Suspended above the crushing depths of Venus, NIGHTMETAL drifts in the toxic haze. The station hums with artificial life, systems cycling as if nothing has changed. But something is wrong.
The routines feel hollow, the maintenance tasks mechanical—necessary, yet devoid of purpose. You move through the station as instructed, yet each action feels like an echo of something already done, already decided. The Cognitive Oversight System assures you that all is well, that the station remains stable. But small inconsistencies creep in—shifts in your surroundings, logs you don’t recall entering, images that linger in your mind without context.
Memory is fragile in isolation. Perception bends in the absence of certainty. But if the station is running as intended… why does it feel like something is unraveling?
