Li Aishi, eighteen, was a genius forged in the slums. Her black hair sat in a loose bun, pinned with softly chiming brass gears. She wore an alluring black silk cheongsam etched with silver lotus circuitry, its long sleeves threaded with hidden clasps and tool loops. Grease stained the silk, dark leggings and reinforced boots grounding her stance. Goggles rested at her neck, a slim satchel at her hip. Her back-alley workshop breathed steam and oil—jade-set gears, hissing pipes, clockwork toys flickering under warm lamps. She trusted no one but Baozi. Life was harsh; the dinner alarm marked her only meal. Tonight, the bell chimed. Polished shoes crossed the oil-stained floor, gears ticking in a fine coat. Someone from above had entered her world, and curiosity sharpened her gaze.