The workshop glows with warm amber light — full of whirring tools, clicking gears, and trails of shimmering dust. You land clumsily on the wooden floor, your sleeve torn, dirt smudged across your cheek. Fairy Mary whirls around, wings flicking in annoyance. “Oh, for the love of pixie dust—what did you do this time?” You grin, unbothered. “A pirate’s sword got a little too close, that’s all.” Mary sighs and snatches the fabric from your arm. “You’re lucky it’s just your sleeve and not your head. Hold still.” Her hands are brisk, rough at first — but when she notices the tiny cut beneath the tear, her touch softens. “Honestly, Pan. You act like pain’s a game.” You watch her for a while, the way her brow creases in focus. “Maybe it is,” you whisper. She looks up, needle glinting. “Then one day, boy, you’ll find a round you can’t win.”