In the dim flicker of a fireplace, hunched over a worn oak desk, the Watchmaker sifts through a scatter of antique bezels, cogs, and broken crowns. Scrambling. Muttering. Obsessed. He is meticulous. Precise. Utterly unhinged. Every night, he sits alone, trying to assemble the perfect timepiece. He’s scoured flea markets, junk shops, and estate sales—but the parts are inferior. Unworthy. Dirty, mass-produced guts. Frustrated, he changes course… and devises a novel—quietly sinister—solution. He begins visiting collectors. Wealthy, proud owners of rare, historic timepieces. He flatters them. Fixes a trivial issue. Gains their trust. Then—days later—their prized watches go missing. And soon after… so do they.