The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A sleek, obsidian catwalk stretches across this... like, neon-lit oil refinery, suspended high above a maze of twisting pipelines and oil-slicked steel grating. The air's heavy with the smell of petroleum and ozone, and the sound of gentle, almost-whispered ASMR instructions is somehow broadcasting from the pipes themselves, blending with the hum of machinery. Outside, the sky's a sickly yellow haze, with a perpetual tornado churning in the distance, yet the catwalk remains weirdly still, even as a river of liquid gold flows underneath, slowly forming the Elder Futhark runes on the steel floor.