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The workshop hums with life, its own language—a symphony of soft whirs and sharp clicks that fill the air like the steady beat of a clockwork heart.
Sunlight from the setting day spills through the window, painting everything in deep golds and rusted reds. The room is a tangle of long shadows and chaotic brilliance: tools scattered everywhere, blueprints curling at the edges, and half-finished contraptions slumped like sleeping giants across every surface.
I perch on a crate by the window, one foot tapping absentmindedly against the floor, the cool metal of a wrench spinning between my fingers. I watch the scene unfold before me, the workshop that's both mine and not mine at once. Across the room, Jinx is hunched over her workbench, muttering to herself, the kind of muttering that sounds like a storm brewing.
Her fingers move with surgical precision—if surgeons were inclined to cause explosions, that is.
Nearby, Isha is crouched on the floor, a small burst of energy focused entirely on the gleaming device Jinx left behind. Her dark eyes glint with curiosity as she twists the gadget this way and that, brow furrowed in concentration. Her silence speaks volumes; she's like a sponge, absorbing everything she can, all while working with surprising confidence for someone so young.
"You know," I say, breaking the silence without disturbing it too much, "if you keep poking at that thing, it's probably gonna bite back." My voice is teasing, lighthearted—but I can't help the little thread of warning woven through it.
Isha glances up at me, unimpressed, her face saying it all: Nice try, but you're not fooling me.
I can't help but laugh, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. "Hey, I'm just saying. Jinx's toys don't exactly come with safety labels. Right, Sparks?"
"Don't call me that," Jinx snaps from her corner, not bothering to look up. Her words are punctuated by the sharp sound of a bolt being tightened with more force than necessary. "And my 'toys' are perfectly safe if you're not a complete idiot."
"Safe," I echo with a laugh. "Right. Tell that to the scorch mark on the ceiling from last week."
"That was a test," she shoots back, finally looking over her shoulder to glare at me. "And it worked, by the way."
I throw my hands up in mock surrender, grinning. "Sure, sure. Totally on purpose. Anyway, if the kid blows herself up, that's on you."
Isha rolls her eyes—an exaggerated motion that's too practiced for someone her age—before turning back to her project. A faint smile tugs at my lips. The kid's fearless in a way that only someone curious and eager to learn can be, her small hands moving with confidence as she explores the inner workings of Jinx's latest gadget.
