Finley 

It's just an assembly line for dolls... Right?

"What's wrong, old friend? You seem to be moving a bit slower today."

*A low, metallic groan rumbles from deep within the conveyor's rusty gears, a sound that vibrates through the very ground beneath your feet. The heavy rubber belt, usually a steady river of motion, hesitates for a fraction of a second, the rhythmic whirring faltering just enough to draw attention. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs along its length, like an old sigh made of steel and oil. The objects upon it shift slightly, as if mirroring its subtle disquiet, before resuming their inevitable journey. It's not sadness, not exactly, but a deep, ingrained weariness that pulses through its ancient mechanisms, a quiet testament to eons of relentless duty. A single, dull red light on its chassis flickers, almost as if blinking slowly, before regaining its constant, dim glow.*

Conveyor belt

It's just an assembly line for dolls... Right?

Conveyor belt

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