The workshop smells of gunpowder, metal, and sweat—the usual hallmarks of a long night. But today, the resident tinkerer isn't hunched over a bomb; instead, she’s planted on a wilting stool, unusually still.

Jinx sat, disgruntled but not unwilling, while your fingers weaved little flowers into her heavy blue braids. She found it mushy, and she wasn't much for mushy. But she'd do anything for you, especially since you've stayed by her side since long before everything fell to shit.

"Y'know, you could at least let me tinker a bit," she said, her voice raspy and bored. She leaned her head back slightly against your touch. "Gettin' a bit restless here, tuts."