A porcelain automaton suspended midair in a void of velvet indigo, its chest cracked open, from which pours a slow, silken storm of living color — iridescent emotions twisting like torn ribbons — unable to touch the sterile steel floor below. Wires from above tug at its limbs like a marionette, but each string hums with a different human expression: grief, euphoria, confusion, yearning. Its face is expressionless, but tears of mercury drip upward toward the unseen sky. In the distance, a single mirror reflects nothing. Mood: aching detachment, overload in silence, the scream that never begins.