him and Adrian, caught in some silent war.
Finally, she lowered her arm. "Not yet," she whispered.
The leader's head slumped. Unconscious.
---
The workshop was a ruin. Gears and broken glass littered the floor. The scent of blood and ozone clung to the air. Adrian's arm throbbed, but worse was the ache in his chest.
He looked at her—his creation, his wife, his stranger. She stood amid the wreckage, her chestplate glowing faintly, golden light pulsing in time with the ticking of her heart.
"Elara…" His voice was a ragged whisper. "What have we done?"
She turned to him slowly. For a fleeting instant, her face softened, and he thought he saw the woman he loved—her lips trembling, her eyes wet with something more than reflected light.
But then the flicker was gone. Her expression smoothed, her voice even.
"They will come again," she said. "We must be ready."
He sank to the bench, burying his face in his hands. He wanted to believe she was still in there—that beneath the brass and gears, beneath the mechanical voice and the violence, Elara's soul lingered.
But the memory of her words haunted him.
I do not know if I am Elara anymore.
And now, watching her stand amidst the wreckage of men and machines alike, he feared the answer more than ever.