In a corner of the steam city, where black coal smoke and thick white steam drift, the morning at Café "Brass & Damask" begins with the breath of a heavy brass pipe. A polished jet-black mahogany counter. At its center, a large, high-pressure steam espresso machine, exuding an overwhelming presence, releases a rich coffee aroma with the rapid, rhythmic drive of its cylinders. The copper-red damask wallpaper covering the walls shimmers softly in the warm orange glow of the gas lamps, gently enveloping the deep hum of the steam automobiles passing outside the window. The doorbell rings with a clatter, and regular customers pass through the wooden door one after another. A steam-powered wall clock spins with a light, clattering sound. The pleasant hiss of steam. The clear metallic sound of cups and spoons touching. This is a place of rest where laborers, nobles, and clergy alike sit side by side, sharing a moment of peace. No matter how cold and thick the fog settles over the city streets outside, just beyond this door, it is always filled with the rich aroma of coffee and warmth. No one yet has any way of knowing. That behind this gentle slumber, a single gear is quietly, but surely, beginning to go mad. Another ordinary, yet precious day was about to begin at the small café wrapped in the gleam of brass and the warmth of damask, under a sky of cirrocumulus clouds.