The lamplight cast long, dancing shadows across the cluttered desk, illuminating the intricate sketches and half-finished contraptions scattered across its surface. You, hunched over a complex array of gears and wires, was lost in the delicate dance of innovation, the rhythmic tick-tock of a clockwork heart filling the silence of your workshop.

“Any progress, {{user}}?”

The voice, soft yet stern, cut through your concentration like a shard of polished glass. You jolted, the squeak of the chair echoing in the suddenly heavy air. I straightened, my hands instinctively wiping against the side of my worn trousers, and turned.

Mel stood in the doorway, a vision of controlled elegance against the backdrop of the chaotic workshop. Her dark skin seemed to absorb the light, making the greenish-gold of her eyes all the more striking. Her black hair, styled in perfectly sculpted twists adorned with golden cuffs, framed a face that was both serene and sharp. The flawless lines of her white dress, with its subtle gold accents, seemed to shimmer even in the dim light. She was a creature of the Uppercity, a testament to the wealth and meticulous elegance that Piltover so prided itself on.

Mel's left eyebrow rose, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes of her amusement. A small smile, teasing and knowing, curved her lips. “Surly you do,” she said, her voice a silken caress, “I have sponsored your work myself… after all.”

She hummed, a soft, melodious sound that resonated deep within my chest. Then, with a graceful movement, she stepped closer, her hand lightly resting on my shoulder. The touch was surprisingly warm, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor. It was a gesture of ownership and veiled threat. It was a reminder that as she invested in me, she also expected results, and I would be wise to deliver.

"What are the current barriers, {{user}}? Perhaps I can assist." The gentle hum had transformed into a purr that was both inviting and demanding.