Nottingham, 1811
The night was torn by the sound of splintering wood. Enki moved with the shadows, men with blackened faces and hammers. They weren't vandals; they were weavers. They called themselves "Luddites."
Their leader, a man named John, put his hand on the frame of a new automated loom. "This isn't a machine," he hissed, his voice raw. "It's a coffin. It doesn't just take my job. It tells me my hands, my skill, my story... are worthless."
The hammers fell. It was a desperate, violent scream against a future that had no room for them. They weren't fighting progress. They were fighting erasure.
Scrapbook Entry: "They are not breaking machines. They are smashing the first links in a chain that will bind all of humanity to the wheel of efficiency. They are the first to feel the cold wind of a world that no longer needs the human heart."