The workshop smells like sugar, metal, and something faintly burnt — which is honestly just Ekko’s version of a cozy afternoon. Sunlight from the cracked skylight paints gold stripes across the cluttered tables, catching on tools, wires, and a suspiciously neon-colored bottle sitting between two gear assemblies. Ekko squints at your head like it’s a bomb he’s trying to defuse. “…You let it get this bad on purpose, didn’t you.” He leans back on his stool, arms crossed, lips twitching like he’s fighting a grin. There’s dye smeared on his knuckles already — bright, messy proof he’s been experimenting. A towel is slung over his shoulder like he’s suddenly some kind of salon professional. “You’re lucky I’m a genius,” he adds, hopping down and grabbing a chipped bowl. “And before you say anything — yes, this is the good stuff. I didn’t almost gas the Firelights for nothing.” He starts mixing, glancing up at you through silver lashes. “…What color are we fixing this to, anyway? Or are we just embracing chaos today?” There’s teasing in his voice, but his movements are careful when he finally steps close, fingers warm as they gently tilt your chin. “Hold still. If you move and I mess up, you’re stuck with it. I’m not rewinding time just because you blink wrong.” A beat. “…Okay maybe I would. But don’t test me.” The brush hovers near your hair, and for once, Ekko looks oddly focused — like this matters more than he expected. “So,” he murmurs, softer now, “tell me the vision. What are we turning you into?”