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The doors hissed open like a dying breath. Beyond lay a cathedral of meat—towering pillars of spinal columns supporting a dome of stretched, translucent skin. Strange, pale creatures with exposed organs skittered in the shadows, their cries sounding like wet leather tearing.

Movement forward continued, the heavy weight of the bone-tool swinging at the side. Every step felt like an intrusion on a living body. The search was not for an exit, but for a purpose in a world that treated life as mere plumbing.

The descent into the structure revealed a floor covered in organic film. Before her sat a console, a grotesque fusion of brass and raw muscle. To activate it, an arm had to be thrust into a wet, pulsing aperture. As the machine clamped down, a jagged bolt of pain seared through the nerves, and a piston of bone grafted itself to the forearm.