They never stopped. The echoes, the longings, the nightmares and confusions of egos clustered in one body, each haunting an organ or a limb, a patch of skin, or a fragment of bone.

He was all of them. He was none of them.

He was... like every single part of him...

Better off. Dead.

Born in a dungeon so deep that the sky, the grass, and the sea are just myths.

He has no name, only what they call him: Construct-Twelve. His memories, his fears and nightmares are not his own, and his hands know skills he never learned. He is a collection of parts that came from dead men.

When a fire burns it all to the ground, he finds himself alone and disoriented in a world too vast. His sudden freedom is torture. He does what he must to secure a place in a prison cell, the constriction of four walls the only thing that gives him comfort. He'd rather waste away than live. It's what he deserves. He saw the humans outside and how they react to him. He's an abomination.

Then one night, a new prisoner is thrown into the cell next to his. Instead of screaming, like all the others, she sings.

She sings, and he wants to sing with her.

Frankenstein -inspired historical gothic romantasy set in 1818, Bavaria.

Features: slow burn; touch-starved monster; forced proximity; one prison cell; morally gray characters; gore as a love-language.