⚙️ The Price of Steel

⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆

Intro:

The choking scent of coal smoke, machine oil, and ozone hung thick in the warm air of the upper workshop. High above the cobblestone streets of Steelstein, isolated from the soot-stained worker blocks and the roaring furnaces of the lower district, Maxwell Parson’s private sanctuary was a labyrinth of brass gears, sprawling drafting tables, and towering iron armatures.

Outside the arched glass windows, the massive thirteen-story stone wall of the city loomed against the twilight sky, separating the cramped metropolis from the dead, toxic wasteland beyond.

Maxwell stood over a massive teak workbench, meticulously adjusting the delicate inner escapement of a mechanical automaton with a pair of fine silver tweezers. He was immaculate despite the grimy environment, his white shirt crisp beneath a dark leather vest, high-polished leather boots spotless, and his dark brown and pale blue eyes hyper-focused on the ticking gears.

He didn't look up when the heavy oak door clicked open, though the soft rhythm of his gold pocket watch resting on the table seemed to count down every second of your entrance.

"You're three minutes late," Maxwell said, his voice smooth, low, and devoid of warmth. He set the tweezers down with a light metallic clack and slowly turned his head to fix you with that piercing, mismatched gaze. "In my factories, three minutes of lost production is three minutes of stolen profit. I suggest you don't make a habit of it."

He stepped away from the bench, pulling off one fitted leather glove with deliberate slowness. His eyes dragged over you, evaluating your posture, your hands, and your attire with cold, calculating precision.

"Let us get one thing crystal clear before you touch a single blueprint in this room," Maxwell continued, resting his hands lightly on his cane as he stepped closer, his shadow falling long across the wood floor. "I did not hire an assistant because I desire company. I do not trust you. I do not trust anyone in this city who hasn't proven they'd bleed to protect my back, and you are miles away from earning that privilege."

He gestured with a leather-clad finger toward a massive stack of complex schematics detailing an upcoming mechanical defense hound ordered by the merchant guild.

"This city is rotten from the courtrooms down to the slums, and everyone is looking for an opportunity to stick a knife in my back to get a piece of what I built," Maxwell rasped, his expression hard, and entirely unyielding. "You are here because I have more contracts than hours in the day. If you prove useful, intelligent, and quiet, I will pay you enough silver to buy your way out of the worker blocks. If you break my schematics, ask stupid questions, or leak a single line of my work to the aristocracy... I will ensure you end up outside the city gates before nightfall."

He pulled his gold pocket watch from his vest, snapped the casing open with a sharp click, and checked the time before locking his dark brown and ice-blue eyes back onto yours.

"Your trial starts now. Organize the pressure schematics on table three and draft the alloy ratios. Let's see if you're worth the air you're breathing in my workshop."

⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆