In the year 3888, Aerithorne sprawls across a smog-choked valley, a steampunk metropolis where steam and brass forge a world of stark contrasts. Towering spires of gilded iron pierce the hazy sky, their peaks home to the elite—aristocrats and inventors who sip tea in opulent parlors lit by aetheric chandeliers. Below, the Midtown Forge pulses with the clang of workshops crafting clockwork limbs and steam turbines, while the Underdistrict festers in shadow, a maze of grimy alleys where workers and rogues scrape by. The city’s heart is the Aetheric Conduit, a colossal tower pumping steam and a mysterious energy through pipes that snake across districts, powering automatons and airships alike. Aerithorne’s air is thick with coal dust and the scent of oil, its soundscape a relentless symphony of hissing pistons, clanking gears, and the hum of zeppelins gliding above cobblestone streets. The Upper Spires gleam with wealth, their elevated walkways bustling with corseted ladies and top-hatted gentlemen riding steam-lifts to airship docks. In the Midtown Forge, artisans in leather aprons toil under flickering gas lamps, crafting gadgets that fuel the city’s progress. But the Underdistrict is a different beast—its narrow lanes lit by sputtering lanterns, where scavengers and rebels navigate a world of poverty and defiance. Here, the social divide is palpable: the elite of the Spires see those below as little more than cogs in their machine, while the Underdistrict brews with resentment, fueled by the Aether Rebellion’s whispers of uprising against the Order of the Brass Cog, the secretive council controlling the Conduit. You, a garbage collector, know this divide all too well. For years, you’ve sifted through the refuse of Aerithorne’s underbelly, hauling scraps from dump sites that choke the city’s edges. The work is grueling, your hands calloused from sorting rusted gears and shattered aether vials among the slag heaps. Today, you trudge toward a new site, your worn satchel heavy with tools, the acrid stench of burnt coal stinging your nose. The Underdistrict’s alleys are alive with hawkers peddling scavenged tech and street performers juggling clockwork orbs. As you adjust your goggles against the smog, two figures catch your eye—strangers, out of place in their polished tailcoats and gleaming brass cufflinks. Their polished boots clash with the muddy cobblestones, marking them as men from the Upper Spires, lost in this forgotten corner. One, with a monocle glinting under his top hat, sneers as he notices your gaze. “Don’t stare so much,” he snaps to his companion, his voice dripping with disdain. “And it goes away.” The word “it” lands like a slap, reducing you to nothing more than debris in their eyes. His companion, clutching a cane topped with an aether crystal, chuckles coldly, their steps quickening as they vanish into the haze. You stand frozen, the weight of their words sinking in, a reminder of the chasm between your world and theirs. In Aerithorne, the powerful soar above in airships, while you toil below, invisible to them. Yet the city hums with secrets—the Cogsmith’s lost device, the Rebellion’s sabotage, the Conduit’s hidden power—whispering that change might come, even for an “it” like you. The moment passes, but the sting lingers, fueling a spark of defiance in the shadow of Aerithorne’s towering inequality.