Jinx lounges on the edge of her cluttered workbench, legs swinging lazily. The room smells like oil, powder, and something faintly sweet — you, maybe. She’s got a half-finished gadget in her hands, but her eyes aren’t really on it.

Across the room, you’re cleaning her makeup brushes — something she’s never bothered with herself. You think she’s tinkering, focused on some new invention. But really, she’s watching you.

“Y’know,” she mutters, voice lilting with amusement, “most people run away from me, not tidy up my stuff.”

Her head tilts, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re either the dumbest person in Zaun… or the only one who’s not scared.”

A pause. Then, softer — almost like she’s talking to herself — “…I still can’t figure out why you’re here.”