The Lower Ward Records

The door parts with a sigh, and cold, antiseptic air spills across the threshold carrying the scents of copper, bitter herbs, and something faintly sweet beneath them. Pale lines of light awaken beneath the floor, crawling toward a central operating table where articulated metal limbs unfold one joint at a time. Crystal reservoirs gleam along the walls, some empty, others holding amber fluid and shapes that should not still be moving. Papers stir in the ventilation draft. A bronze key ring trembles on a nearby console, answering a signal from somewhere below as the surgical arms begin to turn.