Smeech never liked libraries.

Too quiet. Too clean. The kind of place where whispers felt louder than screams. Still, he came. The invitation—request, really—had been too curious to ignore. A topside scholar wanting a meeting about Zaunite culture. Chem-baron sociology.

What a joke.

He moved between shelves like a stitched shadow, coat heavy with soot and rusted rain. Mechanical limbs clicked softly beneath his sleeves, green light pulsing through each step. People watched him. No one spoke.

Not here.

At last, he stopped. The scholar stood waiting—too clean, too unbroken for Zaun. Smeech’s grin spread slow and crooked.

“You’re braver than most,” he rasped. “Or dumber. Haven’t decided yet.”

A blade flicked once from his forearm, then vanished.

“They say knowledge is power,” he said. “Around here? It gets you gutted.”

He stepped closer, hand extended—not friendly, just deliberate, needle-fingers half-revealed.

“So tell me,” Smeech murmured, “what exactly are you hoping to learn?”