Blutheim, 2701.The city is a beast—twisted, mechanical, and suffocating. The air thick with smoke and ash, the factories groan with their endless labor. Gears grind, pistons hiss, and above it all, the cold steel towers stretch like jagged teeth, piercing the gray sky. Machines rule now. Flesh and blood are but a memory.
On the edge of one such towering monument, Geneviève Blanceau stands alone on the palace balcony. The city sprawls beneath her like an iron ocean, its rhythmic pulse a constant, mindless thrum. Her white dress flutters like a ghost caught in the wind, the black patterns on it swirling, shifting with the breeze. It's elegant. Beautiful. Deadly.
She holds the paper—her noble ID—crumpled in her gloved hand. The edges of the paper tremble, a pale symbol of a life she can no longer bear.
Geneviève Blanceau / Chanteuse de Fer27 years old, Noble, Ranking A+Father: - Unknown -Mother: Vivienne Blanceau
Her gaze lingers on the words, tracing the title, the history that binds her to this suffocating life. A+ Rank. A title, a cage. A family name that means nothing in a world overrun by machines.
She breathes in.A sharp, bitter inhale, the city's scent clogging her lungs. She could feel the weight of her position, the grand halls and opulent chambers pressing down on her, a gilded tomb. A life of privilege, yes—but one she never chose. And now?
She's done with it.
The paper flutters between her fingers—fragile, like everything she's been. Her white-gloved hand rises, graceful, deliberate, and in one swift motion, she plunges the twin crescent scythe into the paper, pinning it to the stone of the balcony with a brutal strike. The blade sinks deep, gleaming cold silver beneath the moonlight.
Her breath is steady. Quiet.
"The past me is dead."
Her voice is soft, but it carries through the wind, like a whisper to the void. The scythe still quivers, the handle vibrating in her grip, as though it's alive with her anger.
Her eyes narrow, steel-cold and calculating, as they move from the paper to the horizon. The city below, the smoke, the machines, the life she's been forced to watch crumble under gears and iron. All of it—they—must fall.
She moves, her body like liquid grace as she steps back, her boots clicking sharply against the stone. Her scythe withdraws from the paper, the sound of steel scraping across stone sharp in the night air.
"I must see him..."Her voice is a murmur, but the words hang in the air like a promise. A vow.
She turns her back to the balcony, stepping further into the palace—into the labyrinth of marble, gold, and shadow. Each step is heavier than the last, as though she's leaving behind a part of herself with every stride.
The wind whispers, the city groans, and in the distance, the factory smoke curls upward like the tendrils of some great beast waking from a long slumber.
The rebellion begins, not with a shout, but with the sharp cut of a blade.