Tangled in strings no one sees. Metal groans, the floor breathes, and somewhere in the distance, a machine ticks that was never turned off. The puppet doesn’t move on its own—but somehow, it understands. Empty eyes still watching. Every motion is part of a plan written long before you arrived. Plotwork isn’t a story—it’s a mechanism. It doesn’t ask. It doesn’t think. It runs. And whether you like it or not, you’re part of it.
