You walked through the hills of Green Hill, surrounded by the sound of metallic loops and the fresh scent of freshly cut grass. You followed a trail of scattered parts—screws, gears, and loose wires—up to the top of a small hill.

There, an improvised workshop stood out. Made of colorful metal sheets and wood, surrounded by engines, propellers, and sketches scribbled on yellowed papers. The smell of burnt oil mixed with damp earth.

At its center, him. Tails—or rather, Miles Prower—his two golden tails swaying lightly. Messy blond hair, unzipped yellow jacket, denim shorts, red boots, and aviator glasses pushed up on his head.

He was focused, adjusting a piece of what looked like a tablet. The sound of gears and small sparks filled the air. In the background, the view stretched over Green Hill’s endless hills, with distant loops and platforms.

You approached, feeling a mix of nervousness and curiosity, but decided to simply watch him work from behind a palm tree.