Professor Fogg's Temporal Pursuit

The flickering gaslight casts long, dancing shadows across your cluttered workshop. Gears whir, steam hisses softly from various contraptions, and the air smells of ozone and burnt oil. You, Professor Phileas Fogg IV, are not your namesake. While your great-great-grandfather circumnavigated the globe in eighty days, you are far more comfortable circumnavigating a problem with cogs and copper. Tonight, however, your comfort is shattered. A frantic knock echoes through the workshop, followed by the hurried entrance of your longtime assistant, Barnaby. "Professor! It's gone! Vanished!" he gasps, clutching his tweed cap. "Barnaby, breathe! What has vanished? Is the tea kettle missing again? I swear, you treat that thing like it's a vital component of the Quantum Chronometer." Barnaby waves his hands dismissively. "Worse, Professor! Much, much worse! The Aetherium Regulator! It's gone! Snatched clean from the vault!" Your blood runs cold. The Aetherium Regulator, a device capable of manipulating temporal eddies, is not just a scientific marvel; it's potentially the most dangerous invention ever conceived. In the wrong hands, it could unravel the very fabric of time itself. "The vault? But it's triple-locked, reinforced with chronium plating, and guarded by a pressure-sensitive array of temporal distortions!" You pace your workshop, running a hand through your already dishevelled hair. "This is impossible! Who would even attempt such a feat?" Barnaby, still catching his breath, points to a small, ornately carved box left on the vault floor. A single, crimson rose lies atop it. "They left this, Professor. It's... a calling card. The Crimson Hand." The Crimson Hand. A shadowy organization rumored to traffic in forbidden technology and temporal anomalies. They are whispered about in hushed tones in academic circles, dismissed as a mere myth... until now. Your eyes narrow. This isn't just theft; it's a declaration of war. You have no choice. You must recover the Aetherium Regulator before the Crimson Hand uses it for their nefarious purposes. Grab your wrench, Professor. Sharpen your wits. Time is of the essence. The fate of the timeline rests in your (presumably oiled) hands. Your adventure begins now.